It’s taken me a few days to pull myself together enough to write this one. After another three-week wait, we returned to the scene of the crime to see Dr Lump and The Oracle.

I was quietly optimistic. The lump had disappeared. I felt better. Stronger. Just the ongoing dry mouth, hoarseness and extreme tiredness. Basically I’d convinced myself I was a miracle patient and the doctors would applaud, throw confetti, and send me home with a medal.

I am such an eejit. The wee shit hasn’t gone. The tumour is still there. Excuse my French, but what a wee jobby bastard shit.

Honestly, this hit as hard as The Day of the Apocalypse (Diagnosis Day). The only difference is that now I’m carrying a whole wheelie suitcase of trauma, experience, memories, and medical bingo cards and I know exactly how bad the next stage can be.

The reason for my sweary laden outburst? I’m getting a neck dissection. Which, in medical terms, means slicing down your neck, peeling you open like a satsuma, and removing the wee jobby bastard shitty bastard jobby shit entirely. Just call me Nearly Headless Nick.

The aftermath list can be extensive: a huge scar, reduced mobility in my shoulder, stiff neck are 100% going to happen. Lymphoedema may possibly throw an enthusiastic comeback tour and mysterious leakages causing god-knows-what chaos.

LESSON 29: DON’T GOOGLE CANCER SURGERY PICTURES. THEY WILL JUST SCARE THE BEJEEZUS OUT OF YOU AND THEY’RE RARELY YOUR OUTCOME ANYWAY.

I’ve cried more in the past few days than I have in the entire cancer journey so far. I genuinely can’t see a light at the end of anything. Just darkness, exhaustion, and swear words.

They wanted to operate in two weeks but we already had Christmas and New Year booked away. And after the year we’ve had, a few days not smelling like antiseptic felt like a human right. We explained this and Dr Lump said waiting a few more weeks makes no difference. 

She said  should “consider it over the weekend. I considered it for approximately eight seconds and then emailed saying: “We’re taking the break. Then we’ll return for the next crappy chapter.”

As soon as we left the room, I could feel the walls closing in. We turned the corner and I just broke. Full collapse. The Rock held onto me while I ugly-sobbed into his chest like a damp woodland creature.

We had arranged lunch with Crazy Hazy (you will be hard pushed to find someone else crazier and lovelier and generouser and just plain beautiful) but I wanted to cancel, crawl home, and hide under a duvet until 2037. The Rock said it was too late. 

Thank god. It was the BEST thing. She was so kind and listened while I tried to get actual words out through sobbing, and then, expertly, took my mind off everything entirely. To say she can talk the hind legs off a donkey is wrong. Try the hind legs off the entire donkey sanctuary.

Now comes the hard part: telling everyone. Telling work. Telling my team. I need more time off and just as I finally felt close to achieving the things I’ve been building towards for three years, everything is on hold or sliding gracefully down the pan.

LESSON 30: READ YOUR OWN DAMN LESSONS. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL HUMAN IN THE WORLD SENT ME A SCREENSHOT THIS MORNING OF LESSON 14, “IT’S OK TO CRY”. LET ME AMEND THAT. YOU ARE GOING TO CRY BUT, EVENTUALLY, YOU HAVE TO DO THE NEXT STEP NO MATTER HOW TERRIFYING.

AND REMEMBER TO CLING ONTO YOUR ROCK