Книга - No Ordinary Wedding Planner: Fighting against the odds to help others make their dreams come true

No Ordinary Wedding Planner: Fighting against the odds to help others make their dreams come true
Naomi Thomas


This is the inspiring story of Naomi Thomas, a secondary breast cancer sufferer who has decided to devote the remainder of her life to spreading joy, helping others to find happiness by fulfilling the wedding dreams of those who are terminally ill.Naomi was 26 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her boyfriend Graham had proposed just two days earlier. After seven months of treatment Naomi was declared cancer free, only to receive the devastating news a few short months later that the disease had returned and was no longer curable. Her son, Devon, was just six days old. Thoughts of their wedding were the one thing that kept Naomi and Graham going, but the financial burden of terminal illness had made the reality of their special day seem impossible. However, in this time of darkness, the couple discovered the amazing generosity and selflessness of local companies as they rallied around and helped to organise and fund a dream wedding. Their kindness was overwhelming.Determined not to die in vain, Naomi began fund-raising, ultimately setting up her own charity with the mission of spreading the joy she had experienced on her big day. The Wedding Wishing Well Foundation was formed, and Naomi now organises and funds weddings for those affected by terminal and life-limiting illnesses, helping them to enjoy married life before it’s too late.Inspiring, heart warming and incredibly moving, this story will show you the true meaning of love.‘Everyone has the right to marry the love of their life, but you don’t realise just how important it is until you are told you are dying.’www.harpertrue.com









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Contents


Cover (#ua29f9bc5-0a68-5874-8271-53b55f7b9d99)

Title Page (#ulink_540161b9-e7e2-5f30-a6ce-3c6923a940f4)

Chapter One (#ulink_6933123f-79c8-527d-b2bf-738ddccb5cc7)

Chapter Two (#ulink_1cbcc838-989f-5184-a8a6-c13de4ca65b3)

Chapter Three (#ulink_e472e95e-5baf-5611-a6c8-a09def736a26)

Chapter Four (#ulink_27547c27-66c7-5b56-8902-237d1a3065fb)

Chapter Five (#ulink_13f8a35f-d2ba-5ac3-ba9f-b6c40fc3afc2)

Chapter Six (#ulink_6a4a1153-0289-552e-979a-428e5cb16028)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedications and Thank Yous (#litres_trial_promo)

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Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

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Chapter One (#u04b912ca-7d44-5344-8756-10f12404c859)


New Year’s Eve 2009 was fast approaching. I was 26, and I worked and partied – hard! My first marriage had come to an end, and although my husband and I had separated amicably, I had been with him since the age of 16 and it had been a shock to the system to be on my own. You could say I was making up for lost time! Workwise, I loved my job. I was employed by Exeter City Council to run holiday play schemes for children from deprived areas of the city; it was one of the most rewarding jobs I had ever had, and I loved the kids and my colleagues. I was also working part time running my own business as a wedding planner, as well as assisting local venues as their in-house planner. Holding down two jobs was tiring, but I loved every moment – I felt as if life couldn’t have been any better, and I wanted to celebrate.

I discovered that my favourite DJ was playing at my local haunt and immediately made plans to see in the New Year with my friends and beloved music. The evening was an absolute blast! As with every New Year, I decided it was about time I changed a few things – I wanted to leave the past behind me, and to be happy in my own company. I had become a real gym junkie in 2008 and was hoping to continue the hard work by completing some charity fun runs and training for the London Marathon. I had lost over a stone and was starting to feel much more confident about myself. As 2010 began, I finally felt in control of my life. Little did I know that it wouldn’t last long!

My New Year’s resolutions started off well, although they began to dwindle as January came to an end. I was still feeling a little dented from the end of my marriage and discovered that a very old friend of mine seemed to be going through something similar. Graham and I had known each other since we were about 14 or 15, when he worked in the local pub that I used to frequent, back when I looked much older than I was. He had a real presence when he arrived at the bar on a Saturday night; everyone would be shaking his hand and patting him on the back when he walked in, fashionably late! Although I can’t say I fancied him then there was certainly something about him, and when we became friends on Facebook I noticed that he had definitely improved with age! As Graham had a girlfriend, I had never thought any more of it, but now that his Facebook status suggested it was over I decided to take the plunge and message him.

