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Chemotherapy is over. Officially since mid February. This means I am seven weeks post chemo. My hair is growing back. First my legs have tiny

I feel like I’m in a cage. A cage with no key. There is no escape. I will always feel the bars. My sister visited.

My hair is falling out. In drifts and tangles it comes away. Settling on my pillow, in my hair brush, on my collar, like autumn

The surgeon is patient and kind. “We’ll sort out your breast cancer” he says. I am a bit perplexed thinking “but I don’t have breast

Two years ago exactly I was swollen and tired. Each night I’d arrange pillows around my body, huge and expectant with my long wished for

What music do you choose when you are meeting your oncological surgeon to find out how bad things are? I sit in the waiting room

When I walk I hear it. A faint squeak squeak … reminding me I have unwelcome jewellery. A needle with attendant plastic tubing dangles from

I go to sleep with breast cancer, I wake with it. As I arrange my pillows around an aching arm, I try hard not to

Week three of chemo is rough. I feel nauseous and hopeless. I cry when the catheter is placed as I feel so violated. Yet I must sit there. The nausea worsens, I hyperventilate and I vomit and then retch and retch.. “I just want to curl up on the floor and die.” I tell my partner.