This time, I was smart. I brought The Worrier with me for the results appointment. And look, I’m not being a Drama Queen here, but if you Google the weather in Glasgow on 21 February 2025, it literally says: “There were strong, gusty winds that would frequently accompany the heavy rainfall.” Translation: the universe was going for full cinematic misery.

We took a taxi through the gloom. Dark skies, low clouds, everything looking like the opening scene of a Game of Thrones episode where someone definitely gets axed from the show. All I needed was a dramatic violin soundtrack and maybe a crow cawing ominously.

Naturally, we arrived an hour early. My life may be in chaos, but my project management scheduling is not.

First up was Dr Lump who confirmed the biopsy results. She said my case had already been discussed that morning, and the oncologist would see me next. Then she dropped the code: T4N2M0.

What fresh alphabet soup was this?

Back in the waiting room, I Googled it like any modern, responsible adult. Turns out:

•    T is for tumour size (1–4). Mine was over 4 cm. Being the Size Queen I am, I took this as a goal.

•    N2 means it spread to a nearby lymph node and popped over to the other side of my neck but sneakily, with no lump I could feel. Ninja cancer.

•    M0 means it hadn’t spread elsewhere. One point for Team Me.

Still needed it in plain English.

“Hey Siri, what does T4N2M0 mean in terms of cancer stages?”

Siri, being absolutely no help emotionally, replied: “You have stage 3 cancer.” Thanks, Siri. Really soothing. I wonder If The New Doctor uses Siri?

Then in walked Dr Corfu (story on the name coming later). He explained the plan: chemotherapy plus six weeks of radiotherapy. Then he had to go through all the possible side effects before I signed the consent form.

Those consent forms should come with a warning label like “May induce panic, nausea, and existential dread.” Every worst-case scenario imaginable was listed, including a neat little “2% chance of death.” Lovely.

His next step would be checking everything over with Dr Heart, because chemo paired with my heart condition could be tricky. But of course I signed. What was the alternative? No thanks, I’ll just keep the cancer?

Then came the first of 189 idiotic questions but it was definitely the most important. “We’re going to Corfu at the end of May with Jewels and Danny – will I be OK by then?” He looked at me and, without a word of a lie said, “Oh, I’m going at the end of May too – where are you going?” I would have happily talked about that but he went back to the List of Doom. This was going to be the worse year of my life (really, he did!) and that it would feel like the inside of my throat had severe sunburn. I didn’t meet him many times after that but I hope he enjoyed Corfu. No, seriously, I do. Honest. Seriously.

Once we left, The Worrier and I sat in the back of the taxi in stunned silence. I honestly felt like I was observing myself from the rear view mirror. It’s now 2pm and we hadn’t eaten, so we stopped at our friends’ (The Most Beautiful People Ever) café for sandwiches because, if cancer news has taught me anything, it’s that sandwiches are mandatory.

They were the first people we told. And here’s the twist: at that exact moment, The Worrier transformed. He stopped fretting… and became The Rock.

They asked how things were and I just stared into the void like a broken WiFi connection. The Rock picked it up immediately and calmly explained everything. More hugs. More sandwiches. (Sandwiches: the unofficial therapy.)

Back home, the big question was what to tell people. My instinct? Hide under a blanket and tell no one until I magically healed. The Rock, though, said we should be open. He was right. We made calls—family, friends—and I rang Big Boss Man, who activated “protective parent mode” instantly and stayed there for months.

LESSON 3: TELLING PEOPLE IS COMPLETELY PERSONAL. IF YOU DON’T WANT TO, YOU DON’T HAVE TO. 

But, for me, telling people was one of the best decisions I made. It revealed a support network I hadn’t fully appreciated. Like discovering you’ve been surrounded by invisible superheroes all this time who were just waiting for the call.