The C-Word by Lisa Lynch Page B

now, it seems, all of this has been a comparative blast when you take a look at the months of toxic treatment ahead. What a bastard.
    So here’s the science bit: I’ll begin with three sets of three-weekly cycles of one type of chemo, then have the same number of cycles of a different type. The side-effects that Curly Professor listed didn’t exactly read like a menu of spa treatments, and Glamorous Assistant nodded along sagely throughout (actually, she did offer a conciliatory head-tilt at the hair-loss part, since her lovely curly locks rival even the professor’s). Curly Professor was at great pains to point out that they’d be ‘throwing everything at it’, and that, thanks to my age and health, he intended to give me strongest dose of chemo possible. Then out came reams of consent forms to further enhance his point.
    In better news, though, he agreed to fix my chemo cycles so that Jamie’s wedding falls in my ‘good week’ (the third week of my cycle), so I can return the favour of dancing with him to an indie classic, and look as glamorous as is possible with no eyelashes and a wig.
    Later at the hospital, there was my CT scan to keep my mind off the size of the chemo needles, and it was far more entertaining than it should have been. Lying on a moving bed in a futuristic white room while a tunnel-like machine scanned my body made me feel a bit like Kanye West in the ‘Stronger’ video (but wearing a nasty NHS gown instead of white boxer shorts). And even the injection during the scan was a bit of a giggle, thanks to its rather unusual consequences: since when has feeling like you’ve pissed yourself been an acceptable side-effect? It was the strangest thing, and pretty bloody embarrassing to boot. Just to clarify, I didn’t
actually
piss myself. It just felt like I had. I’d like to be able to tell you that I’ve never pissed myself, but there was that regrettable little accident I once had on a ski slope in my salopettes, thanks to my snail-paced snowplough not getting me to the loo on time.
    I got to have a quick look around the chemo room, too. And, I’ll be honest, it was hardly soothing music, essential oils and people in fluffy white dressing gowns. But nor was it a scene from
The Exorcist
. Some poor sods looked pretty bloody poorly, but others looked like they’d just waltzed out of Selfridges. Ever keen to do things my way (or no way at all), I’ve decided not to be a cancer patient, but instead a mere guest who’s booked herself in for a relaxing day in the Therapy Suite. I’m going to turn up in huge sunglasses, comfy jeans, a kick-ass T-shirt and my sparkly new Converse trainers, with my Marc Jacobs tote in one hand and my iPhone in the other, and completely ignore the real reason I’m there. Ladies and gentlemen, breast cancer just got fabulous.
    *
    ‘THAT’S NOT LIKE you,’ said P as I stood in my knickers, straightening my hair at the foot of the four-poster bed in our magnificent hotel in the Ashdown Forest where we’d gone for our pre-chemo romantic night away. I furrowed my brow.
    ‘Eh? How do you mean?’
    ‘You. That,’ he said, sprawled across the bed reading the newspaper in his complimentary robe. ‘In your knickers. Parading around, uninhibited. Don’t get me wrong, babe, I’m enjoying it. But it’s just not like you, is all. Look, the curtains are even open.’
    ‘Meh, it’s only deer out there anyway.’ I shrugged, but P had a point. It wasn’t like me at all.
    You see, I’ve spent as long as I can remember wishing I looked different. As a kid, I loathed my super-curly, strawberry-blonde (okay, ginger) hair. I was hardly blessed with a good set of gnashers either. In fact, that’s another huge understatement, so I’ll instead use the words of my dad, who chose his father-of-the-bride speech to announce that I had ‘teeth like Ronaldinho’. At twelve, I convinced myself that I was the hairiest girl in the second year, and threatened to ring ChildLine