Softer Words, Sea Air & Stitching Meaning into Fabric

This past week has felt like standing on shifting ground. Again. But I suppose it always feels like this when i've had scans and we are waiting for results.

I’ve had both a brain MRI and a PET scan. If you’ve ever had one, you’ll know what I mean when I say those days carry a weight that is hard to put into words. The fasting, the travel to the hospital, the waiting, the lying still, the noise the machines, the cage over your face holding your head still, the contrast dye coursing through your veins. You’re breathing through it all, finding small anchors to focus your thoughts on. And then afterwards, you’re left in the in-between...the wait until results.

Since my diagnosis, the language really matters to me. I never call it "my" cancer. It doesn’t belong to me. It’s something happening in my body, yes, but I won’t give it the ownership of being “mine.” And I don’t talk about “fighting” either. Why would I want to fight my own body, every single day? It’s already doing the best it can. Instead, I try to work with it, to heal, to support. And I don’t use the word “journey.” Journeys imply a path, a start and an end, a map you can follow. This....whatever this is....doesn’t feel like that to me. It’s messier, more unpredictable, full of pauses, loops, sudden turns.

I know that for some people, those words....fight, battle, journey....are powerful. They help frame things in a way that gives them energy. And that’s beautiful too, it's how they see it, and I appreciate that. I never take offence when someone else uses them about me, or about themselves. In fact, people often say to me, “sorry to say it like this, but…” and I always reassure them, it’s totally fine. Say what feels natural for you. Language is just one of the many ways we each find our own footing.

My Dad took me to these scans this time, at my last PET scan I had a small panic attack whilst I was in the machine. I do my scans fasted and before medication and that scan was in the afternoon, so my adrenal function was incredibly low, and I hadn't had the steroids I needed, and, someone came into the room when I was in the scanner, it really freaked me out! You can't move during a scan and so when I felt the heat rising and the dizziness hit, it was awful, and quite scary. So I did feel a little apprehensive about these scans, not the brain MRI so much, they are quite quick, but the PET. I am always so tired when I have a PET scan, a sleepless night, an early start and no meds, means I sometimes fall alseep during the scan as they are quiet (not like an MRI) and it's quite a jumpscare when you wake up and just see the white closesness of the machine! But everything was fine, done and finished easily, hopefully, for another 3 months. These scans where only 8 weeks since my last ones as there where quite a few areas of concern that my oncologist, who is a wonderful man called Professor James Larkin, wanted to check sooner than the usual 3 months.

Alongside the scans, there have been smaller details tugging at my attention. My taste has been dulled lately, my coffee yesterday, breakfast this morning. Food that usually carries depth just feels flat. Of course, my mind went straight to fear, a wonderful woman i've met along the way once said her only symptom of brain mets was a numb feeling in her mouth. That thought lodged in me for a moment, but I’ve learnt to notice without clinging to worry so much now. To tell myself....it could be hormones, fatigue, or even just the randomness of bodies. I keep noticing, without spiralling. That takes practice, and lots of hard work.

And, of course, life rushes in, carries on, as it always does. We went away camping, and it was amazing. The kind of days that will sink into memory. The kids on bodyboards in the sea, squealing, fearless, tumbling in waves. The dogs racing through the sand like they’d never known such joy. We ate together, wandered through little shops, watched a helicopter land out of the blue. And a moment that caught my heart: Benj learnt to ride his bike. Right there, on a grassy track back to the tent, legs peddling, balance found. The kind of moment that stays stitched into the fabric of family life forever.

Evenings back at the tent were a mix of salty hair, tired legs, the sound of zips, the odd argument over marshmallows and outside games, the closeness that comes with being in a smaller space together. These are the days I treasure so much now. Which makes the end of the school holidays bittersweet. I’m sad they’re heading back, the house will feel emptier, but I hope to try to squeeze in one more little getaway. I think we all need some routine back....or do we.

This week also marked something else...the launch of the new #itsalot merch. To date, there have been so many wonderful orders, and I’m endlessly grateful. With the new launch, we’ve had quite a few orders so far. And here’s the truth: I believe completely in the quality, in the softness of the fabric, in the message stitched into every piece. And yet, I find it hard. I feel strange wearing it myself, I hate being in the pictures. Vulnerability runs both ways. On one side, sharing my health story. On the other, putting something I’ve created out into the world, hoping people will receive it. It takes courage, and I am struggling a little with it all.

I sometimes wonder if that’s the bigger lesson of #itsalot. Not just that life is a lot....which it is....but that sharing, showing up, continuing to step forward, even when you feel vulnerable, is also part of being alive. Every order reminds me why I began. It’s not just clothing. It’s a message, a community, a reminder: life is a lot, but so are we.

So here I am. Results day looming. It's tomorrow. I try so hard to not think about the sick feeling I will have all morning, the sleepless night tonight, the clamy hands, what can I read from my oncologists face for the first few seconds I see him. Waiting to hear what the scans will say. That waiting could consume me, but I try to keep busy...the beach days, the campfires, the laughter, the new merch, the everyday chaos of kids and dogs and family life. It all coexists. The medical and my world. I still hate that I have to combine the two.

And I’m also planning forward. Because even in the hardest times (I always remind myself it has been worse), there needs to be something on the horizon. Right now, for me, that’s a girls’ weekend in the Lake District. Friendship, fresh air, freedom. I can already picture the hills, the laughter, the cups of tea. I know how much I need that reminder that life is more than hospital appointments and test results.

Tomorrow, I’ll get my scan results, and then my next cycle of immunotherapy too. But tonight, I’ll hold onto this: the summer holidays have been wonderful, I have beautiful friends around me who are invested and who help, and....it'll all be ok.