So you couldn't make it up. Here's the facts: I'm 53, widowed, two teenage kids, living in London. My husband died in 2019 aged 48 after fighting bowel cancer for nearly five years.

My kids and I have been through the mill since Jack's death – we were deep in it through his illness – and have come out the other side to a life worth living.

I run my own company in the music industry, and I'm just at the point where my reputation gets me a constant stream of work. I'm good at what I do, and I've finally had the time and respect to become highly visible in my very niche part of the industry.

And with no small apology to Jack, I've met S: my soulmate, my sweetheart, the love of my life. We were planning on getting married in July this year. 250 of our closest friends from around the world at a massive party in London to celebrate.

And then I found the lump.

Well, lumps, actually, there's two of them.

That was Sunday 18th Feb.

I start chemo on March 27th, I've got triple-neg breast cancer – the most aggressive kind. I can feel it growing. And you know, I'm SO lucky: I've got private health insurance, my best friend is a doctor, my dad's a doctor (although I haven't told him about this yet, god I don't know how), and I'm in the hands of some of the best doc heads in this city, possibly the world. The transition from the NHS Breast Clinic at Guy's Hospital to the smooth moneyed environment of the London Oncology Clinic is a contrast worth revisitng later. Let's just say it will be a much, much easier journey this way – although not necessarily any more successful; that's in the hands of the gods.

The last month (has it really been so long? Has it really only been that short a time?) has been possibly the worst of my life, and I think I can genuinely claim to have had a few. All the lightness and strength of owning my hard won place in this world has gone, just vanished. The vacuum of their absence has now filled with adrenalin, nausea, and a heavy foreboding and weariness.

When Jack was ill I wanted to write, and god I wish I had. Details go fuzzy, however much you can't believe at the time that you could forget (did J have triple immunotherapy before HIPEC surgery, or after? – and apologies, this blog will get quite medical at times, I like the science). Beyond the facts, the feelings. We had good times – when were they? when was that small lovely day spent walking in the woods with the kids and the dog? – and bad (many, many bad). But sometimes I can't even remember events that justified my righteous anger (more of that later). Everything gets blurry and generalised.

And full disclosure, I've always wanted to write, in that slightly hideous “I've got 4 novels swirling around inside me” way of the non-writer. And if I don't do it now, that's it. I never will.

And I want to be truthful. The honest answer to my non-writing paralysis when J was ill was that if I told the truth I'd have to be pretty damn brutal about what I was really thinking, and what I thought of some family members, and I just couldn't. Wuss. I couldn't even work out if I should write long hand in a book and hide the book, or on my computer and lock the document. I was debilitated by medium, and by trying to appease and be the good wife.

So, with some pretty abject apologies to certain people who might feature here, and slight prayers that they never find this blog, I am here to be honest.

Because if I die, I want my kids to hear my voice. To know my truth (I don't say THE truth, there is always more than one interpretation of the truth, as Donald Trump is so keen for us to accept for all the wrong reasons), and take me with them through their lives.

Enough for now. My week next week involves an MRI, another ultrasound because one of my lymph nodes is looking a bit feisty (that's really rather bad news if it is, by the way), calling my lawyers to update my will (do it now, all of you!!!), getting my eyebrows tattooed, and visiting a salon that makes you a permanent wig with real hair. Life, death and vanity.

Can't believe this.

HP SAUCE

#cancer #breastcancer #diary