Looking forward, looking back

As the year is nearing to its end, and I've now reached my one-year anniversary of arriving back to Australia after my diagnosis, I'm going to get reflective. I mentioned in a previous post that it's far more important for me to look forward than back, but now as a really difficult year draws to an end and I can look at it with a bit more perspective. Additionally, one thing I have never actually got around to documenting on my blog in detail was my last week in London and my journey home (and besides, the world's going to end soon, and I still have many more blog posts to publish). 

In the beginning ...

I started my first round of chemotherapy in London on Friday, November 25, 2011. The whole process was very rushed - exactly two weeks after I had walked into an emergency room with some abdominal pain I found myself hooked up to a drip getting toxic drugs pumped into my veins. I don't think anything could've prepared me for what lay ahead. I remember a group of cancer patients in their headscarves and beanies sitting near me in the clinic casually discussing their stem cells and when they'd be "getting them back" and all felt a little surreal. Little did I know at that time what a big role stem cells were going to play in my own journey. This was when I entered the parallel universe of cancer treatment, but I had no idea how hard it was actually going to be. 

That first round of chemo was really difficult, probably one of the worst ones I went through, physically and emotionally. The oncology nurses sent me home with a list of symptoms to look out for - if I got a fever, diarrhoea, vomiting I had to call the clinic immediately, no matter what the hour. I spent the first few days after chemo feeling relatively OK but I was a bit on edge about everything; I just didn't know what to expect.

A few days into chemo I got my first intrathecal, a chemotherapy injection into my spine. The chemo travels through the spinal fluid and to my brain, to protect it from the cancer.  I had to curl up in a ball while the doctor stuck needles into my spine. The worst part is the stinging of the anaesthetic they inject first that numbs the area before they inject the chemo. Intrathecals are also annoying because you have to lie flat in bed for at least an hour after it's done to prevent headaches. The recommended time is actually four hours but there's no way anyone was going to keep me in bed that long. I have now had six intrathecals all up and hated them all, they were just time-consuming and annoying. One of them, I think it was during my fourth round of chemo, gave me a lot of problems - ringing in my ears, heavy limbs and neck pain, it was just terrible. 

On the following Monday, I said goodbye to mum who had to take a very difficult flight home, alone, to attend my brother Sam's graduation in Australia. The next day after his graduation, Sam was going to take a flight to London, spend a week with me, then fly with me home. It meant I was going to have about three or four days in London on my own, and all I can say is thank God for Matt who had taken several days off work because it was around then that things turned pretty grim.  

Wednesday and Thursday I hit rock bottom. Thursday I couldn't keep breakfast down and ended up retching it up in the shower. I was pale and weak and kept having to go lie down. "It's like a really bad hangover," I said, "without the fun part." On top of this I was emotional wreck, which was probably a combination of the sickness making me feel so frustrated and helpless and my hormones wreaking havoc because of the fertility treatment I was on. Also, having to say goodbye to Matt was weighing really heavily on me. There were lots of tears at this point, lots of emotion. 

Friday I felt a bit better, and that night Matt and I went for a walk down Green Lanes with the housemates' dog. I realised this had been the first time I'd been outside since Tuesday. It was nice to get some ‘fresh’ air though not sure there’s much fresh about the air in Harringay, except for the fact it’s cold.

Saturday was horrible, I was back to feeling awful again. Weak, nauseous, emotional. Matt went home because he hadn't even changed his clothes in three days. I’d really enjoyed the time we’d got to spend together, even if I was in a bad state for a lot of it. We still managed to share some laughs, and tears, and I was impressed by his cooking skills. He went home after we shared lots of hugs and tears.

Sam arrived from Heathrow that afternoon, and my housemate picked him up in his car from Manor House station. I was happy to see him, but too fatigued and sick to really show it. It was a pretty mellow weekend, I couldn't do much but lay around.

