Just run with it ~ Caroline

It’s OK to not be OK. It’s OK to ask for help and to accept help when it’s offered, without feeling like a failure. It’s OK to be angry. It’s OK to scream, cry and ask why me?

I did none of these things, at least not initially. Instead I laced up my trainers and did what I do best.  I ran. I ran on beaches, through the countryside, on the London pavements. I ran on my own, with only my thoughts for company.  Actually that should be thought……I have cancer, I have cancer, I have cancer, there wasn’t any room for anything else. 

How ironic. Me. Marathon running, non smoking, healthy eating, skinny me. People like me don’t get cancer. We live till we’re 100 and die in our sleep - at least my lifestyle choices were made with that goal in mind.

I wasn’t the first member of my family to be afflicted with the disease. 18 years previously my uncle had been diagnosed. Yes men can get breast cancer too.  He found great solace and support in the charity Breast Cancer Care, and went on to become one of their volunteers, fashion show models and committee members, a role which his wife also adopted enthusiastically when she too was diagnosed 10 years later. So when in 2007 I decided I wanted to run the London Marathon, raising money for them seemed an obvious choice. Little did I know that 7 years later I would be the one calling them for help and advice.

Fast forward to 2014. I was 36 years old, my children were 2 and 5. I had a job I enjoyed, was happily married and above all was extremely fit. Life was good. Until all of a sudden it wasn’t.

The weeks that followed my diagnosis were surreal. I didn’t look ill, I didn’t feel ill, so how was it possible I had a life threatening disease?

I am a medical professional but I didn’t know a great deal about breast cancer. A family friend had had it when I was growing up, and sadly died whilst her children were still young, so of course she immediately entered my mind, regardless of the fact that my aunt and uncle were both still alive and well many years after their treatment ended. I looked at my children and thought of not seeing them grow up, not seeing my grandchildren should my children decide to become parents one day.

I approached this chapter of my life with my usual pragmatism. I just got on with it. People use words like fight and battle but the reality is you just do as you’re told. Go here for a biopsy on this date, you’ve got a CT scan on this date, a pre op assessment on this date, surgery on this date (actually I delayed my surgery by a week so I could go to a friends wedding). You have to accept that your life is no longer your own, your life belongs to cancer, because cancer dictates your daily routine.

I continued to run every moment I got. I had been signed off work at my GPs insistence, who told me my full time job for the next year was being a patient. Sleep had become elusive due to anxiety, so I was on sleeping pills which left me feeling drugged. I spent many hours in hospital waiting rooms but couldn’t concentrate enough to read a book or a magazine. Instead I listened to Passenger on my iPod - 'Life is for living, so live it or you’re better off dead' over and over again.

As a species human beings have an awareness of death from an early age. We all know that death is inevitable, what we don’t know is when or how. Most of us don’t dwell on this fact and it wasn’t something that I really thought about until faced with my own mortality. The reality that I really might die came crashing down on my husband and me in a grotty consulting room in an east London hospital one June afternoon. We were there to get the results of my lumpectomy and sentinel lymph node biopsy. Instead of the usual 2 hour wait we were ushered straight into the room and told the bad news. Not only had the cancer spread to my lymph nodes, the margins for my lumpectomy were insufficient. This meant a number of things. I needed more surgery, I would almost certainly need chemotherapy, but there was also a risk that the cancer had spread beyond my lymph nodes and metastasised, which would deem it incurable.

I had 7 days to wait, not knowing my fate. In that time I had bone and CT scans to look for signs of spread. Despite being advised not to run for 3 months after surgery I ignored my doctors and ran anyway. I still didn’t look or feel ill, my surgery site had healed well and I needed to pound the pavements for my sanity. 

For that week I lived in a parallel universe. Life continued as normal around me, whilst I existed in my cancer bubble. Back in the hospital waiting room, my mind couldn’t comprehend the enormity of my situation. As my name was called the short walk to the consulting room felt like a marathon. Finally after what seemed like an eternity I was told the scans were negative, treatment would still aim for a cure. I was not going to die, not yet, anyway. I felt numb but quietly relieved.

5 days later I had a mastectomy and the remaining lymph nodes removed from under my left arm. Surgery was uneventful, although this time I knew my running shoes would be remaining firmly by the door for the foreseeable future.

Fortunately I had a backup plan in the form of my bicycle.

Chemo started in August and it completely floored me. In my usual blasé way I totally underestimated the effect it would have.  However I knew the effects were cumulative, so I was determined to make sure I was feeling as normal as possible before the start of the next cycle, otherwise the next 4 months were going to be a one way road to hell. And for me, the best way to feel normal is to run. 

