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

We arrived at the hospital and went straight to the oncology ward. The doctor came to meet us and asked to see all the medication that I was on, which Graham dutifully emptied out in front of him. The doctor explained that half the medications I had been using should not be taken together, and that this was probably the cause of my erratic thoughts and chest pains. As soon as we got my medications sorted, the doctors allowed me to go home. Graham watched me like a hawk from then on, but I soon started to feel so much better in myself.

With no hair and my ever-increasing weight I couldn’t feel good about myself at all. My clothes were pretty and feminine but just didn’t look right with a bald head. I was trying to wear my wig as much as possible, but it was the height of summer and far too hot. I knew that I didn’t have to wear it, but didn’t want to embarrass anyone that I came across while I was out; I wore the wig for them. On occasions that thought made me angry. Looking back it was a stupid way to feel, but I couldn’t help it. I remember sitting in a restaurant one evening with Graham, the sweat dripping from inside my wig and down my back. He repeatedly told me to take it off, but I just couldn’t – I’d walked in wearing it, what would people say if I took it off? I endured the rest of the meal with it on, but inside I was seething.

As the months went by and the end of my chemotherapy came into sight, I realised that I was beginning to run out of savings very rapidly. Money was getting tighter and tighter, and I didn’t know how much longer I could afford to keep a roof over my head. I hadn’t wanted to rush into moving in with Graham, but it was looking as though it was the only option for both of us. Graham worked selling second-hand cars, but the Government’s scrappage scheme had put paid to much of his income. Cars that he would normally have bought were being scrapped, and his earnings were dwindling to nothing. There were times when he had to decide whether to drive to work and try to earn money, or eat.

Graham always chose to work, and I would find him living off a loaf of bread, eating toast for his tea. Living in Devon was becoming increasingly expensive, and we had discussed moving to Nottinghamshire to be closer to some of our family, namely Graham’s dad, and my nan, aunty and uncle. My aunty in particular had been an absolute rock to me during my treatment, sending cards and flowers to cheer me up. She never forgot an appointment, always wished me luck, and touched base after every session to check I was okay – words cannot express how grateful I will always be to her. My nan, well into her 80s, was funny and loving and always talked sense. I knew that my family had kept much of my illness from her, but she knew exactly what was going on!

Graham and I decided it was time to think about the big move. The Nottinghamshire area was cheaper in terms of living costs, and it would mean we could spend time with family we’d not been local to for a long time. My nan’s age and health were also at the forefront of my decision, and I was eager to spend as much time with her as possible before it was too late. Our minds were set.

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

We decided to move as soon as possible, giving us time to get back on our feet. We also had high hopes of returning to the West Country in the future; it was our home, after all. Graham and I found a house and, while it didn’t tick all of our boxes, it was much cheaper than the houses we currently lived in, and much bigger too. It was in Bilsthorpe, a village about 14 miles north of Nottingham, 20 minutes from Graham’s dad, and 45 minutes from my family in Sheffield. It suited us perfectly.

We had also heard good things about the local oncology department, so I knew I was in safe hands for the remainder of my treatment. My chemotherapy was now coming to an end and my oncologist had suggested that I should also have six weeks of radiotherapy to ensure that the cancer was well and truly beaten. That would involve targeting a beam of radiation at the area where my lump had been, from Monday to Friday for the whole six weeks; still, if it would help in the long run I was prepared to endure the treatment.

We quickly signed for the house and moved in at the beginning of December. Although it wasn’t our dream house the extra room was most welcome, and the location was lovely. It was lovely to finally be alone. Our wonderful friend, Stuart, helped us to move our stuff, and before long we were settled in.

I soon started my radiotherapy treatment, and came out the other side unscathed, with no real lasting side effects. I felt as though I had come to the end of a long journey, and attended my next oncology appointment in the hope that everything was finally over, and that I would be sent on my way with an ‘I kicked cancer’s butt’ badge for posterity!