No Ordinary Wedding Planner: Fighting against the odds to help others make their dreams come true

That afternoon we headed into town. Graham had some errands to run and we decided to enjoy lunch together while we were out. I remember that afternoon as though it were yesterday; we walked through Exeter’s main shopping centre, holding hands and chatting, until suddenly Graham stopped.

‘I need to go in there,’ he said, pointing in the direction of a jewellers’ shop on the High Street. I asked him what he needed to go in there for and he began to look nervous.

‘A ring.’ My mind started racing.

‘A ring? What sort of ring?’

‘An engagement ring.’ It took a moment for Graham’s words to sink in, yet nothing before had ever felt so right. So we went into the jewellers, hand in hand, and chose a beautiful engagement ring. In that moment I couldn’t have been happier – we were on cloud nine, and I finally felt as if my life was heading in the right direction.

Chapter Three (#u04b912ca-7d44-5344-8756-10f12404c859)

Two days after Graham had proposed, we decided to go and have a look around a few wedding dress shops; I just couldn’t help myself! We wanted to get married as soon as possible and, although I am a traditionalist in many ways, I’ve always believed that the groom’s opinion is important when choosing a wedding dress. After all, it was Graham that I was trying to impress! As we browsed a rack of beautiful dresses there was a small piece of fabric that seemed to stand out from the gowns around it. Although there can’t have been more than five inches of material on show, Graham and I had both reached for the same dress. I already knew that this was The One. Trying the dress on only confirmed my suspicions; it fitted perfectly and looked absolutely stunning.

Despite all our excitement, I still had the lump in my right breast. I was due to go and see the specialist the next day and didn’t feel like we could really celebrate our engagement until we knew that it was nothing.

The day of my appointment came. I remember sitting in the waiting room with Graham and being surprised by just how many young people were there with me. You think of cancer being an old person’s disease, or something that strikes those who lead unhealthy lives, yet here we all were.

I was called into the room, and instinctively told Graham to wait outside, but the nurse was very insistent that he come in with me, and it was then that the nerves really began to creep in. We waited for the specialist to enter, becoming more and more anxious as the minutes ticked by. He was a lovely gentleman and gave me time to explain what had been going on and what I had discovered in my breast. As I sat on the couch being poked and prodded the room went eerily silent, and I couldn’t help but worry. After what seemed liked ages, the specialist explained that he wanted to take a biopsy, and I agreed; at that point I was willing to undergo any test to try and relieve the worry.

Preparing me for the biopsy, the specialist described the process in detail; usually, when a needle is inserted into a cyst, it will draw fluid. If no fluid is present, the lump could be something more sinister. It was painful as the thick needle went in, and the sound of the machine collecting its sample was like a staple gun. Graham and I held our breaths as the needle was retracted; there was no fluid.

The specialist explained that, while things weren’t looking good, he would send off the needle and biopsy sample to be completely sure. We were now faced with an agonising, week-long wait for the results. Even then, as we left the specialist’s office, I don’t think I expected the lump to be anything serious, despite having had a lifelong belief that I would one day be diagnosed with breast cancer. There was no reason for that overwhelming fear, yet it had always been there. Even so, I didn’t believe that the time was now.

The week dragged, until finally we found ourselves in that waiting room again. This time I studied the faces of those around me, absorbing their fear.

We were called into the specialist’s office and, with little time to pause for breath, he said, ‘You have HER2 positive breast cancer.’ I had no idea what that meant, and the words swam around my head. Graham and I were then ushered into another room to discuss the plan of action. At this stage the doctors didn’t know anything about my cancer – simply that I had it.

We left the room with a wealth of information to take away and digest, and a plan to return for surgery to remove the lump within the next couple of weeks. At this point I still hadn’t cried. Graham’s face was ashen with shock. We’d been together for just eight weeks and were now faced with the prospect that I could die; this wasn’t the plan.

As we left the hospital I rang my mum to deliver the news. It was only then that I broke down. I was as devastated for my family as I was for myself. We made our way to the car and I tried to be as matter-of-fact about it as I could be, joking about losing my hair. I knew that I was going to put up one heck of a fight, but was scared of what the treatment would be like. At the time I didn’t even know what chemotherapy was, other than that it made you really, really sick.

After telling my family I decided to take the huge leap of telling my friends and acquaintances through Facebook. I didn’t want to risk the awkwardness of bumping into people and having to tell them, or finding out they knew from someone else. I needed to be in control of my illness, including which people knew and how. Again I made a joke of my diagnosis, lamenting the future loss of my hair.

That night I went to bed and sobbed my heart out. I lay there and pretended to be in a coffin, wondering what it would be like and how it would feel to just slip away. Is there a heaven? Would I get to go there? After two hours or more of crying I slipped off into a deep sleep.

When I woke up the next day I decided that I had shed the last of my tears. I was determined to fight cancer with every bone in my body. Over the next few weeks I focused on enjoying life and appreciating everything around me. I spent hours playing with my hair, went on a big night out with friends for what would be the last time in a while, and planned as much as I could to make the next six months of chemotherapy as easy as possible.