Chemo day was a Tuesday. The amazing help from family and friends meant I could completely write off the next 5 days. No cooking, childcare or school runs meant I didn’t have to leave my bed if I didn’t feel like it. Then on day 6, Monday morning, life returned to normal.  I got up, got dressed and re entered the world, and most importantly, went running.

Initially cycling was a reasonable substitute, but I was itching to regain my running form. The first post chemo run was always incredibly hard - 4 miles of wading through treacle wearing lead lined boots. But as the days went by it got progressively easier. I still did parkrun from time to time, and I even did a 10k race between my 3^rd and 4^th cycles. The icing on the cake was winning a 5k race only 5 weeks after my last chemo cycle, and a 10k race a month later. I joked that tamoxifen was my performance enhancing drug but the reality was I was more determined than ever before.

2015 was my year to put the pieces of my life back together. Cancer may have left my body but it certainly hadn’t left my mind. I needed to figure out a way to incorporate it into my life experience in a meaningful way. Drawing a line under it, moving on, putting it behind me – these were not things I could relate to. I needed to find the new me and the new me included cancer.  Thankfully I have had brilliant psychological support every step of the way, which has taught me so many things about myself I never knew, and helped me to discover the way forward.

Towards the end of 2014 I was introduced to the concepts of mindfulness and self-compassion. I read many books on the subjects and began a regular meditation practice. Initially this involved using various apps and You Tube, but gradually I felt confident enough just to sit quietly and notice whatever was going on.  I completed two 8 week long mindfulness courses at the London Buddhist Centre, and now, over a year later, can definitely say that regular meditation has brought many benefits to my life.

I was accepted as a model for the annual Breast Cancer Care fashion show in London and also asked to give a speech to the audience telling my story. The old me would never have agreed to speak in public to more than 800 people, but not only did I do it, I loved every minute of it.

I competed in my first triathlon less than 8 months after finishing chemo, and have 2 more lined up this year. My body has continued to try and throw a spanner in the works at every opportunity, firstly in the form of an ovarian cancer scare (thankfully just a scare) and then an osteopenia diagnosis, not quite as bad as osteoporosis but on the way. 

I have become a vegetarian as there is a lot of, in my opinion, fairly conclusive evidence that our consumption of animal products is a huge part of the reason certain types of cancer are reaching almost epidemic levels in the western world.  I am also trying not to eat dairy products, but for a girl who used to joke that her 5 a day were butter, cheese, ice cream, cream and yoghurt this has not been easy.

A couple of weeks ago it was 2 years since I found my tumour. According to my oncologist the fact that I have made it this far without a recurrence means it is less likely to come back. However statistics are just numbers and have no bearing on a particular individuals chance of survival, so I will never be complacent. I know too many people who have fallen foul of statistics and are no longer with us to rest on my laurels.

Cancer no longer keeps me awake at night, although it does feature in my dreams. There is no doubt in my mind that my life is on a different trajectory than it was pre cancer. The changes may not be immediately obvious to an outsider but my perception of life has changed.  Cancer has given me opportunities I would otherwise not have had, introduced me to some amazing people, and allowed me to be the recipient of some wonderful acts of human kindness. That is not to say I am glad it has happened, but I am grateful that something good has come out of it.

My body continues to astound me by being able to comply with all I demand of it, despite everything it has been through. Our ability to recover from even the worst of trauma is a testament to human resilience, whether I am more resilient than the average person I cannot say. I was called inspirational more times than I can count whilst going through treatment, but as my friends know I don’t feel deserving of such an accolade because I really was just being myself, and trying to keep things as normal as possible for me and my family.

I live with the knowledge that it could come back at any time but I have accepted that. It doesn’t cause me anxiety, except occasionally around appointments and scan results. I don’t consciously think about it but it is always there in the back of my mind, an unwanted intruder.  And if I’m having a bad day and feel like shouting and screaming and asking why me?  I put on my running shoes and head out the door into my world. 

