It's Cancer

 There’s a TL;DR at the end — but the story’s worth it. Promise.

So… it’s cancer.

Proper, official, capital-C Cancer.

Which is a wild thing to type. But here we are.

I didn’t tell most people when the appointment was — not because I was being mysterious, but because I didn’t want nervous texts, concerned face emojis, or anyone else panicking. The inner circle knew. The rest of you got to keep seeing the memes, the gym selfies, and the chaos.

And then the hospital cancelled it.

I was… calm. Polite. (I know!) I emailed the department, all very proper and British:

“Dear Team, I do understand these things happen, but I was really hoping for answers and was wondering if someone could possibly update me?”

Translation: I’ve had a tumour in my liver since December and my entire personality is currently being held together with sarcasm and sugar — please respond before I unspool completely.

An hour or so later, I was heading out for a walk when I got a message about an appointment for a separate issue they’d found on one of my earlier scans, but we’ll talk about that another day (sometime in 2026 which is when my appointment is).

When I checked the app after my walk, so I could add it to my calendar, there it was:

A new appointment.

Sooner than the cancelled one.

At Churchill Hospital. With the surgery team.

I was… honestly, I don’t even know what I was.

I figured that the tumour was being removed, but someone had just forgotten to tell me.

About an hour after that, I got a call.

I took the call in the conference room at work. A nurse introduced herself and asked if I was okay to talk — I assumed it was to confirm the appointment and said I was, and that I knew about the appointment on Friday.

I wasn’t supposed to know about the appointment.

Someone was meant to have called me.

And speaking of which… how did I have their team email address if nobody had spoken to me?

Let’s just say I’m... resourceful with a computer.

She asked what every medical professional has asked me at the start of our meetings:

“So, what do you know so far?”

Well, they found a lesion, which became a tumour, I was referred to you guys and had a biopsy and now we’re awaiting the results… but I assume you have them, seeing as my appointment was cancelled and now I have another one booked.

She listened and then very gently explained that the results had come back — and that I had cancer.

She said long words and explained so much.

More tests. More waiting.

But I didn’t take it in.

She’d said: Cancer.

Two days later, I went to Churchill Hospital for my appointment. I met a new team.

They used more big words, but they explained them too.

I have what’s called a neuroendocrine tumour, or NET.

It’s rare. Of course it is. I’m an overachiever in every sense.

It’s the kind of cancer that starts in hormone-producing cells — and then one day decides to throw out a little cluster of cells to see what else is out there. It’s like us with our satellites into space.

Those little cells quietly set up camp somewhere they shouldn’t.

In my case, the liver.

But we still don’t know where it started.

Or how many more might be hiding.

So the next steps are blood tests, urine samples, and a gallium PET scan in London — because I’ve now officially graduated from the GP to local hospital to specialist hospital to "National Centre of Excellence."

I feel like I’m playing a weird game of Monopoly and trying to collect the whole set of hospitals.

The gallium scan works by tagging a tracer to anything that looks a bit suspicious.

It’ll light up any NET cells hiding in my body and (hopefully) show where the original tumour started.

At this point, I’m considering starting a sweepstake.

Pancreas? Lung? Small intestine? Who knows.

Place your bets in the comments!

I told the people closest to me.

One friend said, “Of course you'd get something rare. It's You. Wouldn't be ducking* run of the mill, would it!”

Another told me, “You absolutely do not have permission to die.”

Which felt right.

Since then I’ve read everything, joined every forum, and tested out the phrase “I have cancer” in a few sentences. It still sounds ridiculous.

I even tried it on at the gym.

Told my trainer I couldn’t possibly do burpees — I have cancer.

She nodded. And told me to do ten more.

So yeah. That’s where we are.

Still walking. Still working. Still laughing.

And absolutely still writing my way through it.

TL;DR:

I have cancer. It’s rare, it’s weird, and it’s not done introducing plot twists.

My liver tumour is a neuroendocrine tumour (NET).

We don’t know where it started yet. But we will.

I’m still standing. Still joking. Still doing burpees (rude).

And I’ll face whatever’s next with memes, snacks, and very strong people beside me (that’s you — obviously).

*They may not have said ducking. It may have rhymed and begun with an F. It's very hard to remember these things.