You can’t always get what you want

I have been lots of things this week. I have been: nervous, anxious, impatient, upset, disappointed, cross, guilty, resigned, battered, bruised and very tired. But one thing has remained constant - I remain nippleless (at this point it may be worth reading the previous post if you haven't already - and if you are squeamish dear reader, look away now!) 

After more than 18 months of waiting for what I was hoping would be a last bit of plastic surgery and final operation, I came round from the anaesthetic to hear two nurses discussing across my trolley that it 'hadn't all gone to plan'. Not a good wake up call. 

Mr Plastic Fantastic told me in his lovely lilting Irish accent but with a little less twinkle in his eyes that because of the damage to the skin caused by radiotherapy he’d decided it was too risky to do the normal nipple reconstruction we were all geared up for. He had though done the other bits of nip and tuck to perk up the perkiness, and balance the boobs up more - and as a bonus thrown in some liposuction by taking out some fat around my hips (to use in the op - not just because he thought I could do with less of a muffin top). Warning here ladies - lipo HURTS!

It's taken a good few days to work through the flurry of feelings and thoughts, especially in the fug of post op drugs. I know it seems in some ways so silly to be upset about something which in the wider view of things is such a trivial and minor point (or two points). And it does seem trivial, which is where the feelings of guilt come in. But I know having this done for me was as much about the psychological as the physical. This was the Last Thing, the Final Bit, the Drawing of the Line. From when I was diagnosed I tried to keep things as 'normal' as possible, carrying on working, telling very few people, staying as independent as I could be (not always good or helpful in retrospect - I may write the Duff Guide to having breast cancer - how not to do it!). I knew from the beginning that I wanted every bit of reconstruction and to eventually look as 'normal' as possible again. But I also know, that so many things have changed in so many ways – and many for the better - they will never be 'normal' again - at least not my old kind of normal.

This time four years ago I'd just been told I had cancer and although I always felt I'd be OK, I hadn't even been told what my chances of 'survival' (as they put it) would be. I would do anything to say alive - and I did – being chopped up, burnt, poisoned - anything. So of course I am happy, lucky, grateful to be here today, moaning about the fact that I don't have nipples. Maybe it's time to embrace my non normality, after all I’m still here to live with it.

The cherries on the cakes

Like buses, I have waited 18 months for one operation and then two come along at once. Hot on the heels of last month's hystericalectomy (as it's known in our house, given hilarity around some of the after effects in particular a severe effect on my short term memory - hopefully just temporary) comes my - also hopefully - final bit of nip and tuck.

Tomorrow, 21 months after a breast reconstruction that at least gave me some kind of lady lumps back, I am getting the cherries on the cakes. Yes dear reader, I'm talking nipples. (The list of things I once thought I would never talk about with strangers but now do quite merrily really is as long as a piece of string). 

It's four years to the day since my original mastectomy, and a time I get quite reflective but also look forward. And this for me will be a step forward -  not back to normality as I will never be 'normal' in the same way again - though as the wonderful Whoopi Goldberg once said, 'Normal is nothing more than a cycle on a washing machine.'

As I now recognise I suffer from POT (pre-op tension) I've not worried about the fact I've felt too tired and distracted today to do much work and been instead glued to the Leveson inquiry and Twitter all day. Hey, noone can tell me what the right thing to do is the day before you're due to get nipples so I have to make it up.

My POT tends to come from having to relinquish my usual control freakery (in MY plan I will be in, I will have the op early, I will be out and home by tea time...) and from the frustration of being asked the same question several times, sit around for hours in a not very comfortable environment and pass the time by playing my favourite game of 'how I'd improve this particular bit of the NHS'.

But there are things i actually like, in fact LOVE - oh yes... The anaesthetic bit - ooh I love that. The gentle slipping off into a deep sleep, totally oblivious, which is usually welcome as I won't have slept the night before. I'm sure I'm usually mid-sentence when I conk out too - which would usually be considered the height of bad manners.