Quite frankly cancer...... ~ Debbie

Catapulted into the world of Cancer,
Will I survive?
Nobody will answer.
Trusting a plan, like military precision,
When will ‘I’ be able to make a decision?
A Grade, a size, a hospital number,
Doing my time, negotiating the slumber.
Poison the cells, the good and the bad-
Taking me to the brink of mad.
The nausea and vomiting,
There are pills to shake-
My life, this cancer, will not take.
Overloaded with toxins,
My veins cannot cope,
Just see me through-
My lifeline, my hope.
The pain from my head
I cling to my hair,
Falling out in big clumps
Time to lay my soul bare.
I look sick, you prick
I can’t hide anymore,
My whole body is pained
Achy and sore.
Laid up in bed
Missing out on my Son,
Taking all that I have-
I will not say you have won.
You can have my eyelashes
And brows to match,
My sense of taste
Till the next chemo batch.
You can leave my eyes sore
And my nose like a tap,
Give me steroid insomnia
From your toxic zap.
You can push me to the point I can’t take anymore,
But with every ounce in my body-
I won’t close my door.
A mouth cut to shreds
And nails jumping ship,
A sleep deprived mess
So desperate to kip.
My breasts you can keep
They wanted me gone,
My hair I’d like back
But will live with none.
For all that you have taken
My heart has grown stronger,
You must let us live-
Our lives so much longer.
The wounds you can see
In time they will heal,
Was any of this really real?
The wounds you can’t see
Cause all of the strife,
Knock you for six
And hinder life.
Learning to live and love so much more,
One day Cancer, you’ll be out the door.

You can read Debbie’s personal blog at https://breastcancerwalkingtall.wordpress.com/

An Unnatural Transition ~ Tamsin ~ HuffPost Blog

Of the 57,000 women diagnosed with breast cancer in the UK this year, around 10,000 will be premenopausal women. If you are interested in the impact of early menopause, do read Tamsin's blog post 'An Unnatural Transition' which was featured in the Huffington PostUK in April 2016. She writes:

"But I am one of the lucky ones. Because my breast cancer did not have hormone-receptors and I have had preventative breast surgery, I can safely take HRT. This isn't an option for the vast majority of women who are diagnosed with estrogen+ breast cancer and who are often left to struggle on their own. How can younger women who have had a breast-cancer diagnosis support their overall health and well-being in the longer term? What are the options for younger women for whom HRT is not an option? We desperately need more information, advice and support".

  

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/tamsin-sargeant/early-menopause_b_9737886.html?utm_hp_ref=uk-women

Clutching at Soap Bubbles ~ Samantha

I’ve been a writer almost as long as I’ve been a reader; probably longer in fact, if you count the toddlerhood imaginings that I didn’t have the technical knowhow to turn into written words.

Throughout my schooldays and teens I read and wrote voraciously; my imagination stuffed to overflowing with ideas. When I started work and life became busier there was less time to write, but big things, important things, special things would still inspire a story or a poem. As time went on though, I wrote less and less, my thoughts cluttered with everyday stuff until, one day in 2003, I found myself sitting on the Tube staring at a soft drink advert. Its six word tag line ‘At lunchtime I feed the unicorn’ hit my imagination like a defibrillator, filling my head with a fully-formed short story which I spent the rest of the journey home scribbling down. It reminded me just how much I loved writing and, a couple of months later, I quit my role in Facilities Management to seek a job that would allow me to reclaim some of my creativity.

I became an admin assistant with the NHS and for the next eight years wrote anywhere I had a few minutes to spare; on the bus, sitting in waiting rooms, through my lunchbreaks etc. and I began to have some small successes in poetry competitions, and occasional pieces published.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer on 20^th June 2011; three days in I wrote my first cancer poem, a firm and decisive ‘notice of eviction’. The ‘eviction’ (mastectomy, sentinel node biopsy and level 2 node clearance) was carried out on 30^th June and, wide awake at three am the following morning, I was utterly frustrated when the neatly orchestrated snoring of the other five ladies on the ward triggered a poem idea and I couldn’t reach my notebook… There was something very empowering about sifting through the cancer-dross and creating poems that were beautiful or humorous, and writing became an integral part of my resilience. It gave me a focus, especially during chemo – for twelve weeks I was wired up to a drip for three hours or so every Thursday and writing was the perfect time filler – I even found inspiration in losing my hair and the drip-stand itself:

 Strictly Drip-stand

Dancing with a drip-stand, it ‘aint easy,

its tubes and wires threaten to impede
attempts at forward motion; Bloody-minded
it has five wheels so thinks that it should lead.

It helps a lot if you pick the right tune

for your vaguely ballroom progress to the loo,
something like a graceful waltz or foxtrot
(a Charleston, jive or quickstep just won’t do).

There’s just one more thing that you should remember,

to avoid an unexpected tango dip,
don’t forget to take the damn thing’s plug out
before you set off upon your trip!