Unfortunately my job with the council was no longer secure, and it looked as if I was going to be made redundant in the very near future. I wasn’t sure if this was good or bad timing! Luckily I had racked up an awful lot of owed holiday and lieu days, and hoped that the money would tide me over for a few months until I knew how hard the chemo was going to hit me. I couldn’t continue my wedding planning either, so I passed my workload onto a friend; it wouldn’t have been fair on the couples to put any less than my all into their weddings. Our own wedding was going to have to take a back seat for now, but I used the photo that Graham had taken of me in The Dress as my inspiration to keep going. I was determined to wear it one day.

My surgery went without a hitch and they removed the lump with clear margins; they were able to cut around the tumour and leave cancer-free tissue behind. The surgeons also removed nineteen of my lymph nodes. Luckily, they revealed, the disease had been contained; the doctors were happy that my cancer had not spread. At last, my first piece of good news since the diagnosis!

Chemotherapy was decided upon as the next course of action, and was due to take place over the next six months. It all seemed so overwhelming, and so fast moving. When the swelling from my operation eventually went down I was left with a concave in my right breast – yet another war wound to add to my already burgeoning collection of scars! I often joked that I looked like a completed dot-to-dot, and used humour to help me through some of my toughest days.

By now it was the end of May and Graham’s 30th birthday was fast approaching. It was going to be the first birthday we would celebrate as a couple and, although I knew he expected it to be a quiet affair, I had a few tricks up my sleeve to make it amazing for him; not least the surprise birthday party I had planned! Organising the party hadn’t been the easiest of tasks, as although I had heard all about his family members I was yet to meet many of them. However, with the help of Facebook and his mum, the invites were sent in plenty of time.

I’d decided to hold the party at Graham’s house and, while he was at work, prepared all the food and decorated his lounge with balloons, banners and streamers. I told him that I had a surprise for him; he was to go off to work as normal, taking a change of clothes with him, and then meet me on the other side of Exeter in a pub. The plan was set! As we enjoyed our drinks, members of Graham’s family and friends began to fill his house – I have no idea to this day how I managed to keep the secret.

When it was time to leave, I handed Graham a blindfold and instructed him to put it on. We set off on our journey, taking a long-winded route to try and throw him off the scent. We must have explored the whole of Exeter that night, travelling up and down roads that I never even knew existed in an attempt to disorientate Graham. Unfortunately, as we neared his house, a train sounded its horn and alerted Graham to the fact that we were nearing home; I started to panic a little. Nevertheless, I carried on up the steep hill leading to his house. He drove that road so often that he knew every lump and dip; I was sure he was onto me.

We made our way through Graham’s front door and upstairs, past the living room where everyone was hiding. How he didn’t hear their hushed whispers and giggles I’ll never know! I whipped off the blindfold at last, just in time for the room to erupt into cheers and birthday congratulations. It was a lovely moment, and I will never forget his face as he drank in the sight before him. I was so grateful that his family and friends had turned out in force to give Graham a reason to smile.

Graham’s grandparents were there too – his granddad, who he affectionately called Gramps, had been ill for some time, but Graham and I were unprepared for the deterioration in his health. His face was grey and riddled with pain, and he didn’t move from his chair all night. The family knew that he was suffering from cancer, but not to what extent. He was a proud man, not wanting to make a fuss, and an amazing husband to Graham’s grandma.

In the two months leading up to Graham’s birthday, Gramps had made the decision that he and his wife should move into a home together. We all knew that he was making plans for the future, ensuring that Graham’s grandma would be safe. It was heartbreaking. As they left the party, Gramps said goodbye to each family member individually, as though he knew that this was going to be the last time he saw everyone. He was unable to make his way down the stairs, so Graham carried him out to the car. He later confided that he’d had an overwhelming urge to tell Gramps that he loved him, something that he hadn’t done throughout his adult years.

The following week Graham and I travelled to London to catch a show. Visiting the West End had been on my ‘bucket list’, and a friend had kindly purchased the tickets as a special treat for my impending birthday. While packing up ready to leave for a short day of sightseeing before returning home, we got a call from Graham’s mum. Gramps had taken a turn for the worse. Graham was visibly upset and I made the decision to leave there and then. As we pulled up at the nursing home, the doctor was just leaving. Graham shot out of the car.

‘How is he?’ Graham asked. The doctor’s face was grave.

‘I’m sorry. He passed away about ten minutes ago.’ We had missed Gramps by minutes; it was devastating. He had been such a character and, although I hadn’t known the family for very long, he already had a special place in my heart.

Chapter Four (#u04b912ca-7d44-5344-8756-10f12404c859)

It was decided that I would start chemotherapy as soon as possible. Gramps’s funeral was drawing closer and had been planned around my treatment, giving me a day or two to recover from my first dose. It had been good for cancer to not be at the forefront of my mind; supporting Graham and his family had been my primary concern.

Chemotherapy can ruin your chances of having children. As there was no time to freeze my eggs, the doctors had suggested putting my ovaries to sleep to try and protect them. There was no guarantee that it would work, but Graham and I both thought that it was worth a try. I knew that I needed to come to terms with the fact that we would probably never be able to have children of our own, but, at that very moment, all I wanted was to beat cancer.