On Monday, I had to head into the UCLH clinic for my routine blood tests. I woke up feeling terrible once again. I was pale, I looked and felt horrible. I spent the car ride to the clinic with my window down, wanting to throw up. The tests showed that my neutrophils were just sitting under 0.5, which meant I was neutropenic and at risk of infection. The lymphoma nurse sent me home with three days' worth of GSCF injections to boost my white cells. We got a cab back to Harringay, and I when I stepped out of the cab I threw up, right there on the street. I had to shut myself in my (tiny) room and avoid my housemates as one of them definitely had a cold of some description. 

A couple of days later I was feeling much better. My white blood cells had soared. A chest X-ray showed the tumour in my chest had shrunk significantly. This was the first time my lymphoma had been exposed to chemotherapy and it had really knocked it around. The doctor was happy for me to fly home. It felt awesome, but so scary at the same time. It was really happening, I was leaving London. Amazingly I managed to pack my whole life back into my backpack and a couple of extra bags - I had really accrued very little in my 18-month stay in the UK.

The care I got in the UK via the UCLH was exceptional. My lymphoma nurse Barbara was an absolute gem and really went above and beyond to ensure I was OK. She gave me a lot of her time and to this day we are still in contact. 

It was a cold, cold day I left London. It was Saturday, December 10, 2011. Saying goodbye was difficult. On the Friday night I'd had a wonderful farewell with friends in Stoke Newington until 3am. Still a rather subdued affair compared to what it would have been had I left in different circumstances. But I was happy to just relax and share some laughs with good friends. The perfect way to say goodbye.

Saying goodbye to Matt was really, really hard. We were on our way back from dinner in Islington and he got off the 341 bus at Church Street and walked away, down the dark street and I didn't know when I was going to see him again. I was already crying at Newington Green, and I cried all the way home. Sam and I were running a bit late to get our cab to Heathrow, and this was not helped by the fact that there was a car, engulfed in flames, on Green Lanes, which had stopped all the traffic. We got off the bus and walked home, as a crowd of people just stared at this burning car. A rather odd sight and end to my life in London. We grabbed all our luggage and piled into a cab. As I took my last bag, left my keys on the shelf and went to close the door, I hesitated for a moment, took one last look at what had been my crazy, but warm home for the past year. I was certainly going to miss it, and the people that lived there.

Bye London, I shall miss you

The roads to Heathrow were jam-packed with traffic and the cab was barely moving. I was having some major anxiety that we were going to miss our flight. After all these delays, re-booking of flights, all this drama, we were going to miss that plane home because of traffic? The cabbie ended up veering off the main motorway and taking a "short cut" to the airport along all these backroads. I have to say, I had my doubts but I have to hand it to him for managing to get us there on time. 

On arrival to Heathrow, we were greeted by a Qantas staff member who told us we had access to the British Airways Galleries Lounge and that we had been upgraded to business class. This was a big surprise to us; we hadn’t expected this kind of treatment. I know that one friend emailed the Qantas executives explaining my situation and my brother had also called them to see if maybe we could avoid having to wait in crowded areas or maybe get more comfortable seats on the plane. But being upgraded to business class was pretty awesome. We had our own little cubicles and seats that went all the way down to horizontal, which even had a massage option (which was actually rather uncomfortable). We had ample leg and storage room, decent food, private TVs with top-quality headphones, bubbly on lift-off - we even got complimentary pyjamas and an amenities kit. The staff were falling over themselves to make us as comfortable as possible. It was pretty amazing and I'm pretty sure that's the first and only time I will ever fly business class because I have looked up the prices and it does not come cheap. I managed to sleep a lot of the way home and it just made our flight so much more bearable. Really have to hand it to Qantas; they made a difficult flight a lot easier.

Me and Hippo Jo in transit

I can't even describe the feeling of coming home ... it was like a dream. Seeing my family at the airport, being welcomed by Melbourne's wide streets and breezy sunshine; it all felt so strange but familiar. Another amazing surprise when I got home to my parents' place was my old bedroom. In the weeks leading up to my arrival, my siblings, and uncle and cousins had worked tirelessly to repaint, recarpet, refurnish and decorate my old bedroom which looked absolutely fantastic. Everyone had also printed out a collection of photos which they'd arranged on the wall. A lot of time and effort went into it and I was really touched. What a homecoming.