I also took the plunge and submitted some poems to a small publishing company and, in February 2012, they requested a full manuscript. I asked if they could wait three weeks as I was about to start radiotherapy, they said yes. The manuscript went off in March, just after my oncologist had uttered the most perfect line of iambic pentameter ever - ‘As far as we can tell you’re cancer-free’ - and in May I was offered a publishing contract. Finding My Tail came out on 8^th July 2013, by which time I’d taken redundancy from my NHS job and was officially a self-employed writer/artist/craftswoman; I felt incredibly fortunate.

It was about this time, however, that I began to notice the gradual dulling of my imagination which persists to this day. The combined effects of chemo, Tamoxifen and menopause create a numb fogginess, and have drastically lowered my attention span and reduced my short term memory to minutes. Nowadays, the wonderful ideas for stories and poems no longer bubble over the edges, I have to hunt for them in the fog. Sometimes a perfectly formed idea appears, shimmering like a rainbow, only to burst as I reach for it, leaving nothing but a vague dampness of memory. If I do capture an idea, my ‘forgettory’ and limited attention span mean I frequently get distracted and the threads of the piece unravel.

Writing is now a real effort – some days my entire mind is cloudy and I feel almost physically disoriented and dizzy. On those days I can barely string two words together, let alone write a poem worthy of competition entry or publication. I’ve learned not to attempt to write on the really bad days, turning instead to art and needlework that, being visual and physical are still achievable, allowing me to retain at least some of my creativity. The fear that I may never be able to write ‘properly’ again looms terrifyingly large in the shadows, because if I can’t write how can I be a writer and, if writing is an integral part of my resilience, how can I be resilient if I can’t write?

I do try to write on good days and aim for a minimum of two poems a month. I use writing prompts a lot to kick-start the process (thank you Visual Verse website). A picture, word or idea prompt gives me a defined focus and a time limit/deadline around which I can structure thinking and writing time. I have recently realised, however, that I’ve become so scared of not being able to write, that I’ve got cagey about actually doing it. This has to change, because if I don’t write I won’t be a writer and my resilience will start to develop holes.

When I first saw Panning for Gold I was a bit wistful. I’ve never blogged and couldn’t remember the last time I wrote a longer piece of prose. I figured it would be yet another idea that melted into the fog. But this morning there was a sudden bubble of inspiration and, for once, I actually managed to catch it. And I realise now that, if I get an idea, I have to grab it and run with it, no matter where or when it occurs; which means most of this piece has mainly been written, between bites of toast and gulps of rapidly cooling fennel tea, standing in a freezing kitchen in my dressing gown. Because, you know what, I am resilient, I am a writer and the after-effects of cancer won’t be getting any more of my precious soap bubbles without a fight.

Throughout the week we will be showcasing some of Samantha's poetry, art and needlework on our public page at https://www.facebook.com/resilienceinbreastcancer/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/samanthanewburybagsandpoems/
Website: http://www.smanf.com/

Cancer gave me a voice ~ Kirsty

At 33 years old, having to deal with a potentially fatal dose of breast cancer was not part of my ‘plan’.

I had met a lovely man and we were planning our wedding. The diagnosis was in the April as we were getting married in the August.

I was diagnosed with stage 3 hormone positive breast cancer with a tumour of 12cm.

My surgeon and Oncologist took me through my treatment and the impact the chemotherapy would have on me.  It scared the living daylights out of me.

We did not know where we stood in regards to having a family, but there was no time to harvest my eggs, the treatment had to start NOW.

It made, me angry that my options were being taken away - that a disease was dictating my life and how long potentially I would be allowed to live it.  I was 33 years old, how did this happen?

The treatment was as intense and as severe as it possibly could be. I lost my hair, my bodily functions regularly and the breast that was doing a damn good job of trying to kill me.

I have never been so poorly in my life but I was determined that it was not going to beat me. I can honestly say though, there was a day where I had no energy left in my body and didn’t think I would be here.  My temperature was at 37 and I was exhausted.

I stayed in bed and allowed my body to heal. I made a promise to myself that I would do everything I want to do and more if I survived.

Well, my diagnosis was on the 27th April 2011 and things are going pretty well.

I have always been a very shy person, the one that was wrapped in cotton wool by my parents (who are ridiculously overly cautious about everything.)

If anyone told me that I would be talking in front of groups of people up to 100, I would have laughed and probably told them they were crazy!

Having a near-death experience changes you; it makes you assess your priorities and it totally affects your outlook on life.