And then there's my plastic surgeon - I don't just love him, I have to 'fess up, I am totally IN love with him. Before he became my knight in a pinstripe suit I always thought that those women who wanted to marry their plastic surgeon only did it to make sure they could get cheap face lifts - but no, now I am one of those women. He's not film star material and would not normally attract my attention - although always dapper and smartly dressed, with twinkly eyes and a twinkly Irish accent, I think it's probably one of those hero fantasy attractions that psychologists would have a field day with. No matter, I will look forward to the four minutes I have of his undivided attention pre op when he may draw on me with a pen, and then the couple of minutes post op when he will reassure me all went well, bursting with obvious pride at his handiwork. And then he will ask him to marry me... (erm no, I made that bit up!!)

So off I go to do my usual pre op all night tidying/ ironing/ doing random things to keep busy - and I will see you on the other side - with cherries on top!

A week of POTs, plans and peeing

Last week as the days progressed I realised I was suffering from POT (Pre Operation Tension). This manifested itself as increasing irritation and crossness with everything and anything. I raged at the new parking system at the hospital when I went for the pre-op assessment - you now have to put your registration number into the ticket machine, and the only rationale for this I can think of is that it stops you kindly handing your ticket to someone else when you still have time left on it that's been paid for. I tutted at the dirty looking chairs and carpets in the waiting areas - and the fact that there was a whole crowd of other people there... waiting around in a waiting area where I needed to wait - the cheek of it! I was incredulous at the amount of time it took for a cheque to clear at the bank (SEVEN days - it's like living in the Dark Ages I moaned at the poor customer service person). I even shouted at the dog for just doing his doggy duty and barking, as he does every day, when he thinks the postman is an evil intruder intent on breaking in, burgling and bashing everyone over the head.

Once I'd self diagnosed the POTs, instead of taking friends' advice to have a relaxing few days before O-Day on the Friday, I came up with a plan to keep as busy as I could. I wrote myself a huge and unrealistic To Do list, which kept me distracted during the days, and on the two evenings before O-Day I went out and enjoyed great company and two of my other favourite things - good food and good music. Probably not what the doctor would order, as on the morning of the operation I was absolutely shattered, but it definitely improved my mood, reduced POTs and also distracted me from that other medical related danger - information overload.

Of course it is so easy to find out about anything these days thanks to the internet - and of course anyone can put anything on it which makes it both a blessing and a curse. The operation I was having was a hysterectomy and oopherectomy - not really due any current problems but as a preventative measure because oestrogen, something I used to give very little if any thought to, is now the Evil Enemy Within (my terminology not a medical persons). My gynaecologist Mr S (I now collect consultants like kids' trading cards - I also have Ms R the oncologist and Mr O'D the plastic surgeon in my hand) had been slick and salesman-like in his selling of the operation to me. The words 'quick', 'keyhole', 'in and out the same day', had sealed the deal. But as O-Day grew closer I was less confident and felt quite unprepared.

It had been a big decision, not just because I'm not currently 'ill' but also because over the past few months I have felt healthier and fitter than I have done for a long time. So deciding to have a quite major operation which potentially has long term effects and puts me through a very early menopause was not an easy one (despite also knowing of course the potential long term benefits). I knew that I could possibly talk myself out of it and if I started googling about it - again, for of course I have already done 'research' - it would give me more questions than answers and do nothing to dispel my doubts and worries.

So distraction and displacement activity were the order of the days beforehand and did the trick. On O-Day I was in a taxi at 7am boring the driver with tales of Peru. I was heartened at the hospital by being told I was first on The List and by Mr S's indefatigable cheeriness - 'you'll be digging the garden again in a couple of weeks' was his reply to my moan that my garden was still jungle-like due to the rain (one of the things on my To Do list that had never got done). I passed the morning in a blissfully unaware state of unconsciousness and came round to more Mr S positivity 'it went perfectly' - then spent the afternoon trying to convince nurses my bladder was in good enough working order to let me go home.

Being told you can't go home until you pee into a small measuring jug when you don't even want to go is some kind of torture technique. I sat, squatted, walked around, was told to 'jiggle to get everything going' and then I entertained the nurses with - yes - more tales of Peru, specifically about weeing in the open air, up mountains and on Inca tracks in the hope they would become so bored they'd send me home regardless. Whoever invented the term 'piss easy' had absolutely no idea and I was soon the last one left in the day surgery ward. Finally, at 7.30pm, we were all relieved in so many ways when I produced the goods and got a cheer from the nurses who must have been getting as fed up as I was. (Sod's law that once I got home this had literally opened the flood gates and I was up every couple of hours to go to the toilet during the night).