Me, having just arrived home, and my photo wall

And the rest is history. 

In the past year and a bit:

• I have had bucketloads of chemo. Three rounds of R-CHOP, 3 rounds of Hyper-CVAD, 6 intrathecals (chemo injected into my spine), 2.5 rounds of Gem-Vin, one round of high-dose chemotherapy (cytarabine, etoposide, carmustine, cyclophosphamide) one round of low-dose chemotherapy (rydarabine and melphalan). This also doesn't include the countless number of oral meds I have had to take daily all year.
• I have had an autologous stem cell transplant (April) in which my own stem cells were collected and returned to my bone marrow after high-dose chemo.
• I have had an allogeneic stem cell transplant (December) in which my sister's stem cells were collected and delivered to my bone marrow after low-dose chemotherapy. 
• Had five infections during chemotherapy, all of which I was hospitalised for. 
• If you added up all the days I spent in hospital, including those as an outpatient, I reckon they'd take up half the year. Easily. Maybe more.
• My hair has fallen out four times. 
• I have seen some wonderful places with some wonderful people. I have travelled to Perth/Margaret River, Brisbane, Sydney three times, Wollongong, the Hunter Valley, the Grampians, Meredith (Golden Plains), Falls Creek, Daylesford/Hepburn Springs, the Great Ocean Road, Wilson's Promontory and the NSW Far South Coast (Merimbula/Eden). 
• I climbed a really big tree, went snowboarding, attended a couple of festivals and wrote and recorded a song.

And throughout everything my family, especially my mum, have been right by my side, have been my rock in times of darkness. In this respect I have been very lucky. Actually, I'm pretty damn lucky to even be here today, when it comes down to it, and I'm thankful for each day.

Part 2 (the diagnosis): straight to the heart of the matter

(Continued from this post)