Graham responded almost immediately, confirming that they had indeed broken up that week. This was my chance! Three days of flirty text messages and phone calls followed, and we agreed to meet up at 2pm on Monday 26 January – a date I remember so well. I was nervous and spent ages figuring out what to wear. Graham had suggested that we could go for a walk, so my outfit needed to be sexy, yet comfortable and practical. Eventually I chose a pair of skinny jeans and boots with a comfy jumper, and drove to Graham’s house. Luckily I found it easily, and was immediately impressed by the beautiful cottage that I saw before me; quirky and well kept, with bags of Somerset character.

I walked up the short path and closed the gate behind me. The front door opened sharply; Graham had been waiting on the other side, having watched me getting out of my car through his window – talk about keen! The cottage was as beautiful inside as out, impeccably clean and with a wood burner to warm us.

We decided to go for a walk in the woods nearby and jumped into Graham’s gorgeous BMW Convertible to whisk us there. As we walked our hands kept brushing against each other, but neither of us knew what to do about it! I knew right away that I really liked him. It was so easy to chat to him and we talked freely, discussing the people we knew, what we’d been up to since school, and our memories from the time when we’d known each other. He made me laugh and was a proper gentleman; not the sort of guy that I’d normally have gone for! The afternoon was lovely and we went back to his for a hot chocolate and a sit-down with a film. Graham put his arm around me and we snuggled on the sofa to watch it; it was the perfect end to a brilliant first date.

Over the next few days the West Country was hit by some of the worst snow that any of us had seen for some time, making travelling almost impossible. The thought of being snowed in alone filled me with dread. I rang Graham to see what the snow was like near him. When he replied that it was pretty awful there too, I informed him that I was dropping everything and heading over!

The roads were the worst I’d ever seen, and just as I was making my way round the last corner before Graham’s house, the car skidded and I came to a stop right in the middle of a junction. Dressed in my wellies and thick winter coat I walked the last hundred yards or so to Graham’s house. He and his neighbour hurried off to rescue my car with a shovel, and once it was safely parked outside the house Graham and I made our way inside for what turned out to be five days of being snowed in together. We had the most amazing time, larking about in the fresh white snow, watching films together, and getting to know each other.

I already knew that this was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.




Chapter Two (#u04b912ca-7d44-5344-8756-10f12404c859)


Over the next few weeks Graham and I saw each other at every opportunity. It all felt too good to be true – I was falling for him in a big way, and quickly. At that time I was due to go on holiday with my family to celebrate my dad’s 60th birthday but the thought of spending time away from Graham was almost too much to bear.

One morning I was taking a bath when I found a strange lump in my right breast. It was the size of a pea, and definitely not something I had felt before. I had undergone breast reduction surgery three years previously and was at first quite certain that it was related – perhaps a stitch that had not dissolved properly, or a lump of scar tissue. On closer inspection, though, I realised that the lump was in an area that hadn’t been stitched. In that moment, and without any idea why, I was very concerned.

I made a mental note to call the doctor as soon as the surgery opened on Monday morning. The lump played on my mind all day though so, when I got home that evening, I texted Graham in the hopes of offloading some of my worry. His auntie had died of breast cancer and he had previously been involved with a girl who had sadly died from ovarian cancer, so he quite rightly insisted that I get everything checked out just to be safe.

As soon as I could, I made myself a doctor’s appointment and headed to the surgery with trepidation. My GP was a lovely man, and, although he was endlessly reassuring, he took the lump seriously, advising me to monitor it for a week in case it was connected to my monthly cycle or other hormonal changes. If it was still there the following week I was to return without delay and I’d be referred for further tests.

Later that week I was due to fly to Goa for my dad’s birthday trip. While I knew I was going to miss Graham terribly, I knew it would be good to have a distraction from my worry. I hadn’t told anyone else about the lump – it seemed unnecessary to worry them in the run up to our holiday.