I am delighted to say so far Mr S's optimistic promises are being fulfilled. After a couple of days lolling around I'm now taking the dog for walks, albeit slower and shorter ones than usual, the brain is clearing (after an entertaining weekend talking crap and being able to blame the anaesthetic), and the tiredness is not as bad as it was although I may continue with an afternoon Nanna nap for the next few days. Pain has been pretty non-existent and needed nothing stronger than a couple of paracetamols.

I now have a very different understanding of 'Through the Keyhole' than I used to, and I'm a fan. There is very little scarring and a far quicker recovery period than there would be otherwise. The trick with feeling quite so good so quickly may be just remembering not to do too much too soon...but I'll definitely leave the digging for another couple of weeks.

Up a height in Peru

There is so much to say I really wasn’t sure where to start with this! In summary, I have been trekking in Peru, suffered from high altitude sickness, camped in remote isolated mountains in the Andes, tasted fruit and veg I'd never even heard of before, nearly got run over by Llamas, had hairy scary bus rides on roads closed due to landslides, experienced the several thousand steps on the old Inca trail, reached Machu Picchu, wondered at the magical mysteriousness of it all, tasted the best chocolate in the world, and celebrated with too many Pisco sours (*takes deep breath*)! 

I'm going to be writing more detail about different aspects of the experience over the next week or so, as there’s too much to put in one post, but here are some of my highlights.   

It was definitely a once in a lifetime experience - though some things, like being in hospital on the first night due to altitude sickness - I will be happy to never repeat! We climbed to heights of over 4,500 metres and I really felt the effects of the altitude on the three days we were trekking at that kind of level. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before, you are forced to walk much more slowly than a normal pace (frustrating for someone like me who likes to march onwards!) and even then have to stop every few minutes. 'Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth' become one of our medically approved mantras!

It was amazing trekking through these isolated, quite barren but breathtakingly beautiful mountains – and we’d often see a spot of bright red on the horizon. As it got closer we would see it was a person dressed in the colourful traditional clothes, often women and children, who’d be walking along – seeming to appear out of thin air and be heading absolutely nowhere. Women would always be carrying something on their back - firewood, fruit, vegetables or cloth to sell, or often a child. They would scuttle past us half our size and twice as fast.

 

Even in these most remote, hostile areas there is life, unchanged for probably centuries, small patches where crops or vegetables are grown, everything maintained by hand, stone built thatched roofed houses with families of three generations all crammed into one room, a fire in the middle for cooking and heating - no chimney - the smoke filling and bellowing out of the house. The local mountain people we met mostly don't even speak Spanish, they speak their traditional language of Quechua. We were on a little used trail and visitors are rare - so goodness knows what they must have thought of us with all our equipment, huffing and puffing up their mountains. They were quiet, shy, very dignified people. At one point a few of us had fallen behind (we’d had a toilet stop – with no bushes or rocks to go behind you just had to wait for others to get past then squat!) and had even lost sight of the guide in front of us. A little lady appeared and walked with us, at a slight distance and without saying anything, just giving an occasional smile. She would wait until we were all safely across a boggy bit or a stream then carry on walking with us. She accompanied us for miles and I am sure she was making sure we were all right and safe until we caught up with the rest of the group. When we did she just disappeared.

Camping was not my favourite thing (never has been, never will be), everything got damp and the sun disappeared very suddenly so it became very cold very quickly. But the guides and crew we had, all local men, looked after us wonderfully well. They would wake us up with a cup of tea and bowl of water, with a cooked breakfast on the go – which made us forgive them for the 5am starts. When we set off for the day’s trek, the crew would stay behind, take everything down, clear away, then set off, overtake us and by the time we got to the lunch stop or that evening's camp they'd have all our tents up, the dining tent set up, toilets dug, and would be cooking up a meal and greet us with tea and cake. We were amazingly well fed, with three cooks rustling up cooked breakfasts, lunches and always a three course dinner. They catered for two vegetarians, one gluten free diet and someone who couldn't eat onions! Our local guides Tony and Paco who were with us all week took great care of us, they were also so passionate and informative about the area, and incredibly good humoured - essential for them to survive a week with a group of 15 females!