My trip to the Heart Hospital was like no other journey through London I’d ever had before. I was simply being transported from one hospital in North London to another in Central London – there was no urgency – but the ambulance driver put the siren on the whole way. It’s a weird feeling, being fully conscious, in a screaming ambulance, running every red light, speeding along as all the cars in front of you veer to the side, like Moses parting the Red Sea. “That’s the fastest trip to Central London I’ve ever had,” I told the ambulance driver as we took the elevator up to my ward at the Heart Hospital. “I just want to knock off and be home with my family,” the ambulance driver, who had been on call that night, replied with a laugh. Fair enough!
Going from North Middlesex Hospital in the northern suburbs to the Heart Hospital in Marylebone was like being upgraded from a seedy motel to the Hilton. I was delighted to see I had my own room, with my own ensuite, plenty of storage space, a much nicer outlook than my other hospital ward, and, from the looks of my dinner which was served on arrival – much better food.
I was feeling very ill and weak that day. I don’t know if it was the overexertion of my walk outside and ambulance transfer, or the North Middlesex hospital food, but I really wasn’t feeling well. I fell into a deep sleep, woken intermittedly for numerous tests, medications, surgery briefings, consultations etc.
The next morning, at 11am, they came to take me to theatre, much earlier than I expected. I wasn’t ready at all. “I need to put these on,” I said, holding up the horrendous-looking thrombosis tights to the porter, who tried to call a nurse, only to discover he was on his break. He was in quite a rush so we got set on trying to put the tights on ourselves, a tricky exercise. We were both giggling at the whole comedy of it all, both of us fumbling with the tights, in a mad rush to get me into surgery. “You’re too young to be having surgery,” the porter said as he wheeled me to the lift, and to the theatre.
As I entered the theatre, with its white walls, and blue-clothed people, reality suddenly hit me. They were about to cut me open. Nerves set in. I tried to put on a brave face. The nurses smiled warmly at me as they began to strap things to me. A man said he needed to put a needle into me, and I said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got enough holes in me. I’ll start leaking soon.”
Then the surgeon came to speak to me. “So, that’s a huge lump you’ve got there in your chest,” he said to me. “How did you find out it was there?” I was taken aback by his upfront nature but I instantly liked him – he was a larrikin and a character. The surgeon and I chatted briefly, then the anaesthetic was administered and I drifted off.
When I came to, my throat was dry and sore, I was coughing heavily and there was a deep pain in my left shoulder. The nurses all peered at me, and machines beeped at me. I suddenly felt really uncomfortable and scared, and I started to cry, in between coughing. “I don’t even know why I’m upset,” I said.
“Well, you just had surgery,” said one of the nurses. “You’re well within your right to feel upset. The anaesthetic can do funny things to you as well.”
Back in the ward, it was an excruciating wait for my mum to arrive. The hours ticked by, and I lay in bed, feeling much better, but not able to sleep because of the discomfort and anticipation. At about 3.30 she walked in, clutching Hippo Jo (a present from Sam, knitted by one of his 90-year-old patients. More about him later) and broke down into tears when she saw me. She came straight over and gave me a big hug, and even though it hurt slightly I didn’t care. Poor mum had been awake for 36 hours and probably wasn’t feeling much better than I was! We talked for a few hours. I was so happy to see her, her timing couldn’t have been more perfect. When I came out of that theatre all I had wanted is someone by my side.
Not long after, the surgeon came into see us. He said he was pretty sure it was a lymphoma and it was so big that it was squashing one of the air passages into my left lung. “You’re effectively operating on one lung at the moment,” he told me.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I said, stunned.
“That’s because your body compensates,” he explained.
Then came the big question: if/when I could go back to Australia.
“Can you go back to Australia? The answer is no,” said the surgeon, and my heart fell. But he explained, because of the tumour’s placement around my lungs, I would find it very difficult to breathe on a 24-hour flight at that altitude. He said they were currently reducing the size of the tumour with steroids, but he wouldn’t feel comfortable about me getting on that plane until I’d at least had my first dose of treatment, which could keep me in London several weeks. The surgeon had said I should remain in hospital until I receive a diagnosis (which could take anything from five to 14 days).