Before the chemotherapy could be administered I had a small operation to insert a portacath. This device, which looked very much like a Flying Saucer sherbet penny sweet, fitted snugly onto my ribcage and was connected to my heart via a long tube that would dispense the chemotherapy intravenously. I was so nervous about starting my treatment, not least because I knew there was a good chance it would make me sick. No one particularly likes being sick, but I am terrible at coping with it; I can’t even hear someone vomiting without crying and freaking out a little.

The nurses were lovely, but, as they handled the bags of chemotherapy drugs, they resembled something out of a Hollywood chemical disaster movie. They had to wear protective overalls and huge, armpit-length rubber gloves and protective goggles; not exactly reassuring! I will never forget the feeling as they linked the bag of chemotherapy up to my portacath. I knew that the fluid now seeping into my body was poison and that, even if I’d asked them to stop there and then, my hair would still have fallen out. Deep down, I was heartbroken.

The treatment took around three hours to complete and I went home later that day. Although I felt tired, I was relieved that there was no sickness. All of the research that I’d done had led me to believe that the sickness would eventually catch up with me, but I felt fine the next day. I started to feel positive for the first time since my diagnosis – perhaps I was going to breeze through this after all.

Gramps’s funeral took place a couple of days after my first dose of chemotherapy. It was a beautiful service, and I was so proud of Graham as I watched him carry his granddad’s coffin into the crematorium. Death now had a weird new meaning to me – a sort of realness that hadn’t existed before.

It wasn’t long before my next session was due. It was relentless. As the levels of chemotherapy drugs built up in my body, I began to feel weaker and more tired. I was still lucky as I was never sick, although I wasn’t entirely surprised with the amount of anti-sickness medication that I was on.

A few weeks into my treatment, Mum joined me for my latest dose. During the session she received a phone call to say that her best friend’s son, who had also been fighting cancer, had passed away. Mum had known Brian since he was a young lad, and was absolutely devastated. I knew that my cancer diagnosis had been very hard on her, and that this awful news would now make it that little bit more real.

In that moment, I couldn’t possibly have known that Brian’s death was about to become the beginning of a pattern. As a cancer patient you meet many other people along the way who are sharing your journey. The more involved you get the more heartache you experience, and I found myself attending so many funerals. It never gets any easier, despite the frequency with which bad news comes around – if anything it gets harder.

Chapter Five (#u04b912ca-7d44-5344-8756-10f12404c859)

With every session of chemotherapy, things got tougher and tougher. When I got home I would put myself straight to bed and sleep, although I’d return to feeling almost normal again a few short hours later. My treatment was always on a Tuesday and I remember the fear that washed over me whenever someone mentioned that day – my tummy would do somersaults, and I would completely fill with dread. The drugs used during my chemotherapy were bright red and I found that I grew to detest the colour. Anything red repulsed me. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as anything that resembled those drugs.

As the days after my treatment went on, I would improve a little and then relapse significantly. The effect that the chemotherapy had on my moods was severe, and I know I was a horrible person to be around! I was angry at my situation, and feeling awful never helps matters; it just envelops you and leaves little room for rational thought.

Another side effect of my treatment was an increased appetite. There were Saturday nights when Graham and I would order pizza and sit in front of The X-Factor, comfortably eating more than enough food for four or more people; and yet, five minutes later, I could have eaten the whole meal again. I would experience horrible pains in my chest, like severe indigestion, and the only way to relieve them was to eat. I knew my weight was creeping up and I began to feel really uncomfortable about myself.

I’d let my hair fall out naturally, and one weekend caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had no idea how thin my hair had got; from the back, I looked like a monk! It was then that I decided to shave it off, giving myself a little control over my cancer. I was also fed up of finding hair all over my home and clothes, so I took a razor to my head the next time I found myself alone. Within minutes there was nothing left. It was a weird feeling, slightly liberating, and there were no tears. I’d just accepted losing my hair as part of the process, and decided to post a photo on Facebook to let people know I was okay. Within seconds of uploading the photo of myself smiling, I was inundated with comments – I knew I had the support I needed to keep fighting.

I was due to meet Graham that night for a drink and, other than on Facebook, he was yet to see my new look. I donned the long, blonde wig that I had chosen a few weeks before and set off to meet him, slightly nervous about how he’d react. I arrived feeling emotional and angry at the whole situation, and as soon as I saw Graham I was overcome with anxiety and shame for having no hair. We had barely been together for five months and now Graham was having to face all of this with me; it seemed so unfair on both of us. I wanted to give Graham the opportunity to walk away, as much as it hurt me to do so.

I explained how I felt to Graham. He hugged me close and pulled off my wig, drawing me into a deep and meaningful kiss. We pulled apart and he looked into my eyes.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said, and I knew that he meant it.

That weekend the pain in my chest peaked. I had become so depressed that I told Graham I didn’t want to live any more. I became hysterical as he insisted that he was taking me to the hospital. The only way he could get me into the car was to promise me that he wouldn’t leave me there, and that we could come home that night. I knew that he was just worried for me; I was in such a bad place that he had no way of knowing what I would do to myself.