Going back to Diagnosis Day (aka The Day of the Apocalypse); this was the day The Rock met The Oracle, that Macmillan nurse who somehow knows everything about cancer, treatments, emotions, and probably the correct way to fold a fitted sheet. If I’d asked her for the meaning of life, she’d have had a pamphlet.

Among the mountain of brochures she handed us was one for The Maggie’s Centre. Yet another example of pure human kindness. Maggie’s is a charity-run sanctuary where you can go with literally any concern whatsoever. Treatment worries? Absolutely. Financial fears? Aye. Side effects? Definitely. Concern that your support network consists of you, your partner and an orchid from Markies that’s on its last petal? They’ve got you covered.

We took the train up as it is next to The Beatson for the treatment as we wanted to see how long it would take to get there (see, my project manager killer instinct is always there, no matter how sick I am). We were told there were two courses running that very afternoon: one explaining what happens during radiotherapy and another covering chemotherapy. Since life-changing news is best handled with a full stomach, we went for a sandwich first, then came back (see, I do learn lessons – see mistake 1). The sessions were incredibly helpful and genuinely one of the smartest things we did.

It was during the radiotherapy session that I first met Mama Bear—real name Heather, the radiologist. I adored her instantly. She looked like my cousin that I call Jolly Hockey Sticks. You know, that person who could simultaneously run a clinic and bake a perfect Victoria sponge. I asked all the usual, very normal questions like, “What happens if you sneeze in the mask and there’s nowhere for the snot to go?” She looked at me kindly in the same way my Primary School teacher did, as if she gets asked that hourly. Apparently, snotty masks have never been seen. They’ve not had me yet!

After the session, I mentioned the nightmares I’d been having about the mask. These were real nightmares, too, proper horror-movie-grade stuff. Mama Bear told me it was completely normal (which made me question why none of the cancer movies I’d been binge-watching all week ever brought this up). She suggested we do a practice run to ease my mind. Great idea. We’d do it after the chemo session.

That plan lasted all of 12 minutes. Halfway through the chemo talk, I suddenly overheated, my ears buzzed, and I full-on fainted. A dramatic swoon. A Victorian maiden seeing an ankle kind of moment. They had to clear the room. I’ve never felt like more of an idiot in my life. Outrageously, they didn’t have any Blue Ribband biscuits so they revived me with a chocolate Hobnob instead. Not quite the same level of emotional support, but it did the job. We grabbed a taxi home, and the practice run was postponed until the next day.

LESSON 5: PREPARE YOURSELF. GO TO THE CLASSES, THE SESSIONS, THE TALKS. READ THE BROCHURES, THE PAMPHLETS, EVERYTHING. THEY REALLY DO HELP. AND TRY NOT TO FAINT AT SCHOOL, IF YOU CAN AVOID IT.

LESSON 6: ALWAYS HAVE A BLUE RIBBAND IN YOUR BAG. I CAN’T EMPHASISE THIS ENOUGH.