Hippo Jo keeping me company in the Heart Hospital, post-biopsy

After that, it was an excruciating waiting game. I had put on such a brave face for so long but the long stay in hospital and the noticeable effect my illness was having on the people around me, especially my mum, was really getting me down. I missed normality and I longed to be back out there in the real world. Not living behind the walls and glass windows of the hospital, watching the world pass me by. I also learned that researching your likely condition on the internet was not a smart thing to do, either. All it did was frighten me and place a heavier burden on my mind. I cried myself to sleep a few times during those days. “Don’t be afraid of the bad days,” Matt told me and I knew he was right. I had to just let the bad days happen.
The next day, I was settling in for a long stay in hospital when the unexpected happened. The surgeon came marching in to my ward that afternoon, waving about a piece of paper. “We have it!” He said. “We have a diagnosis.” He sat down on the bed. “It’s non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma,” he said. This surprised me, as from day one all the doctors had assumed I had Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which was much more common in young people than NHL. He told us that he was going to arrange an appointment with an oncologist the following day and I could be discharged from the hospital tomorrow. So much to take on! I couldn’t believe it. He answered all the questions we fired at him and gave my mum a pat on the way out. “In a few months, she’ll be cured,” he said with confidence. And then he was gone. The surgeon was such a support to us, I can’t believe he worked so hard to get that diagnosis to us so quickly – he’d cut quite a few corners to get us the news quickly.
I couldn’t believe how stoic I was after hearing the diagnosis. I’d been as prepared as I could be. But it played on my mind that night. I didn’t sleep much.
The oncologist appointment the next day was the true reality check. I took my seat in the waiting room at the UCLH oncology clinic. Around me all I could see were sick people. People with cancer. It really hit me how much cancer there is in the world, and how it affects so many people. Sitting in that waiting room was depressing, but also eye-opening and in its strange way, comforting, though I still didn’t really feel like I belonged her yet. We sat there for almost an hour.
The oncologist who saw us was a registrar working under Professor Andrew Lynch, one of the world leaders in lymphoma. He looked young, possibly even younger than me. He was a rational man, but he appeared tired and seemed unsure of how to deal with my mum who was understandably quite emotional at this point. We found out later 70 patients had gone through that clinic that day.
At this stage they hadn’t confirmed what type of NHL I had – but it was between two different types. However, regardless of the outcome, I would be undergoing six months chemotherapy. I would be getting a bone marrow test and a PET scan which would establish the stage (how far it has spread across my body) of my disease. After consulting briefly with Prof Lynch, the registrar strongly recommended that I should stay in the UK for at least one cycle of treatment before I flew home.
There was a lot to take in that day. And the major setback was that I didn’t know when I would be going home, and it looked like I would be going home without mum. Mum was pretty upset about this. But at the time I was willing to follow doctor’s orders, if that was the best thing for me. Obviously I wanted to be home as soon as possible, but not at risk to my health. The lymphoma nurse, a gentle and kind lady, gave me a bunch of paperwork and her phone number which she told me we could call any time during business hours.
We caught a cab home. I was feeling overwhelmed and a little depressed. All I wanted to do was relax in a café and forget about everything for a little while. But we Skyped Sam when we got home, and suddenly the pressure of getting home and everything else heaped onto me. I was starting to realize what a hard, tough road I was facing.
That day was difficult; there were lots of tears. After talking to my mum, suddenly I could see the ultimate heartbreak a mother feels when she sees her child go through such unimaginable turmoil. Of course, a parent doesn't expect things to happen this way around. All mum wanted to do was fix me; and of course she knew she couldn’t do that, so the next best thing was to bring me safely home and care for me.
Friday was a new day. I spent the morning Skyping my friends in Australia, then I headed down the street for a haircut. I told the hairdresser to lop it all off, without letting her in on the fact that it would ultimately be a three or four-week haircut because my hair would all fall out in a few weeks. I wanted my £28 worth! I think she was quite taken aback by my nonchalance, as my hair was very long at this point.

Locks lopped! Liberating.

That evening my mum and I had the pleasure of meeting up with one of my sister’s friends, Glenn. Glenn and Jacqui had become friends in Brisbane several years ago and since then he had moved to London and built a life there. Around the time of my diagnosis Glenn had called me, to offer a listening ear and invited us both over to his house, which turned out to be virtually around the corner from mine! (Quite a coincidence, considering London is not a small place). Glenn was a lymphoma survivor, having undergone 10 months of chemotherapy for Hodgkin’s lymphoma more than 10 years ago.
Glenn came and picked us up with his adorable daughter Polly, and we headed to his place to meet his wife Justine. The last time I’d met them had been about 10 years ago in Brisbane. They put on an amazing dinner for us. It was great to talk to Glenn; he gave me some excellent tips and advice. It was also inspirational to see how the cancer experience had changed his life, and now he had ticked off all the things on his bucket list and was now living happily with his wife and daughter in London. It was a lovely night filled with stories, laughs, music and a wonderful dance performance from Polly. Mum and I went home all flushed by the loveliness of the evening and the unbelievable generosity of a family that were virtually strangers to us.

Part 1 (pre-diagnosis): The weekend my life was turned upside down.

The day I took myself to hospital was 11.11.11. When I looked back on that day and date several days later, I suddenly realized that Remembrance Day had happened, and I had spent the whole day in hospital, caught up in my own dramas, not even casting a single thought to the soldiers. But I guess that day will have an additional new meaning for me from now on, because it also marked the beginning of my own personal battle with cancer.

My lymphoma began in my chest, so it was invisible – I couldn’t feel it. In fact, even when I took myself to hospital, I wasn’t presenting with chest pain or breathing problems. I had abdominal pain.