I must admit, I have been through the whole spectrum of emotions once the treatment ended - anger, relief, resentment and empowerment.

Empowerment was the strongest out of the lot. I found that any fear I ever had (relating to any aspect of my life) had pretty much gone.  

The way I saw it was that if cancer couldn’t kill me, then what’s the harm in facing any other fears I had?  Really, what is the worst that can happen?

I found an article written by a lady called Kris.  She was diagnosed at 23 and was previously dismissed by the Doctor as being ‘too young to have breast cancer.’ She was at stage 4 when she was finally diagnosed.

Kris founded a charity called Coppafeel, which is a breast cancer awareness charity, educating young people on the signs and symptoms of breast cancer.  Self checking can lead to much earlier diagnosis and with mammograms being so much later in life, self checking is so very important when you are young.

I was totally inspired by Kris’s story and the volunteers called the Boobettes, who are ladies who have had breast cancer at a younger age. 

They visit schools, universities, colleges, festivals and businesses, educating people on the signs and symptoms of breast cancer via a presentation which includes their own story.

I knew I had to be part of this and I am proud to say, I have been a Boobette for 2 years. I didn’t know I should be checking myself and I certainly didn’t know the signs to look for.  

The first time I did a talk I was so scared I hardly slept. I had practised the talk a hundred times at least.  

The talks were at a local school, and once I got into it, I loved it. The more I did them, the better I became.  

The last talk I did was for the Big Lottery Fund and our Health Education Manager accompanied me from our HQ. She said how much confidence I had compared to my first talk and the feedback (one from a professional speaker) was amazing. This talk was also in front of three of my friends, so to hear such positive responses, made me proud and a little emotional.

I have always been fairly artistic and have a very artistic family, from painters to musicians and singers. My Dad has always been a keen photographer, taking photos of us growing up at any given opportunity along with other unwilling members of our family throughout the years.

I had a camera from a young age, but nothing professional and I didn't really take it seriously.

I wanted to take up a hobby after I was ill and something I could be proud of and actually stick with (I get bored of things very easily.) 

I decided on photography as I was always taking photos with my iPhone, so it was an easy choice.

The friends I have made and the images I have taken have enriched my life more than I could have ever imagined.

I have the confidence to direct a model and take images I never thought would be possible.  

It has taken a while to find my place in the ‘dog’ world but pets are my thing.  I have rescue cats and support a few rescue charities.

I feel at home behind the camera and my four-legged models make it even more enjoyable. At the moment it is just a hobby, but I am pushing myself to make it into a full time career.

To have a job that doesn’t feel like a job because it’s so much fun would be incredible.

I have a few Photographers who are my inspiration, but mainly Jill Greenberg, whose pet images I recreated with my cat Chuck!  

My family are so proud of me and love seeing my work (even though some of the female models I refrain from showing my Dad!) They encourage me and give me the support I need to make this dream a reality.

I take a lot of lingerie shots and I know a few people could not understand how a woman (and a woman with one breast!) would feel happy taking photos of other women in their underwear or less after what I had been through. I am sure people thought that I would have some kind of resentment to the models as they had two breasts and I only had one.

The female form is beautiful regardless of shape and size and I love taking the images to portray that.  

The only downside is that the models always have the most gorgeous underwear! Post Op Bras on the whole are either not pretty or a ridiculous amount of money.

This leads me on nicely to my latest mission.  

I went to M&S recently to buy a couple of bras, only to find the smallest stand of post op bras tucked away in the corner of one of the biggest stores in the West Midlands.

None of them were my size and after a brief visit to Debenhams who no longer stock any in store (‘sorry Madam, they are only online now’) this was the final straw.

The choice was frumpy and basic.  

I was in tears in the middle of Marks and Spencer surrounded by beautiful ‘normal’ bras saying loudly ‘why do I feel like I am being backed into a corner to have reconstruction?!”

I quickly tweeted M&S and vented by anger, questioning as to why they couldn’t just make a few of their standard range into the post op bra range?  Surely it is not that difficult?

I am now in talks with the lingerie team as to what they could do to improve their range and I have been asked to put forward my suggestions, which I have.  They are also making me a bespoke bra which is fab.

Sometimes you have to make your voice heard when you aren’t happy with something.

