Just after giving birth, they told me I had cancer. Oh, how we laughed

“Well, it’s not ideal,” I find myself saying on repeat.

An audio version of this article (narrated by moi) is available here:

One thing I’ve accepted as absolutely true about cultural stereotypes is the British affinity for understatement. If something minor happens to us, say our bike has a puncture, it’s a goddamn nightmare and life will never be the same again. Yet, if something genuinely horrific comes to pass, we’ll puff out our cheeks and simply say, “Well, it’s not ideal” complete with withering stare and arched eyebrow. 

It should therefore come as no surprise that “it’s not ideal” is the first thing I said when I was told I had Stage 3 colon cancer four weeks after giving birth to my first child, Billy.    

And you know what? I was right: it’s absolutely not ideal. Mainly because colon cancer is the least sexy of all the cancers. I find myself discussing colons on a more regular basis than even a fetishist would approve of. 

Are you sure it’s not tuberculosis?

I had been ill for nearly a year by the time I was finally diagnosed. A conversation that went something like this:

“So, we’ve tested for all infections, diseases and viruses except salmonella and tuberculosis. Have you been eating raw chicken with any homeless people recently?” 

“Only every Saturday. Lol.” 

“Oh, so you have? Well, then, that may be the problem.” 

“No, I was joking.” 

“Oh yes. Very funny. In which case, it’s most likely cancer.” 

“What?” 

“Yes, we’ll confirm soon.” *cut to a week later* “Yes, I’m so sorry. It is cancer. The tumour is really pretty big. Some might say huge. Also, it’s Stage 3.” 

“Well, that’s not ideal.” 

Previous to this, my symptoms were routinely dismissed as being a nutritional issue, a “bad pregnancy”, or “haywire hormones” (which is a great name for a band). I spent much of my pregnancy in bed, unable to function as I was so fatigued. My iron levels were so low and I was so pale that at points I would disappear into the magnolia-painted walls of the hospitals where I was a regular visitor for iron infusions and blood transfusions. I lost months of work – which, as a freelancer means I earned nothing (and no, I hadn’t taken out professional sickness insurance because that is adult shit) and I couldn’t leave my flat.

Cancer was considered the least likely of all possible causes because of my age (getting bowel cancer is a real boost for any age-related anxieties, by the way, as you’re consistently told, “But you’re so young!”), as well as the fact that I’ve never had any bowel-related issues before and neither has anyone in my family (that we know of). Ergo, telling me just to lay off the gluten for a bit to see if that helped wasn’t such a stupid idea.   

The genuinely really good bits about cancer and chemo

My prognosis is positive and we’re now over halfway through treatment (hopefully). I find out soon if the tumour has shrunk enough from all the hardcore chemo to remove with surgery. (We’ve named the tumour Dennis and he’s a proper twat.) 

And, while none of this is ideal, I find myself feeling ridiculously grateful for what the situation has given me. I’m going to copy here one of my Instagram posts because I can’t say it any better: 

The good things about chemo: That it exists. That this mad poison can destroy cancer and all the bad shit tormenting your body. That it forces you to slow down, reflect, prioritise. That it makes you inordinately grateful for the good people in your life who drop everything and rally. Who show their love through visits, messages, gifts and funny memes. That it puts you back in touch with old friends. I will never get over your kindness. It has made me whole when I felt broken. Thank you. 

Another good thing: that when the side-effects wear off you’re like “Holy shit, how brilliant are non-shaking hands, no pins and needles, cold drinks, stomas, and the ability to see and walk about?! Who cares about unanswered emails or sorting out a tax return when I can drink an ice-cold Coke on a hot day without my throat closing up? Look at how the light hits that wall perfectly and how the parakeets outside the window swoop and dive.” In short: it elevates the simplest things to beautiful pleasures. 

(I’m obvs joking, taxman. I’m all over it. Love that Excel spreadsheet bants.) (Lololol. I have cancer. I am absolutely not doing it. I’ll leave it to someone in my will to sort. #Blessed.)

Most of all though, chemo makes me grateful for my partner, Koen, and our little chunky joy, Billy. You had me at “Hello”, Koen – “Hello, shall I carry you up the three flights of insanely steep stairs to our flat and bring Bills to you for a cuddle?” Yes please, babe. Ta. You have saved my life and I love you both so much it aches. 

Oh, and Just One More Thing 

I was always intending to take a small break from Just One More Thing for maternity leave. Little did I know it would also turn into cancer clusterfuck leave. I’m really hoping you’ll stick with me while I navigate how and when I can write. I absolutely love writing this newsletter and really don’t want to stop, so let’s see. One thing I can tell you though: it won’t turn solely into a cancer blog. Obviously I will talk about Dennis because he’s changed everything forever, but I can do without him totally taking over this aspect of my life too. Let’s be honest, that wouldn’t be ideal. 

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*Exceedingly modest reminder that I have written eight bestselling mental-health books which have been translated into at least 10 languages. I’ve also written a book about the TV show Friends which would make a delightful gift for any Friends obsessives. All are available to buy online or at your local bookshop.