With the beauty of hindsight, I can look back and identify the warning signs, although it’s still unclear if some of them were actually warning signs or not. Bouts of sickness, unexplained fatigue, shortness of breath, night sweats and a persistent cough. Most of these had presented themselves in the five weeks before I went to hospital, but when I thought about it, some had been hanging around for months.

One of those was fatigue. I was coming home from work and not being able to do much more than cook a meal and go to bed. My housemates had noticed a drop in my energy and a change in my moods. I hadn’t been for a run or exercised for several weeks because I hadn’t felt up to it. Even my half-term break was spent feeling sick and exhausted. I thought I must just be generally stressed and exhausted from working, but I knew something was up. One Saturday, I went swimming at the Hackney Pool and could barely complete one lap. I was a bit hungover and tired, but still this didn’t stack up for someone who can swim 30 laps of a 25m pool no problem. Straight after that, the abdominal pain and nausea began, and didn’t go away.

During these two weeks, I saw my GP twice. The first time he prescribed me pills that stopped the production of gastric acid in my stomach. They didn’t really do anything. I was still in a lot of pain and discomfort. And the pain had moved, towards my kidney. It was affecting my sleep. I was still going to work though, because the bills and rent needed to get paid somehow. The second time I went back to the GP, all he did was send off for more pathology tests. “This is a poo-poo container,” he said, holding up an empty vial. (Ew. I feel for whoever had to carry out that lab test.) So basically he took stool and urine samples, and told me results would be back in two weeks. Two weeks! I was in agony. I knew I couldn’t wait that long.

I could see that my GP was pretty much useless. I mean the guy didn’t even try to come near me with a stethoscope. But what can you do?

I went home after that GP appointment and spent the whole day in bed. Usually this kind of rest would make one feel better. Well I didn’t feel any better. I knew something was up. The next day I decided I wasn’t going to sit around and feel horrible anymore. I was going to do something about it. I walked to the bus stop and took the next bus to my closest A&E.

I was dreading a long wait in the waiting room but I got called straight up. I went into my little cubicle, explained my symptoms to the female nurse. They did all the routine checks, then they sent me in for an X-ray. I wasn't sure why at the time and I thought it might be unnecessary. But when they sent me in for a CT scan after that (where you lie down on a bed, get injected with a strange liquid and are passed through a giant whirring donut), I knew something was up. I could see them poring over my X-ray, a big blotch across the screen, speaking in muted tones, stealing concerned glances in my direction.

Finally the nurses came into the cubicle and asked me some questions about my family history. They explained to me that something had come up on my chest X-ray. That there was some kind of mass, gathered around my thyroid, around my breathing apparatus. The male nurse said he was waiting on the CT report to get a better idea of what it was, and that he would be sending down doctors to speak to me about it. I was dumbfounded but I didn’t really know what it all meant. The full seriousness of it hadn’t reached me yet. He asked me a few more questions about symptoms, then I remembered the cough - a horrible sounding whooping cough - I’d had for two weeks, that only presented itself when I was lying down. They seemed concerned about this and scribbled it down on their clipboard.

More waiting. People came to take my blood. I watched as a nurse took about four or five vials, the dark scarlet liquid leaking across the plastic ominously. A young female doctor, who didn’t really have any news, but was nice company, and did a few more checks. A manky hospital sandwich for lunch. And more waiting.

I’d been in A&E for about six or more hours when the bombshell came, via a lady named Sarah from haematology. She was accompanied by several doctors and consultants. I wondered if they thought I was going to flip out. They were all looking at me with concerned faces. They asked me if I had family around. I said no, they were all in Australia. And I couldn’t even call them because it was stupid o’clock (3 or 4am) over there. All my London friends were at work. Sarah was very direct with me. She said the symptoms I was describing, and the scans and test results were all pointing to one very likely diagnosis: lymphoma. This meant nothing to me at first, until she said, ‘Hodgkin’s disease’ and suddenly Delta Goodrem, and cancer, sprung to mind. “Lymphoma is malignant, but it’s very treatable,” she assured me. She told me they wouldn't know what it is until a biopsy was done, which wouldn't be happening until at least Monday. I didn’t really know what to say but sit there quietly, crying. Not sure who to call, what to do. “It’s a lot to take in,” she said gently. I had never wanted to speak to my mother more than I had at that moment. They told me I would be staying in the hospital for the weekend and when I told her I was supposed to be working Monday, Sarah said gently, “I can assure you that won’t be happening.” (No, instead I would be in an operating theatre.)

