You get weighed every day in hospital. Temperature every four hours. Morphine on tap like some sort of dystopian cocktail bar.

“You’re losing a lot of weight very fast,” they said. “Well,” I replied, “I am a fat bastard and could do with shifting a few kilos.” Medical banter at its finest.

I told them I couldn’t keep anything down. Enter Nurse Swallow. At some point I must come up with a more appropriate name for her, but for now let’s work with what we’ve got. She breezed in with the energy of someone about to host a children’s party game and said, “We’ll do a few tests!”

She brought out multiple plastic cups filled with liquids of… varying thicknesses. It felt like a weird science fair. “Let’s see how far along you can get!” she chirped, in the same tone as that overly enthusiastic Primary School teacher who insists spelling tests are fun.

Cup one was plain water. One sip was followed by three minutes of coughing, choking, retching, seeing stars, and mentally preparing my will. Game over. Didn’t even get to the jelly stage.

What Nurse Swallow forgot to tell me was that failing Cup 1 came with a prize. A glamorous, luxury, all-inclusive feeding tube. Food and water were taking a detour at the tumour and heading straight to my lungs, which apparently is frowned upon.

Remember those COVID tests where sticking a swab up your nose made your eyes water? Now imagine that BUT FOR TWO MINUTES. Or, in my head, three hours. A tube is threaded up your nose and down the back of your throat while you try not to vomit, faint, scream or flee the country. My eyes watered so much I could’ve irrigated a small allotment.

But in it went. And that was that. Mouth: retired.

For the next few months, EVERYTHING, including crushed meds, went through the tube. My main meal became a mysterious feeding bag that dripped…something (don’t ask what) into me for twelve hours at a time. They advised sleeping upright. Sleeping upright? Who does that? Vampires? Horses? Not me. So I fed during the day like a very bored plant pot.

They gave me a cute wee rucksack for the feeding bag, so at least I could wander around like an anemic Boy Scout. Nil by mouth meant literally nothing. Not a sip of water. Nothing.

And you’d think, just think, after shoving a tube into my brain and starving my mouth, they’d ease up on the treatments. Nope! Feeding tube or not, I was still strapped to the Cloud Bed of Doom every day to imagine being buried alive in my lovely spa mask.

At this point, the throat pain was brutal. Constant coughing, hacking, wheezing, roaring. Basically I sounded like an elephant on the rampage. Add a feeding tube wrestling my throat for dominance and it was like they’d installed a kazoo inside me. They put me on a 24 hour carry bag of morphine. Me likey.

There were a few VERY bad days and a few angry ones. But The Rock came EVERY SINGLE DAY. Never once missed. I adore my Rock. Hospital wards are depressing, even with wonderful staff, so having him there was everything.

We were eventually pointed to The Beatson Wellbeing Centre. And let me tell you that AMAZING doesn’t even cover it. It’s like walking through a portal into peace. The Rock got tea, biscuits and an Easter Egg. I got nothing. Apparently resident guests (I like that more than “in-patient”) get the real treats—massage, reiki, proper haircuts, even wigs. Although they said I couldn’t have a wig because I was already bald. Sexist.

At this point they told me I’d be staying in hospital for the rest of the treatment. It was boring—nothing Pulitzer Prize-worthy this blog is worth. The only truly exciting moment was when my beard fell out. Traumatic.

I was sitting drawing and,between bouts of coughing, sleeping, and almost vomiting, I looked down and noticed I was covered in grey hair. I scratched my chin—more fell out. I was devastated. I loved my beard. Yes, it was grey, slightly patchy, and holding on for dear life but it covered my eight chins beautifully.

But only part of it fell out. What remained? A perfectly formed goatee. I was ecstatic. I’ve always wanted a goatee. And now I had one, courtesy of cancer, chemo, and fate’s twisted sense of humour. You’re not allowed a full beard during mask sessions, but a wee goatee stubbly thing is fine. So now I didn’t even need to shave. Bonus!

They told me it might grow back a different texture or colour. I hoped for a black afro situation. Maybe it would even trigger hair back onto my head. It didn’t. (Post-edit: It did come back softer, fluffier, and darker. My family is full-on carrot-top ginger, but I’m brown-haired. My goatee returned almost black with grey flecks. I look like an angry badger.)

LESSON 15: IF NURSE SWALLOW INVITES YOU TO “PLAY A LITTLE GAME”, THE ANSWER IS NO. ALWAYS NO.