In a very odd way, cancer has given me the voice I never had.

https://www.facebook.com/KWardPhotographer

Could this be (one of) the greatest days of my life xx ~ Rachel

Those of you who have known me a lifetime will know I used to be a part time model. Mainly a sports model. At the age of 18 I finished my A levels and then had to choose between taking the modelling seriously or heading off to University. I decided my looks and body wouldn’t last for ever (and how right I was!!) but my brain Hopefully would, so off I trotted to Sussex Uni to study for a Mechanical Engineering degree. I’d done catalogues, newspaper adverts and brochures, it was a fun time. Parked as a good memory.

So over the years my dream of walking a catwalk had been left behind. University and a love of food, a very happy marriage, and 2 pregnancies leading to births of 2 very large babies certainly took its toll on my physique.

Then came the Breast Cancer diagnosis. So with this comes surgeries (3), missing parts (many), chemotherapy treatments (17th yesterday), a ton of different drugs (too many to name or count), steroids (appetite stimulants), radiotherapy (exhausting) and comfort eating (inevitable). A lack of ability to exercise fully – no excuses here – it really does have to be fitted in around health issues and energy levels. I’m not in the greatest shape ever!!!

Last week I got the chance to turn back the clock and feel like the old me. The model me. I cannot thank Breast Cancer care enough for giving me this opportunity. To live this lifelong dream, to tick this unticked box. When I was first selected I was “all clear” – except I wasn’t. I called BCC to check I was still eligible, as I still had cancer and a lot of treatment to go. Of course I was, if I was to be well enough at the time of the show. Well the whole sorry story has dragged on so long that there has been doubt in my mind that I would be well enough. The recent lung clots, the vision issues, the ongoing chemo. Only a few weeks ago I begun to feel scared I wouldn’t be able to take part.

I woke up last Sunday with a swollen face and neck, looked like an angry frog. I called the emergency line and off down to the hospital I had to go, dragging the family with me. Whilst they played in a local park I got checked out. Terrified I would be kept in and miss the show. To cut a long story short I refused to even sit on the ward bed and escaped an hour later. Thank goodness.

Well to the day of the show. About as emotional as it can get. As I waited backstage I felt my knees knocking and I thought – can I actually do this? Then they called out my name and I heard the Cheer of my life. 2 tables full of loud loving ladies were already whooping and I hadn’t even got out onto the stage yet. Some tears, full body goosebumps and a steely determination. YES I can do this. Cry my way down that stage – who cares! Well the music started and off we went and can I say I was having such a fabulous time from start to finish that tears were at the back of my mind. I LOVED it, and apparently I ROCKED it. Feeling the love from my Very emotional amazing Mum, my very best friends and my fabulously flat friends – it was a huge boost for me. I felt so loved and supported and confident.

Unforgettable.


So that was the afternoon show.

 And then the Evening show began..I walked (strutted) out again, this time to less whooping but all I could see was my amazing Husband Doug, my rock. Gorgeous and extremely emotional (sorry Doug!) standing watching in the kilt he wore when we got married. We’ve been married for 10 years in a few weeks and this was so meaningful to me. We need many many many more years. Once again I utterly loved every minute on the catwalk. It was amazing. My wonderful Oncologist was in the Audience along with other medical staff from the hospital where I have my appointments. And yes it was nice to be escorted by a famous rugby player but I only have eyes for Doug.

So what a day. I’m still buzzing. Thank you to Breast Cancer Care. Thank you to everyone who was part of my day. Thank you for coming and cheering. You know how much I love you. Sorry to those who couldn’t make it, I hope you enjoyed all the pics and videos and felt part of it. This has got me through yesterday’s chemo (back to reality!) and has restoked my fighting spirit.

It is up there with the top days of my life. Graduation day, Our Wedding day, Callum being born, Hannah being born. And then achieving that lifetime catwalk model dream. A box ticked. Lucky me xxxxxxx

Read Rachel’s blog https://dingdinground3year3.wordpress.com/

The Gift of Fear – Or How Fear Saved My Life ~ Tamsin ~ HuffPost Blog

We are delighted to be able to share this post with you. Tamsin Sargeant, our Centre's Deputy, writes a blog for HuffPost UK on how using fear in a positive way can become a most powerful and constructive force in her life.

'The Gift of Fear' presents a new ideology based on recent research in psychological science and well-being on the benefits of fear when used constructively. Tamsin talks about her fearful experiences prior to and post her BRCA1 mutation discovery, and describes the ways in which fear has helped her endure her breast cancer journey with triumphs and courage. We are very proud of Tamsin and hope you enjoy reading her story. Naz and Vicky



http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/tamsin-sargeant/how-fear-saved-my-life_b_9592014.html