Single, childless and unable to hold a relationship for longer than a few months without royally messing up, I was the Bridget Jones of Yorkshire, looking forward to my 30th birthday about as much as I wanted to see another set of ex-boyfriend wedding pictures on my Facebook newsfeed. Life wasn’t looking too great.
Then, just as I started planning my next big adventure, I found a lump in my breast. It was the big, scary ‘C’ word: Cancer. Several months on, I can add ‘bald, half-boobed, possibly infertile and living with parents at 30’ to my lonely heart ad. But it’s not all that bad. I decided to start a blog, and it’s better therapy than any drug.
When I’m not busy karate-chopping cancer to the floor and leaving it cowering in the corner, I can usually be found reading, writing, watching films, stuffing my face with food or running marathons (fortunately the latter cancels out the former). I previously worked as a news correspondent in Brazil and Argentina and have spent much of the last 12 years living, breathing and eating Latin America.
Here you can read about my regular trips to the day spa – oops, I mean hospital – for chemotherapy treatment and my daily dealings with blue-dyed nipples, constipation and other weird and embarrassing stuff they forget to tell you about cancer.