My favourite trek day was the fourth day when we were due to reach Machu Picchu itself. We had come down from the very high levels we'd been at and joined the old Inca Trail. This is literally a stone path clinging to the side of the mountains, so you always have a sheer drop at one side of you. But as it was much lower altitude I could breathe! Instead of quite barren mountains with no insects or birds, they were green, lush and rich with plants, flowers and trees. We saw huge butterflies, poisonous millipedes, humming birds and wandering llamas. After a day of walking through spectacular waterfalls, Inca ruins and the humid jungle feel on this part of the trek we finally passed through the sun gate and got our first sight of Machu Picchu. Well - we would have if it hadn't been covered by clouds! The clouds made it all the more mystical and when they did go – there is was - the classic sight of the ancient city that you see on all of the pictures and programmes. It isn't until we walked down towards it I really become aware of the size and complexity of the ruins - which actually are in an unfeasibly good state.

We celebrated that night in a colourful lively restaurant in Aguas Calientes, the town near to Machu Picchu. After several days of not being very hungry (a positive of high altitude) we tucked in like we'd never seen food before - I had the most marvellous melon starter - a whole melon scooped out into balls and the inside filled with an Andean liquer (I don't know what - only that it was red and very very delicious!). I also had the best beer ever - freezing cold liquid gold - just what the doctor ordered (or should've done) after the week we'd had.  

The day after, our final full day, our trekking was over and we were just tourists. We went back to Machu Picchu and Paco who used to work at the site led us round on a really informative tour. We were then taken to lunch, grabbed a bit of shopping in the markets, and had a train and bus ride back to Cusco.

Our final night was party night in Cusco at a local restaurant - with the meat eaters trying the traditional dish of guinea pig (verdicts included: salty/ gamey/ like nothing else ever tasted/ yuck). After several Pisco sours and bottles of celebratory wine we took over the restaurant and ended up dancing until the early hours.

The next day we had a few hours to spend in Cusco before setting off for the long long journey home. Slightly worse for wear, I managed to make it to the Chocolate Museum which had been on my ‘must do’ list for ages. This is the most gorgeous smelling museum I have ever been to, the scent wafted through the air on the approach to it, and this is where you can get the best chocolate I (and others) have ever tasted. So our final last hour was spent chilling (the first opportunity we'd had!) in the sunshine with coffee and chocolates on a colonial style balcony watching the world go by in the main square below.

This was a much anticipated experience, and a real adventure into the unknown - it's like nothing I've ever done before. I booked it a year ago, spent 12 months fundraising, faced last minute plane cancellations and then spent the first night ill in hospital in Cusco wondering if I was actually going to be given the ok to do the trek. But it was all worth it. For me personally it's been a real adventure and achievement, I’ve got some amazing memories and made some friends for life. And of course what got me into this in the first place, is that the charity and other women facing breast cancer will benefit. Between us our Peru posse raised over £50,000 for Breast Cancer Care.

Here today...

Gone tomorrow... Or strictly speaking I'll be gone later today as its now past midnight. After a year of planning, plotting, fundraising, tomorrow I'm setting off for Peru to trek up Machu Pichhu in support of Breast Cancer Care.
As ever the organised, sorted, well planned out couple of weeks beforehand id dreamt of having turned out to be frantic, chaotic, ridiculously busy ones. And as ever writing including this blog, my WIP that I'd started to actually get 'in progress' and totting up and reporting back on my result for the 100k words in 100 days challenge are the kind of things that fell off the list. But will all be here for me to do when I get back!

I am a little bit too excited to sleep and have a real mix of anticipation and trepidation about the next ten days ahead. So much is unknown and hard to imagine - how I'll cope with the altitude and sleeping in a tent in freezing temperatures, how we'll all get on as a group of strangers being together 24 hours a day, how will I feel having done it... But it is the opportunity of a lifetime and I'm so glad I'm doing it (I'll remind myself of this when I have the squirts halfway up a mountain with no bathroom for a 4 day radius..)!

So a temporary adieu from moi - though if I can work out how I may try to post an update while en trek... Watch this space!

The sun will come out...

I love variety in a day, when I get to do different things. I had a day like that last week but it also ended up exactly like the weather forecast for the day - starting off sunny, with a bit of cloud coming over, followed by more sunshine.

