There is life after cancer

September 2010

I had just lost my job. I was pushed to take redundancy, which I did, as I felt very tired — not knowing that I was seriously ill. I left the firm in tears after more than seven years working there.

At the time, I didn’t understand why I could no longer perform. I was constantly unwell — picking up a new infection almost every day. My temperature eventually reached 40°C. I was always sick, with a sore throat, a water infection, a terrible rash all over my body. I felt lightheaded, had a persistent cough, and general body aches.

Despite several visits to my GP, crying and asking for a simple blood test, I was told, “If the symptoms don’t go away in a week, then we’ll do a blood test.”

18 September 2010

I couldn’t wait any longer for that promised test. My instinct told me to call an ambulance — and that instinct saved my life.

The ambulance arrived, checked my temperature, and took me straight to Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Gateshead. There was no time even to change into proper pyjamas or a dressing gown. Everything happened quickly — blood tests, X-rays, questions about my medical history.

I was placed in a small room and told not to leave.

I was coughing violently, being sick again, crying, searching for answers — but deep down, I already knew. Something was very wrong. I heard them mention white blood cells.

My mind went to Chernobyl — I had been 15, living just 100 miles from the explosion in 1986. I tried not to think about blood cancer… but the thought stayed.

Two hours later, a haematology consultant arrived from Sunderland Hospital.

Before he could finish introducing himself, I asked,“Doctor, do I have cancer?”

He looked at me and said,“It looks like you do.”

“But that’s impossible… I have two small children, three and five,” I whispered, trying to hold back my tears.

He gently replied,“We do have treatment for blood cancer. But first, we need to understand exactly what type you have. We are taking you to Sunderland Hospital now.”

Before leaving, I made two phone calls — one to my husband, and one to my closest friend, Marilyn. I remember feeling guilty… wondering how to tell them, how to protect them from pain.

That night in Sunderland Hospital was one of the hardest of my life.

I was in a small side room, cared for by a nurse with a beautiful name — Melody. I had multiple bags of antibiotics, blood transfusions, and no sleep. I didn’t know what my future looked like… or if there would be one at all.

Would my children grow up without their mum?

I later learned how serious it was — I had already passed the point where many people with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML) survive without treatment. I was lucky — my heart was strong, and I hadn’t developed pneumonia on top of everything else.

19 September 2010

I had my first bone marrow biopsy. It was more than painful.

I tried to stay strong, even making jokes when others were around. But when I was alone, I allowed myself to cry.

Not seeing my children was the hardest part.

That day, my nurse Amanda came into my room, sat beside me, and gave me a hug I will never forget.

She said,“Your journey will be hard. The treatment is harsh. But there is hope. Remember that.”

I needed those words more than anything.

22 September, 2 pm

I was sitting on my bed, with Geoff on my left, Amanda beside me, and my consultant opposite us.

He confirmed I had blood cancer — Acute Myeloid Leukaemia.

But he also said it was a “good type,” meaning treatable.

At that moment, all attention turned to my husband. He nearly collapsed. He had already lost both his parents to cancer.

But something inside me shifted — I felt ready. Ready to begin the journey.

I chose not to use the word “fight.” I didn’t understand it then. I just knew I had to move forward.

The treatment was long and difficult. I lost count after 60 rounds of chemotherapy.

There were moments of fear, exhaustion, and frustration. But I never lost hope.

My children were my reason. I had their photos on the wall of my hospital room — smiling faces that I looked at every morning and every night.

Knitting became my therapy. It calmed my mind when I couldn’t do anything else. Sometimes I even knitted with my eyes closed.

Seven years later

I have a busy, full life — as normal as life can be after cancer.

It leaves scars, both physical and emotional. But I am here. I am alive.

I have rebuilt my life slowly. I have challenged myself, grown stronger, and even fitter than before. I started my creative business. I continued studying. I met incredible people and formed deep friendships.

And I can truly say — there is life after cancer. A beautiful life, even with obstacles.

Tomorrow marks seven years since that day.

And now, my life is filled with everyday moments — school runs, cooking dinner, walking the dog, working, creating.

Things I once took for granted.

Life is busy. Life is good. And those challenges have taught me to appreciate it even more.

The comments transfer

from the previous website.