So, I wrapped up work. I told the people who genuinely needed to know, set my out-of-office to something dramatic like “I may be some time”. Very Lawrence Oates, minus the snow, heroism, and tragic ending.

The final few weeks at the office went by at lightning speed while I desperately attempted to get everything in order before stepping away. In the end, I had to accept that the University would continue without me. Shocking, I know. Turns out the place wasn’t going to collapse into administration just because I wasn’t there to knock out a PowerPoint. Who knew?

What was unexpected and amazing was the amount of emails, texts and sack of gifts people gave me. My team handed over a huge bag of “helpful recovery items”—everything from soothing teas to cosy socks… and, worryingly, knitting needles. Knitting needles?! As if I needed the added stress of dropping stitches while on chemo. There were loads of books about cancer from friends (every shade of uplifting, terrifying and questionably researched) and a surprising number of colouring books including quite a few for men genitalia. What sort of vibe do I give off?? Beautiful blankets and security-scarfs.

To balance out the impending doom, I threw myself into drawing and even managed to finish a couple of travel posters. Big Boss Man gifted me a beautiful copy of the Dune trilogy, so I dove into that too. If you ever want to feel your own problems shrink, read about giant sandworms and desert messianic politics. 

One thing that kept nagging at me was: how do we keep everyone updated without losing our minds? The Rock refused to start a group WhatsApp (correctly identifying that it would become 97% chaos, 3% “thinking of you!”). And I didn’t want him having to text people all day like some kind of sexy secretary.

So I came up with what I thought was a genius idea. People never know what to say, so I removed the need for words entirely. I bought 15 crocheted teeny tiny animals and sent them to my closest people with a wee card that said, “Thank you for being a friend.” Cheesy? Absolutely. This was the birth of my Emotional Support Army which grew way beyond the animals.

The system was simple: send me a photo of your little animal wherever you are. No caption. No explanation. Just a photo. That way I’d know you were thinking of me, and I’d get to see a slice of your world without needing an essay. And honestly? It worked a treat. 

(Retrospective edit: The Rock STILL got too many texts. I wish I’d been clearer about waiting to hear from him instead of panic-contacting.)

Last night, we had a night out with The Most Beautiful People Ever. We headed to The Blythswood for a couple of durty martinis (durty with a “u,” the correct Scottish spelling), and then to Red Onion for a cracking meal. It felt celebratory. It felt needed.

Tomorrow is day one. Tomorrow everything changes.

(edit: and looking back, I’m unbelievably glad we did that night out, because I had no idea it would be over six months before we’d manage anything remotely similar.)

LESSON 8: THE WORLD WILL NOT IMPLODE BECAUSE YOU ARE OUT OF CIRCULATION FOR A FEW MONTHS. YOU CANNOT SOLVE EVERYTHING BEFORE TREATMENT STARTS. CALM YOURSELF. BREATHE. CHILL.

LESSON 9: TELL PEOPLE YOU HATE KNITTING. IMMEDIATELY.

LESSON 10: FIND A COMMUNICATION SYSTEM THAT DOESN’T OVERWHELM YOU OR YOUR PARTNER. AND BE FIRM. “DON’T TEXT US. WE PROMISE TO KEEP YOU UPDATED.”

LESSON 11: MAKE SURE YOUR COMMS PLANS MEET THE NEEDS OF YOUR ROCK.