First thing I went to a breakfast event with ex government communications chief Alistair Campbell and ex local MP Chris Mullen. Perhaps not everyone’s cup of tea and croissant, but I've worked in local and national government and get inexplicably excited about politics, so it was definitely for me. The pair have both written fascinating diaries and are great storytellers. It was also the opportunity to catch up over coffee with friends I haven’t seen for a while who are equally oddly into this kind of thing!

Following that lively start it was then off to a hospital appointment. As part of the treatment for breast cancer, to help prevent a recurrence I was prescribed a tablet called Tamoxifen. I suffered very badly from side effects though so am due to have a hysterectomy – the only alternative option I was given. An empathetic, helpful, amicable gynaecologist helped me come to that decision – and this appointment was once last chance to ask him questions before the operation. This time though Mr S wasn’t available. A young female introduced herself as a member of his team, she may well have told me her name but I can’t recall it. I will call her Ms X.

I am trying to convince myself that I am making a positive choice (I am doing it of course for very good reasons) and trying not to feel as unhappy as I do about having to have another operation (though realistically it’s not the kind of thing I’m ever going to be jumping with joy about).

After Ms X apologised for my 40 minute wait (it’s why it’s called a waiting room of course) she asked me if I had any questions. I thought that I imagined that her eyebrows raised when I said yes then pulled out my notebook. Maybe not.

Here is an abridged version of our conversation.

Me: ‘Mr S said it’s keyhole surgery which I should be able to get over in a couple of weeks, so that’s fine. He did warn that occasionally, once on the operating table, it ends up not being able to be done by keyhole but turns into the old fashioned major op. I don’t want that. I don’t to wake up and find I’ve been cut from one side to the other and will take months rather than weeks to recover. If it can’t be done by keyhole then I don’t want it done.’

Ms X: ‘So if something goes wrong and you might die – and to save your life we have to cut you open, are you saying you don’t want us to do that?’

Me: ‘No what I am saying is I’m prepared and have agreed to have keyhole surgery not anything else if there’s a choice. Obviously if I’m dying on the operating table and you have to do something to save my life I expect you to do it. I would rather not die.’

(I guessed it was going to go downhill from here...)

Me: ‘I was also told I’d be in and out the same day, so again that’s what I’m expecting. Unless of course anything’s gone horribly wrong.’

(Eyebrows were definitely raised at this point, I didn’t imagine it!)

Ms X: ‘Well we do usually keep people in overnight.’

Me: ‘That is not what Mr S said. Unless there is anything wrong I want to be home the same day. Anyway, I’m a rotten patient and you'll want rid of me as soon as possible.’

(My attempt to get some humour into the conversation fell flat.)

Me: ‘I had a really awful time on Tamoxifen, and I’m dreading if I get menopausal effects after this they may make me feel as bad. I know everyone’s different and no one can tell me exactly what will happen – but is there anything I can do to help myself? Are there any supplements or things I can do to relieve or avoid symptoms? The internet is full of all sorts of information, but is there any factual, reliable information or websites you’d recommend I look at?’

(At this point there was a definite sigh that joined the raising eyebrows.)

Ms X ‘We can give you HRT’

Me ‘I had an oestrogen positive cancer, I can’t take HRT.’

(So much for my assumption she’d actually be taking any notice of what’s in my file.)

Ms X ‘Well no, then there isn’t anything. Some people might swear by this or that but there’s nothing I can recommend. You can try whatever you want, if you want to spend money and time on things that haven’t been proven to work.’

At this point I gave up.  I checked that Mr S would be the one doing the operation and signed the consent forms (after suitable warning of all the horrendous things that can happen of course).

Ms X waved me off with a ‘we’ll see you on 4^th May then’. My response of ‘Yes but I can’t say I’m looking forward to it,’ made me sound like a negative old bag, which is probably exactly what she thought I was. I left disappointed and dissatisfied.

That sunshine had definitely disappeared behind a big grey cloud.

I am a huge supporter of the NHS. I have worked in it and I have been a patient in it. There are many wonderful things about it and I will always be eternally glad and grateful that it’s there (for the moment… but I won’t get side-tracked into politics!) – but so often it’s down to individuals and who you see, talk to, are treated by has a huge impact on whether you have a good or bad experience. I had just had a consultation with a professional who contradicted the consultant, obviously hadn’t read my file, recommended something not just inappropriate but dangerous, and didn’t seem willing, able or interested in helping me help myself.