The first day of our holiday arrived. The thought of leaving Graham was gut-wrenching – we had been together just seven weeks, but our feet hadn’t yet had time to touch the ground. We were falling head over heels in love with each other at breakneck speed.

With my dad’s celebrations and thoughts of Graham whizzing through my mind I reluctantly boarded the plane. During the holiday Graham and I kept in constant contact with each other, but it was hard not having him there with me – especially as he was the only one who knew about my lump. I eventually confided in my mum and her friend, and they did their best to reassure me despite their concern. Mum’s best friend’s son was battling cancer at the time and, aged just 40, the prognosis didn’t look good at all for him. It was so hard to see someone we cared about facing such a terrible illness.

That week couldn’t go quickly enough, and I was beside myself with excitement as we headed home. I couldn’t wait to touch down in Gatwick, and rang Graham as soon as we landed. We promised that we would never spend a moment away from each other again – it was all very dramatic, but felt so right. Bright and early the next day, I headed for Graham’s – he had just moved and I couldn’t wait to be his first houseguest. Seeing him again was fantastic and I realised there and then that I never wanted to be away from this man again. He looked more gorgeous than ever and we couldn’t stop holding each other.

That afternoon we headed into town. Graham had some errands to run and we decided to enjoy lunch together while we were out. I remember that afternoon as though it were yesterday; we walked through Exeter’s main shopping centre, holding hands and chatting, until suddenly Graham stopped.

‘I need to go in there,’ he said, pointing in the direction of a jewellers’ shop on the High Street. I asked him what he needed to go in there for and he began to look nervous.

‘A ring.’ My mind started racing.

‘A ring? What sort of ring?’

‘An engagement ring.’ It took a moment for Graham’s words to sink in, yet nothing before had ever felt so right. So we went into the jewellers, hand in hand, and chose a beautiful engagement ring. In that moment I couldn’t have been happier – we were on cloud nine, and I finally felt as if my life was heading in the right direction.




Chapter Three (#u04b912ca-7d44-5344-8756-10f12404c859)


Two days after Graham had proposed, we decided to go and have a look around a few wedding dress shops; I just couldn’t help myself! We wanted to get married as soon as possible and, although I am a traditionalist in many ways, I’ve always believed that the groom’s opinion is important when choosing a wedding dress. After all, it was Graham that I was trying to impress! As we browsed a rack of beautiful dresses there was a small piece of fabric that seemed to stand out from the gowns around it. Although there can’t have been more than five inches of material on show, Graham and I had both reached for the same dress. I already knew that this was The One. Trying the dress on only confirmed my suspicions; it fitted perfectly and looked absolutely stunning.

Despite all our excitement, I still had the lump in my right breast. I was due to go and see the specialist the next day and didn’t feel like we could really celebrate our engagement until we knew that it was nothing.

The day of my appointment came. I remember sitting in the waiting room with Graham and being surprised by just how many young people were there with me. You think of cancer being an old person’s disease, or something that strikes those who lead unhealthy lives, yet here we all were.

I was called into the room, and instinctively told Graham to wait outside, but the nurse was very insistent that he come in with me, and it was then that the nerves really began to creep in. We waited for the specialist to enter, becoming more and more anxious as the minutes ticked by. He was a lovely gentleman and gave me time to explain what had been going on and what I had discovered in my breast. As I sat on the couch being poked and prodded the room went eerily silent, and I couldn’t help but worry. After what seemed liked ages, the specialist explained that he wanted to take a biopsy, and I agreed; at that point I was willing to undergo any test to try and relieve the worry.

Preparing me for the biopsy, the specialist described the process in detail; usually, when a needle is inserted into a cyst, it will draw fluid. If no fluid is present, the lump could be something more sinister. It was painful as the thick needle went in, and the sound of the machine collecting its sample was like a staple gun. Graham and I held our breaths as the needle was retracted; there was no fluid.

The specialist explained that, while things weren’t looking good, he would send off the needle and biopsy sample to be completely sure. We were now faced with an agonising, week-long wait for the results. Even then, as we left the specialist’s office, I don’t think I expected the lump to be anything serious, despite having had a lifelong belief that I would one day be diagnosed with breast cancer. There was no reason for that overwhelming fear, yet it had always been there. Even so, I didn’t believe that the time was now.