So I called my boyfriend Matt, who I was supposed to be meeting up with that night. His reaction was shock and disbelief, his voice wracked with concern. “Can I come see you?”

I had been moved to a ward by the time Matt came. I was so happy to him walk in the door, even though his eyes were full of worry. It was a lot to take in, but it was quite difficult to talk things over while the woman in the corner kept moaning and retching violently into a bucket. At 8.15pm one of the nurses came over and told us visiting hours were over at 8pm. I didn’t want Matt to go. He hesitated for a long while. “I don’t want to leave you here on your own,” he said. “I’ll be OK,” I said. “I know,” he replied. “Tough as old boots.” (Apparently on his way out, the lady in the corner asked Matt if he could take off her socks. “I don’t care who takes them off,” she said, staring at him wildly. Matt called for a nurse and high-tailed it out of there.)

It was about this time I called my mother. It was about 9.30am over there and she was at work. I went to tell her, but I choked on the words and began to cry. Concern crept into her voice. “What’s happened?” I told her I was in hospital, and that a scan had shown something in my chest, and when I mentioned the likely lymphoma diagnosis, her voice fell. “Oh Beth.” She then, as I knew she would, insisted on flying over. I told her to wait. “Just wait until the diagnosis.” Because she was at work and still recovering from the shock of what I told her, we resolved to discuss it further tomorrow. Then the nurses told me I was changing wards, and I gathered my things, and was wheeled, like a frail person, to the upper floor.

It wasn’t exactly the most welcoming of surrounds. At first I had been grateful to get away from Lady ‘take my socks off’ Spewguts, but when I accustomed myself to my two new neighbours, old Spewguts didn’t seem so bad. On my left side was a woman who I at first thought had a case of severe flatulence, however, the culprit was actually the ventilation machine she was using for oxygen. Directly across from me was a middle-aged Romanian woman, who was rocking back and forth, moaning softly as if possessed, her chin poised ominously above a vomit container. She was deathly pale. Next to her bed, a monitor was beeping loudly, and at every break between her beeps, a beep came from the opposite corner. So between these two other patients, there was constant beeping, deafening machine-powered flatulence and moaning, as I lay there, tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable in spite of the sharp pain in my side. On top of that I’d missed dinner and was majorly hungry – the best the nurse could do for me was a couple of pieces of toast with a tiny sachet of jam. Then the doctors insisted that my bed stayed upright all night because they were concerned about my cough.

Needless to say, I only slept three hours. The next morning my phone went flat, and I started to worry, as it was my only portal to my friends and family. Luckily I'd written down a few numbers, and I asked one of the nurses, Sister, if I could use the hospital phone to call my friends, so I could arrange for them to bring my belongings, including my phone charger, to the hospital. She wasn't crazy about the idea and told me to be quick, because they needed to use the phone. The phone calls I made kept cutting out, and after several calls Sister yelled at me because I was taking too long. She really upset me, and after some tears and heated words were exchanged, thankfully a male patient from a neighbouring ward intervened and offered me his phone charger.

Thankfully my phone was charging when my family called - Mum, Dad, Sam and Megan, via Skype. It was so good to hear their voices. I gave them updates on my situation, and mum said: “You’ve made up my mind, Beth, I’m coming over.” She said she had already checked flights and there was one leaving Sunday night. Everything was happening so quickly.