But thankfully the day wasn’t over yet. After this I headed to one of my favourite local towns to a talk Stephanie Butland was giving at the library. Steph, who has a book published named after her blog Bah to Cancer, is one of those people who just oozes loveliness and positivity. I perked up as soon as she gave me a welcoming smile. After a good chat, and a cup of tea and biscuit, on my way home I then called into my favourite deli and the day was rounded off with a delicious dinner

So, after the grey middle bit, the day ended bright, light and sunny, as it had started. No matter how cloudy and grey it gets – the sun does always come out again!

Buns, runs and fun!

A year after I first signed up and kicked off full of excitement, trepidation and slight terror I have finally reached my fundraising target for my charity challenge. In just over four weeks time I'm heading off to trek the Inca trail up Machu Picchu - but I'd committed to first raise at least £3,000 for Breast Cancer Care.

Thanks to a last blast I've actually raised over £3,500 - and have the promise of a bit more coming in so hopefully the final total will be nearer to £4,000. The more the better as every penny counts and the demand for BCC's services is, sadly, increasing.

I feel rather chuffed and more than a bit relieved to get the money in, it's the first time I've been involved in fund raising like this and there have been peaks and troughs - good practice for trekking up a mountain! I have learned lots, like how much I hate asking people for money (even for a good cause). Instead I felt I should 'earn' it - my parents really did drum a working ethos into me - which has led to me needing to 'do' things to get the money in rather than just rely on begging emails to friends and family.
My fundraising fun has included lots and lots of buns - or cupcakes, I think that means you can charge more for them - I have become quite the bun baking queen. As well as cake stalls galore it has also involved a comedy night, clothes swishing parties, raffles, sponsored runs and collection boxes perched in kindly local shops.

So, though no expert, here are my top tips for anyone embarking on, or just thinking about, a similar charity venture:

• Expected the unexpected - I have found that the things I thought may bring in lots didn't, but other things surprised me with the amount raised. People are also full of surprises, I have had help from unexpected quarters and donations from complete strangers - and absolutely none from some others I expected to be supportive.

• Estimate how much time it all might take - then triple it. It all takes time - lots of, even with others helping out. Baking, organising events, begging raffle prizes, sorting tickets, even just counting out and banking the pennies from collection boxes. It is all very very time consuming.

• It's nice to be nice - I have met some lovely people and had some fab support and fun, people have been generous whether donating prizes for raffles or giving up their own time. I have kept in touch with regular emails and updates to everyone who's helped, and sent thank you gifts and cards to those who really have been super supporters.

• Beware fundraising fatigue - there were the low times when I lost my mojo and, quite frankly, had enough on my plate with other things going on in my life. Other people also get fundraising fatigue, just a look at twitter or among your own social circles will show you how many people are doing sterling things for charity and asking for support. Given the current climate it's not an easy task!

• You'll get there in the end! At times I did wonder - but thanks to a last big push, and the perfect timing of a friend getting a job managing a coffee shop where she sold a load of cupcakes for me - I more than met my target. And I didn't ever have to resort to my last resort - which was doing the dreaded car boot sale!

I always thought the fundraising was going to be a hard part of this challenge - now that's done I can look forward to focusing on the trek. This is the part I thought would be the fun though challenging bit - but the reality is just creeping in... sleeping in a tent in freezing temperatures, getting altitude sickness, no toilets or showers for several days... Hmm maybe the fundraising was the easy bit after all!

More about my charity challenge here

Climb every mountain

This time in just three short months I'll be somewhere in Peru wondering what I'm doing spending the next ten days with a bunch of strangers up a very high mountain.

I signed up to a charity trek to Machu Picchu to raise money for Breast Cancer Care last year, when it seemed a long time in the future, when the scariest thing was having to ask people for money and when I didn't know a single other person doing it.

Since then, thanks to kind donations, cake sales, comedy night, clothes swishing, sponsored running and tin rattling, I’ve raised just short of my £3,000 target. I have met, through email and Face Book at least, a dozen of my fellow trekkers, all women, most of who have also signed up solo. Now it's time to start seriously thinking about the trek itself – and I have many mixed feelings flying about!