The week dragged, until finally we found ourselves in that waiting room again. This time I studied the faces of those around me, absorbing their fear.

We were called into the specialist’s office and, with little time to pause for breath, he said, ‘You have HER2 positive breast cancer.’ I had no idea what that meant, and the words swam around my head. Graham and I were then ushered into another room to discuss the plan of action. At this stage the doctors didn’t know anything about my cancer – simply that I had it.

We left the room with a wealth of information to take away and digest, and a plan to return for surgery to remove the lump within the next couple of weeks. At this point I still hadn’t cried. Graham’s face was ashen with shock. We’d been together for just eight weeks and were now faced with the prospect that I could die; this wasn’t the plan.

As we left the hospital I rang my mum to deliver the news. It was only then that I broke down. I was as devastated for my family as I was for myself. We made our way to the car and I tried to be as matter-of-fact about it as I could be, joking about losing my hair. I knew that I was going to put up one heck of a fight, but was scared of what the treatment would be like. At the time I didn’t even know what chemotherapy was, other than that it made you really, really sick.

After telling my family I decided to take the huge leap of telling my friends and acquaintances through Facebook. I didn’t want to risk the awkwardness of bumping into people and having to tell them, or finding out they knew from someone else. I needed to be in control of my illness, including which people knew and how. Again I made a joke of my diagnosis, lamenting the future loss of my hair.

That night I went to bed and sobbed my heart out. I lay there and pretended to be in a coffin, wondering what it would be like and how it would feel to just slip away. Is there a heaven? Would I get to go there? After two hours or more of crying I slipped off into a deep sleep.

When I woke up the next day I decided that I had shed the last of my tears. I was determined to fight cancer with every bone in my body. Over the next few weeks I focused on enjoying life and appreciating everything around me. I spent hours playing with my hair, went on a big night out with friends for what would be the last time in a while, and planned as much as I could to make the next six months of chemotherapy as easy as possible.

Unfortunately my job with the council was no longer secure, and it looked as if I was going to be made redundant in the very near future. I wasn’t sure if this was good or bad timing! Luckily I had racked up an awful lot of owed holiday and lieu days, and hoped that the money would tide me over for a few months until I knew how hard the chemo was going to hit me. I couldn’t continue my wedding planning either, so I passed my workload onto a friend; it wouldn’t have been fair on the couples to put any less than my all into their weddings. Our own wedding was going to have to take a back seat for now, but I used the photo that Graham had taken of me in The Dress as my inspiration to keep going. I was determined to wear it one day.

My surgery went without a hitch and they removed the lump with clear margins; they were able to cut around the tumour and leave cancer-free tissue behind. The surgeons also removed nineteen of my lymph nodes. Luckily, they revealed, the disease had been contained; the doctors were happy that my cancer had not spread. At last, my first piece of good news since the diagnosis!

Chemotherapy was decided upon as the next course of action, and was due to take place over the next six months. It all seemed so overwhelming, and so fast moving. When the swelling from my operation eventually went down I was left with a concave in my right breast – yet another war wound to add to my already burgeoning collection of scars! I often joked that I looked like a completed dot-to-dot, and used humour to help me through some of my toughest days.

By now it was the end of May and Graham’s 30th birthday was fast approaching. It was going to be the first birthday we would celebrate as a couple and, although I knew he expected it to be a quiet affair, I had a few tricks up my sleeve to make it amazing for him; not least the surprise birthday party I had planned! Organising the party hadn’t been the easiest of tasks, as although I had heard all about his family members I was yet to meet many of them. However, with the help of Facebook and his mum, the invites were sent in plenty of time.

I’d decided to hold the party at Graham’s house and, while he was at work, prepared all the food and decorated his lounge with balloons, banners and streamers. I told him that I had a surprise for him; he was to go off to work as normal, taking a change of clothes with him, and then meet me on the other side of Exeter in a pub. The plan was set! As we enjoyed our drinks, members of Graham’s family and friends began to fill his house – I have no idea to this day how I managed to keep the secret.

