Why haven't you updated us?!

TL;DR at the end — but trust me, you’ll want the full saga. As I’ve been told, I tell a good story.

Erin grabbed me at HIIT this morning and went, “Hey… I keep meaning to grab you to check how you are and how everything’s going.” (I'm paraphrasing!)

Which is fair, because I haven't given you an update in a while, and you’ve all been letting me post gym selfies and memes and use rather dark humour to get you to sponsor me to run a couple of 5K's and all as if I haven’t got a whole tumour situation going on.

So, here’s what I haven't told you.

A couple of weeks ago, I had plans. A full week of Fitness Tribe sessions, not telling anyone bar the inner circle that my Gallium scan was on Friday, and spending the week eating my favourite snacks, reading, and doing the things that make me me.

I’d been told not to do strenuous exercise for 24 hours before the scan, so Thursday morning was meant to be my final session. But someone in the inner circle must’ve had a quiet word with my left LAT muscle, because it stepped in and said, “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make sure that she avoids strenuous exercise this week.” and then it pulled itself.

That injury meant I skipped all my sessions. In hindsight, it was perfect timing, so I’m calling it a win. A painful, awkward-when-putting-on-a-bra win. But a win.

Friday morning, Mr PippaD (aka Flyfour) and I headed to London for my scan at St Thomas'. Because I’m me and he’s him, we arrived early.

Too early.

So we wandered along the South Bank, explored the book market under Waterloo Bridge, popped down to Thames Beach (couldn’t see it — high tide), took cheesy tourist photos, and finally headed to the hospital. Flyfour kissed me goodbye and gave me the “don’t adopt anything radioactive” look before I headed into the Hot Zone, as he wasn't allowed to follow.

Inside, I did the usual routine — explain why I’m here again, because every medical professional wants to know “what’s your story?” Regaled the nurses with tales of my sister, my children, my friends, and reassured them at least twenty times that I wasn’t pregnant.

They inserted the cannula (right arm, as requested — legends), and told me I’d be safe to see my pregnant sister about three hours after the scan. I’d read “three days,” so I told them I’d wait until I was definitely not glowing.

Then came the warning: once I entered the Hot Zone, they couldn’t come near me.

Because I’d be RADIOACTIVE. 

I knew I'd be radioactive, but people will avoid me radioactive? Yeah, that's a bit different!

I sat reading a book on my phone. The nurse came in, gave me the gallium tracer, and left me to marinate in my own future superpowers. Then, via intercom, I was told to remove all metal/jewellery. I had nothing to remove — I’d come prepared in a zip-free dress and non-metal sports bra. This wasn’t my first rodeo. It was my first radioactive rodeo, but still.

Into the scanner I went, lying down like a radioactive princess, and got scanned from head to toe to see if Tumourthy has any friends and where they might be hiding. (I'm taking bets, if you want in on the pool let me know!) I counted ten minutes in my head (ask Erin, if we’re ever on The Traitors, I’m your MVP for time challenges), and it was done.

I messaged Flyfour to say I was finished — just waiting for confirmation my scans were clear enough to read — and two minutes later, I was striding across Westminster Bridge toward Whitehall.

I waved at Parliament.

I waved at Downing Street.

I smiled at a man about to do a TV interview who stared at me like I was some kind of glowing goddess and honestly, I might have been — rainbow dress, radioactive innards.

Best comment was from Lisa, who quipped, "You took NUCLEAR ARMS to Downing Street?" ☢️💪

Flyfour met me on Whitehall with a mysterious gift bag. He said it was for me… but I couldn’t open it yet.

He’d been to the National Gallery, so I assumed he’d bought me a print of The Fighting Temeraire, which we always joke about and quote from Skyfall:

“It always makes me feel a little melancholy. A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap…”

“What do you see?”

“A bloody big ship.”

We got to where we'd parked our car, and as we passed Pho, one of our favourite restaurants, we stopped to order wings. It was about 4pm and I'd not eaten since 6am! While we waited, he handed me the gift.

It was a poem.

A man in Trafalgar Square had written it. Flyfour told him, “My wife’s just been diagnosed with cancer. I’d like something to lift her.” The man asked if it was serious, and Flyfour explained it had been caught early, he said, “Like my mum.” Then he typed out the poem, using my name: Pippa.

I started to read it and I cried. “I can’t read this,” I said.

Flyfour thought it was because I didn’t have my glasses, so he started to read it for me… and I cried harder.

Because I knew exactly what it was: a moment someone else had written for me, and I wasn’t ready for how seen it made me feel.

And every time I’ve tried to read it since? I still cry.

Back at the car, I pulled out my Geiger counter (obviously — who doesn’t travel with one after being injected with gallium?). MK’s background radiation is 0.08–0.1.

I was way above that.

Beeping. Flashing. Glowing with glory. There's a video below because I know that you all want to see it too!

We ate wings, drove home, and I updated Flyfour on my diminishing radioactivity. Then I tried to discover my new superpowers.

I offered to bite people to see if they’d get abilities. No takers.

I tried predicting lottery numbers. (Still poor.)

I tried laser eyes. Time travel. Hulk rage. Nothing.

Even my pee didn’t glow. (I was this close to cracking a glow stick into the loo for a prank, but decided it was probably a joke too far.)

The next day, we drove four hours to the Yorkshire Dales.

Why? Because Flyfour thinks I’m dying and is trying to speed things up.

(Kidding. Mostly.)

We did a 7-mile circular walk from Muker to Keld and back IN THE RAIN. It's a walk I’ve titled “Because Flyfour Thinks I’m Dying.”

Halfway up a hill, I cried.

Not because I was weak, but because I was tired. Because I’m strong and still get wiped out by hills. Because I miss my mum, and I want her here… but I’m also glad she’s not. Because she’d hate that I have cancer.

Because sometimes, it’s just a lot.

Halfway up, I reminded Flyfour that I loved him.

Then called him every terrible name I could think of, because obviously it was his fault we were climbing a hill in the rain while I processed mortality.

Now, and this is the fun bit. I’m not saying I unlocked superpowers, but…

I’m normally a blister magnet. I can’t walk 4 miles without getting at least 3.

That day? Seven miles. Not a single blister.

Okay, I'm saying it. SUPERPOWER UNLOCKED.

Amy-Charlotte says it's regenerative healing like Wolverine and Deadpool, but it only works on blisters.

I'm still hopeful that my other powers will develop soon.

Oh, and somewhere in the middle of all this, I took up running.

Flyfour says it’s a bit weird, like, most people get a cancer diagnosis and cry. I got one and downloaded a training app. I’m not sure what's wrong with me either. I keep running 5Ks as if I actually like running them!

TL;DR:

• I had my Gallium PET scan.
• I took Nuclear Arms to Downing Street.
• I walked 7 miles in the Dales. No blisters. Possible superpower.
• I cried. I laughed. I glowed.
• I’m still here. Still loved. Still sarcastic.
• Bets on where the tumour started are still open. Place yours in the comments.
• I took up running. Well, joggy jogging.