Nervous? Absolutely! I'm spending 24 hours a day for ten days in some extreme conditions with people I don't know. I will be camping and doing without proper showers or toilets (not my idea of a good time). Although I am on a fitness regime I’ve heard lots of stories about how altitude sickness affects even the fittest of people.  I’ve finally read the information pack properly and realised that I need thermals and a sleeping bag that can withstand minus 15 degrees (I hate being cold!) as well as t-shirts and sun protection.

Excited? Definitely! This is going to be one hell of an experience. Having spoken to others who've done it recently, their tales and unanimous enthusiasm that they'd do it again (despite the lack of toilets and how ill they may have been) reinforces that this really is an incredible once in a lifetime opportunity.

I am also a little bit proud of myself. The reason I'm doing this is to raise funds for Breast Cancer Care. Not a natural fundraiser, though happy to regularly donate to charities, it's the first time I've ever got so involved in this sort of thing. After being diagnosed with breast cancer, I know how increasingly vital the work of organisations like BCC is. I know first hand that while the NHS is largely good at doing what it does, there is such a lot of other help, information and support you only get from other places.  The fund raising has been hard but worth it - and maybe I'll give it a go again in the future.

I'm sure I'll also be proud of completing the challenge of the trek. In the almost four years since I was diagnosed I've set up my own business, learned to scuba dive, been on holiday by myself for the first time, rediscovered a love of horse riding, ran my first half marathon, been backpacking for the first time. I don't know if I've been driven to do so much over the past few years because I now have an absolute appreciation of how short life is and there's lots I want to do and try, or because I'm trying to convince myself that I can still do absolutely anything and everything, or maybe it's just some kind of normal mid-life crisis and fortysomething madness! Who knows? But after this next big challenge I may have a bit of a rest. Or not. We'll see…

If you want to find out more about my charity trek see Mission Machu Picchu

The blame game

In April I’m going on a charity trek to Peru to raise funds for Breast Cancer Care. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology I'm now in touch with about a dozen of the other trekkers – most of us have signed up solo to do this. They’re a wonderful sounding bunch of women all doing this to raise money for a cause that will affect us all in one way or another - if you're not directly affected as one in eight now are, you'll undoubtedly know someone who has been diagnosed with breast cancer. It's great to get to know the others, not least as we'll be spending time together under extremely challenging and unusual circumstances. It's also fascinating to find out why others are doing it - some of us have had breast cancer diagnosed, others have mums, sisters, aunties, friends affected. One thing it really does bring home is the total unpredictability of this disease, it can affect anyone at all, at any age, and whatever your lifestyle, eating habits and general health. One of the things I did when I was diagnosed, at least initially, was to give myself a hard time questioning whether I had 'done' or 'not done' things that could've caused me to be one of the one in eight who get this. And the answer is - I will never know.

So to see yet another report baldly and badly stating that nearly half of all cancers, including breast cancer, can be prevented by living a 'healthier' lifestyle makes me more than a little cross. Yes of course a healthier lifestyle can help prevent all sorts of things, is good for you, is the best way to live and should be encouraged. But to give a general impression that it's your own fault if you get any cancer is disingenuous and dangerous.  As any oncologist will tell you, cancer is not just one simple disease, it is complex and there are many different types which affect people in many different ways and need different types of treatment. There are other issues not really mentioned in this report such as genetics, environmental factors, chemicals put onto and into food, cosmetics and more, that all could also possibly in some way contribute. Or not.

My disappointment with this report was matched by the fact that on the same day there was news that cancer patients who are going through chemotherapy treatment are going to have to be assessed to see if they 'qualify' for welfare benefits rather than automatically get them. You can read about this here. Anyone who has been through or been close to anyone who has been through chemotherapy can tell you that even if you don't feel ill when you're first diagnosed it can be the treatment itself that can make you ill. Bizarrely cancer treatment can be as life threatening as the illness itself. To suggest that people going through it are some kind of 'benefit scroungers' as this latest move implies borders on something like a Chris Morris spoof story. 

Sadly it's fact not fiction - even sadder is that out of these two news stories today, one got big headlines in pretty much every media outlet - the other was tucked away in some and ignored by many. Guess which was which?