When it was time to leave, I handed Graham a blindfold and instructed him to put it on. We set off on our journey, taking a long-winded route to try and throw him off the scent. We must have explored the whole of Exeter that night, travelling up and down roads that I never even knew existed in an attempt to disorientate Graham. Unfortunately, as we neared his house, a train sounded its horn and alerted Graham to the fact that we were nearing home; I started to panic a little. Nevertheless, I carried on up the steep hill leading to his house. He drove that road so often that he knew every lump and dip; I was sure he was onto me.

We made our way through Graham’s front door and upstairs, past the living room where everyone was hiding. How he didn’t hear their hushed whispers and giggles I’ll never know! I whipped off the blindfold at last, just in time for the room to erupt into cheers and birthday congratulations. It was a lovely moment, and I will never forget his face as he drank in the sight before him. I was so grateful that his family and friends had turned out in force to give Graham a reason to smile.

Graham’s grandparents were there too – his granddad, who he affectionately called Gramps, had been ill for some time, but Graham and I were unprepared for the deterioration in his health. His face was grey and riddled with pain, and he didn’t move from his chair all night. The family knew that he was suffering from cancer, but not to what extent. He was a proud man, not wanting to make a fuss, and an amazing husband to Graham’s grandma.

In the two months leading up to Graham’s birthday, Gramps had made the decision that he and his wife should move into a home together. We all knew that he was making plans for the future, ensuring that Graham’s grandma would be safe. It was heartbreaking. As they left the party, Gramps said goodbye to each family member individually, as though he knew that this was going to be the last time he saw everyone. He was unable to make his way down the stairs, so Graham carried him out to the car. He later confided that he’d had an overwhelming urge to tell Gramps that he loved him, something that he hadn’t done throughout his adult years.

The following week Graham and I travelled to London to catch a show. Visiting the West End had been on my ‘bucket list’, and a friend had kindly purchased the tickets as a special treat for my impending birthday. While packing up ready to leave for a short day of sightseeing before returning home, we got a call from Graham’s mum. Gramps had taken a turn for the worse. Graham was visibly upset and I made the decision to leave there and then. As we pulled up at the nursing home, the doctor was just leaving. Graham shot out of the car.

‘How is he?’ Graham asked. The doctor’s face was grave.

‘I’m sorry. He passed away about ten minutes ago.’ We had missed Gramps by minutes; it was devastating. He had been such a character and, although I hadn’t known the family for very long, he already had a special place in my heart.




Chapter Four (#u04b912ca-7d44-5344-8756-10f12404c859)


It was decided that I would start chemotherapy as soon as possible. Gramps’s funeral was drawing closer and had been planned around my treatment, giving me a day or two to recover from my first dose. It had been good for cancer to not be at the forefront of my mind; supporting Graham and his family had been my primary concern.

Chemotherapy can ruin your chances of having children. As there was no time to freeze my eggs, the doctors had suggested putting my ovaries to sleep to try and protect them. There was no guarantee that it would work, but Graham and I both thought that it was worth a try. I knew that I needed to come to terms with the fact that we would probably never be able to have children of our own, but, at that very moment, all I wanted was to beat cancer.

Before the chemotherapy could be administered I had a small operation to insert a portacath. This device, which looked very much like a Flying Saucer sherbet penny sweet, fitted snugly onto my ribcage and was connected to my heart via a long tube that would dispense the chemotherapy intravenously. I was so nervous about starting my treatment, not least because I knew there was a good chance it would make me sick. No one particularly likes being sick, but I am terrible at coping with it; I can’t even hear someone vomiting without crying and freaking out a little.

The nurses were lovely, but, as they handled the bags of chemotherapy drugs, they resembled something out of a Hollywood chemical disaster movie. They had to wear protective overalls and huge, armpit-length rubber gloves and protective goggles; not exactly reassuring! I will never forget the feeling as they linked the bag of chemotherapy up to my portacath. I knew that the fluid now seeping into my body was poison and that, even if I’d asked them to stop there and then, my hair would still have fallen out. Deep down, I was heartbroken.