Matt managed to bring my belongings to me that day, after rummaging around in my room (let this be a lesson - always keep your room tidy in case you end up in hospital) and another friend Nick came to visit as well. It was a nice time, sitting around laughing and chatting. The nurses even let Matt stay past visiting hours.

On Sunday morning, after a better sleep, I could see a small patch of blue sky through the hospital window, peeking above the bland concrete garden and wall. I asked the nurses if I could go outside for a moment to get some fresh air, and they allowed it. It was a short walk to the lift which took me downstairs, to the doors to a garden. I realized as I walked out the automatic doors to the outside world that I was very tired and short of breath. For once it actually hit me: I am ill. A brief walk shouldn't make me feel like this.

At about 3 or 4 in the afternoon the nurses announced I would be moving to the National Heart Hospital in Central London. This is where I would undergo a biopsy, where they would enter through my chest and take a sample of tissue from my tumour, which would be taken to the lab for testing. The other two patients watched me as I got my belongings together, and part of me felt sad about leaving them, they'd become my friends in their odd little way. But I was off to the Heart Hospital, onto the next phase of my journey.

Home is wherever I'm with you ...

I’ll go into the details of my diagnosis later, but first I want to bring people up to speed to what is happening now. I’ve reached the end of the London leg of my journey, and maybe I will look back at that part as the hardest, but most life-affirming bit of the whole experience. It’s hard to say yet, I know I’ve got a hard road ahead of me, but at least I know now what I have to do.

So, in a nutshell, chemo sucks. It’s like a really bad hangover, but without the really fun ‘night before’ part. But I am well-acquainted with hangovers so I guess I’m the best equipped I can be to deal with it all. After a bit of a rough week, I am now on Day 14 of my chemo and things are finally on the up. The last week has been full of: impromptu nana naps, nausea and vomit (including one very public roadside spew – shamefully not the first time this has happened in my life, haha), paracetamol-defying headaches and just a general weak, crap feeling. The extreme fatigue means I haven’t been able to do much (a nice excuse to get out of housework!), but this is rather frustrating for someone who is very independent and not used to doing so little. Living in a shoebox room in a London share house in the middle of winter hasn’t exactly made it easier. During my first days of sickness I was also an emotional wreck (I spent most of Thursday sobbing into my boyfriend Matt’s shoulder, “I’m going to miss you soooo much!”) as I think I simply wasn’t emotionally prepared for feeling so helpless. Everything just hit me so hard.

Blood tests on Monday showed I was neutropenic (sounds like a name for a band or album). This meant my neutrophils, the most important kind of white blood cell, were dangerously low, leaving me susceptible to infection. To ensure my white cell count is as high as it can be for my flight on Saturday, the doctor prescribed me a hormone that would give the cells an artificial boost throughout the week. It’s administered by injection but I didn’t fancy stabbing myself in the shoulder or abdomen, so I’ve left that to the professional, namely my brother Doctor Sam (who arrived here from Australia last Saturday). The injections have been working so I guess Sam passed that test!

But every cloud has its silver lining, and I’ve finally come to my reward. Yesterday I saw my London oncologist for what will be the last time. An X-ray revealed that the lump in my chest is now a smaller lump. The doc said he was ‘very happy with the response’. My blood tests showed my white cell count had jumped from 1.3 to 4.6 (go white cells go!) in three days. The doctor said he had no problem with me getting on that plane on Saturday, and seemed reassured by the fact I would be travelling with a doctor, even if he has only been a doctor for a week.

So I am coming home! Finally! It’s probably going to be the most horrible 24-hour flight of my life but it’s going to deliver me to the people that matter to me more than anything in the world. I’m at peace with leaving London; I feel I have unfinished business here and I know I will miss the place and the people in it, but it will always be there to go back to. It’s just so much more important to be around my family right now.

It’s Friday today and I’m feeling pretty good. Tonight is my last night in London, which will be spent with the many awesome people I’ve met here along the way. It’s six degrees today and will be five tomorrow, which makes it easier to leave … Australian summer, I'm ready!