The treatment took around three hours to complete and I went home later that day. Although I felt tired, I was relieved that there was no sickness. All of the research that I’d done had led me to believe that the sickness would eventually catch up with me, but I felt fine the next day. I started to feel positive for the first time since my diagnosis – perhaps I was going to breeze through this after all.

Gramps’s funeral took place a couple of days after my first dose of chemotherapy. It was a beautiful service, and I was so proud of Graham as I watched him carry his granddad’s coffin into the crematorium. Death now had a weird new meaning to me – a sort of realness that hadn’t existed before.

It wasn’t long before my next session was due. It was relentless. As the levels of chemotherapy drugs built up in my body, I began to feel weaker and more tired. I was still lucky as I was never sick, although I wasn’t entirely surprised with the amount of anti-sickness medication that I was on.

A few weeks into my treatment, Mum joined me for my latest dose. During the session she received a phone call to say that her best friend’s son, who had also been fighting cancer, had passed away. Mum had known Brian since he was a young lad, and was absolutely devastated. I knew that my cancer diagnosis had been very hard on her, and that this awful news would now make it that little bit more real.

In that moment, I couldn’t possibly have known that Brian’s death was about to become the beginning of a pattern. As a cancer patient you meet many other people along the way who are sharing your journey. The more involved you get the more heartache you experience, and I found myself attending so many funerals. It never gets any easier, despite the frequency with which bad news comes around – if anything it gets harder.




Chapter Five (#u04b912ca-7d44-5344-8756-10f12404c859)


With every session of chemotherapy, things got tougher and tougher. When I got home I would put myself straight to bed and sleep, although I’d return to feeling almost normal again a few short hours later. My treatment was always on a Tuesday and I remember the fear that washed over me whenever someone mentioned that day – my tummy would do somersaults, and I would completely fill with dread. The drugs used during my chemotherapy were bright red and I found that I grew to detest the colour. Anything red repulsed me. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as anything that resembled those drugs.

As the days after my treatment went on, I would improve a little and then relapse significantly. The effect that the chemotherapy had on my moods was severe, and I know I was a horrible person to be around! I was angry at my situation, and feeling awful never helps matters; it just envelops you and leaves little room for rational thought.

Another side effect of my treatment was an increased appetite. There were Saturday nights when Graham and I would order pizza and sit in front of The X-Factor, comfortably eating more than enough food for four or more people; and yet, five minutes later, I could have eaten the whole meal again. I would experience horrible pains in my chest, like severe indigestion, and the only way to relieve them was to eat. I knew my weight was creeping up and I began to feel really uncomfortable about myself.

I’d let my hair fall out naturally, and one weekend caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had no idea how thin my hair had got; from the back, I looked like a monk! It was then that I decided to shave it off, giving myself a little control over my cancer. I was also fed up of finding hair all over my home and clothes, so I took a razor to my head the next time I found myself alone. Within minutes there was nothing left. It was a weird feeling, slightly liberating, and there were no tears. I’d just accepted losing my hair as part of the process, and decided to post a photo on Facebook to let people know I was okay. Within seconds of uploading the photo of myself smiling, I was inundated with comments – I knew I had the support I needed to keep fighting.

I was due to meet Graham that night for a drink and, other than on Facebook, he was yet to see my new look. I donned the long, blonde wig that I had chosen a few weeks before and set off to meet him, slightly nervous about how he’d react. I arrived feeling emotional and angry at the whole situation, and as soon as I saw Graham I was overcome with anxiety and shame for having no hair. We had barely been together for five months and now Graham was having to face all of this with me; it seemed so unfair on both of us. I wanted to give Graham the opportunity to walk away, as much as it hurt me to do so.

I explained how I felt to Graham. He hugged me close and pulled off my wig, drawing me into a deep and meaningful kiss. We pulled apart and he looked into my eyes.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said, and I knew that he meant it.

That weekend the pain in my chest peaked. I had become so depressed that I told Graham I didn’t want to live any more. I became hysterical as he insisted that he was taking me to the hospital. The only way he could get me into the car was to promise me that he wouldn’t leave me there, and that we could come home that night. I knew that he was just worried for me; I was in such a bad place that he had no way of knowing what I would do to myself.

We arrived at the hospital and went straight to the oncology ward. The doctor came to meet us and asked to see all the medication that I was on, which Graham dutifully emptied out in front of him. The doctor explained that half the medications I had been using should not be taken together, and that this was probably the cause of my erratic thoughts and chest pains. As soon as we got my medications sorted, the doctors allowed me to go home. Graham watched me like a hawk from then on, but I soon started to feel so much better in myself.

With no hair and my ever-increasing weight I couldn’t feel good about myself at all. My clothes were pretty and feminine but just didn’t look right with a bald head. I was trying to wear my wig as much as possible, but it was the height of summer and far too hot. I knew that I didn’t have to wear it, but didn’t want to embarrass anyone that I came across while I was out; I wore the wig for them. On occasions that thought made me angry. Looking back it was a stupid way to feel, but I couldn’t help it. I remember sitting in a restaurant one evening with Graham, the sweat dripping from inside my wig and down my back. He repeatedly told me to take it off, but I just couldn’t – I’d walked in wearing it, what would people say if I took it off? I endured the rest of the meal with it on, but inside I was seething.

As the months went by and the end of my chemotherapy came into sight, I realised that I was beginning to run out of savings very rapidly. Money was getting tighter and tighter, and I didn’t know how much longer I could afford to keep a roof over my head. I hadn’t wanted to rush into moving in with Graham, but it was looking as though it was the only option for both of us. Graham worked selling second-hand cars, but the Government’s scrappage scheme had put paid to much of his income. Cars that he would normally have bought were being scrapped, and his earnings were dwindling to nothing. There were times when he had to decide whether to drive to work and try to earn money, or eat.

Graham always chose to work, and I would find him living off a loaf of bread, eating toast for his tea. Living in Devon was becoming increasingly expensive, and we had discussed moving to Nottinghamshire to be closer to some of our family, namely Graham’s dad, and my nan, aunty and uncle. My aunty in particular had been an absolute rock to me during my treatment, sending cards and flowers to cheer me up. She never forgot an appointment, always wished me luck, and touched base after every session to check I was okay – words cannot express how grateful I will always be to her. My nan, well into her 80s, was funny and loving and always talked sense. I knew that my family had kept much of my illness from her, but she knew exactly what was going on!

Graham and I decided it was time to think about the big move. The Nottinghamshire area was cheaper in terms of living costs, and it would mean we could spend time with family we’d not been local to for a long time. My nan’s age and health were also at the forefront of my decision, and I was eager to spend as much time with her as possible before it was too late. Our minds were set.




Chapter Six (#u04b912ca-7d44-5344-8756-10f12404c859)


We decided to move as soon as possible, giving us time to get back on our feet. We also had high hopes of returning to the West Country in the future; it was our home, after all. Graham and I found a house and, while it didn’t tick all of our boxes, it was much cheaper than the houses we currently lived in, and much bigger too. It was in Bilsthorpe, a village about 14 miles north of Nottingham, 20 minutes from Graham’s dad, and 45 minutes from my family in Sheffield. It suited us perfectly.

We had also heard good things about the local oncology department, so I knew I was in safe hands for the remainder of my treatment. My chemotherapy was now coming to an end and my oncologist had suggested that I should also have six weeks of radiotherapy to ensure that the cancer was well and truly beaten. That would involve targeting a beam of radiation at the area where my lump had been, from Monday to Friday for the whole six weeks; still, if it would help in the long run I was prepared to endure the treatment.

We quickly signed for the house and moved in at the beginning of December. Although it wasn’t our dream house the extra room was most welcome, and the location was lovely. It was lovely to finally be alone. Our wonderful friend, Stuart, helped us to move our stuff, and before long we were settled in.

I soon started my radiotherapy treatment, and came out the other side unscathed, with no real lasting side effects. I felt as though I had come to the end of a long journey, and attended my next oncology appointment in the hope that everything was finally over, and that I would be sent on my way with an ‘I kicked cancer’s butt’ badge for posterity!





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