Okay, a confession.

Oh, wait!
I’m a storyteller. You *want* this story. I know it and you know it. There is a TL;DR at the end for all you monsters who hate storytelling.
Right, confession time.
All the previous updates about my cancer have been, well, a few weeks later than when I got the news. This wasn’t because I don’t love you all, or trust you, but because my family and I need the time to process before we share with you.
We decided right at the start that we’d tell this story. The weird, rare, messy reality because if even one person ever goes through this and remembers me waffling on, maybe they won’t feel so alone. And because, let’s face it, I collect your support, your thoughts, your prayers, and your memes like all the surfaces in my house collect dust.
However!
Now, it is time to bring you right up to date and provide real-time updates from now on.
How real-time? I was discharged from the hospital on Friday.


Right, time machine time!
Let’s wibbly wobbly scene dissolve back to Friday the 20th of June.
Wait? Are you doing the wobbly movement thing? It's not going to work if you don't!
One more go. Wibbly wobbly scene dissolve!
Friday the 20th June.
It was a follow-up appointment with my team at Churchill. They were running over an hour late, and Flyfour and I sat waiting to find out what the Gallium test had shown.
Eventually, we went into the appointment closer to two hours after my appointment time, and well, Dan Jon was the only one right about where the tumours are.
They can’t find my primary tumour, but Tumourthy who has been hanging out in my liver? Well, he has a little sister hanging out with him.
Introducing Tumourlene!
Yes, I collect rare tumours the way other people collect fridge magnets. Two little troublemakers.
Dan Jon was the only one to say that my tumours were confined to my liver. Little psychic.
Am I upset that they can’t find the original culprit? Actually no. Seeing as it could be one cell big and one cell is 125 times SMALLER THAN A GRAIN OF SAND, are you surprised?! I don't know if you know this, but there are around 30 trillion human cells in the human body. Finding one? Blooming heck, I have enough trouble finding my glasses.
Right, anyway. The problem with a second tumour having been found (and not having been found before) is that now either we get them out or they’ll take me out.
Yeah, that’s sobering, isn’t it.
My tumours are greedy. Normal tumours sit in one side of the liver or the other. Not mine. Oh no, Tumourthy is sitting right in the middle stretching into both sides, and Tumourlene is sitting on the right. So they can’t just snip out a polite slice like cake. They’ll have to take ¾ of my liver.
Fun fact: normally, surgeons like to leave at least a third of your liver so it can regenerate more easily. Me? They’ll leave me a quarter. I’m not great at maths, but I know that’s… smaller.
Then the list of risks: liver failure, damage to other organs, bile leaks, infections, pneumonia, blood clots, bleeding, ascites, re-operations, tumour regrowth. Oh, and yeah, a big one. Death.
But the reality was clear: no surgery means no me.
Surgery means a chance. So I said yes.
To make this work, they’d need to do two procedures first:
*Portal Vein Embolisation (PVE):* This basically blocks blood flow to the bad bit, so the good bit can grow.
*Hepatic Vein Embolisation (HVE):* This plugs certain veins to force the liver to get stronger where they want to keep it.
Oh, and an 800-calorie diet to shrink my liver fat. Delightful. (It was going to be 600. So, you know, yay, bonus calories!)
Meanwhile: keep running, keep walking, keep going to HIIT, keep my lungs strong so I don’t get pneumonia after surgery. Simple!
They said it’d probably happen at the end of August. Good. Enough time to win the Fitness Tribe competition. (I’m not competitive or anything. *Cough.*)
The Wednesday after the appointment, I got an NHS app notification:
“We’ve booked your PVE for Monday. And your HVE for Tuesday.”
Oh.
Okay then!
I fasted from Sunday night. Monday, I was prepped, I met an actual sunshine nurse, and before I knew it, I was on the table with a surgeon spending two hours rummaging inside me, and then the surgeon says, “Your veins are tiny. We can't complete the procedure. We’ll have another team try again tomorrow.”
Cool. So, back to the ward. More fasting.
Tuesday: second try. Same table, same rummaging, more blood, more pain — but they did it! It took ages and a lot of pain relief, which meant the comedown was… violent.



Fentanyl and hydromorphone do not play.
I was out of it. I was dehydrated. I was coming down off drugs, and at one point during the night, the other women in the ward pressed their call buttons because they were so worried about me. I remember nothing of this, the nurses told me the next day when I ever so slightly resembled a human.
What I do remember, and you may want to skip this part if you’re of a delicate disposition, was that the last, erm, "expulsion" was at 3am when what came out was so dark green… well it looked like Shrek and I had an intimate moment where we were very “good” friends... Wait, I'm probably the only one who gets that reference. You know those wheatgrass smoothies? Yeah, never, ever, ever have one of those.
Wednesday morning I was... Well, I looked like I’d been through two surgeries and not eaten since the Sunday. I managed a slice of toast and the very lovely housekeeper who brought breakfast to us all each day had already discovered I didn’t drink tea or coffee and so offered me a Hot Chocolate.
OH MY GOSH, do you know how good a hot chocolate is when you haven’t eaten anything for around 60 hours? I could have kissed that man.
Well, until about ten minutes later when it came back out.
I spent the day, trying to sleep off the pain. Paracetamol was all I really needed, I did a few little walks, I tried to drink as much water as I could manage, I peed, I made jokes with the nurses who came to check my temperature and blood pressure and pulse, the plebotomist who got very good at getting blood from my tiny veins, the housekeeping staff who changed my bed sheets, the nurses who kept popping by for a quick chat (My Sunshine powers were activated!), the Doctor’s who came to see me, the other women on the ward, the porters who stopped by… it was busy.


And then Flyfour arrived and took me with a porter to my pre-op appointments. More Blood tests, more history, more why are you here questions (I’ve got it down to a fine art now. It was discovered that I have NET Tumours in my liver, I need to have them removed or I’ll die) and then we met with the anesthesiologist.
I think he had been the most open of all the people we’ve met so far. He went through every single risk again, he asked questions, he explained how long it would take (6-8 hours) and I told him I was a little worried that some of the team didn’t like my sunshine attitude. He said sometimes they worry you don’t understand the risk if you’re so cheerful.
That hit me a bit. I thought just for a second before responding.
I have two options. Have the operation and possibly die, or not have the operation and die. I have faith in the NHS, in this centre of excellence, in the team that would be looking after me before, during and after the surgery. Every single person who would be involved in my care works at one of the best places in the country. That means they are the best. That every single one of them chose this profession. That every single one of them is actually paid to do the one thing I needed them to do to save my life.
I couldn't do their job, just like they wouldn't be able to sit and jabber away on the radio! They know how to do their jobs and I know that.
I trust them.
Thursday: third procedure. I cried. A lot.
Flyfour listened to me. Comforted me. I sent Scott a Pep Talk request and he delivered.
The porters tried to make me laugh. The sunshine nurse from Monday was there again and said she’d make sure I got extra anti-sickness meds as she'd heard how sick I'd been. The tears didn’t stop, but the music they were playing helped. It was almost as if they'd got my playlist from The Point!
The op was meant to be 45 minutes. It was two and a half hours.
But they did it. The surgeon showed me the CT scan afterwards he was so proud. I loved that for him, and for me, actually. It went well!


I went back up to the ward and there was only one Shrek moment (thank you extra anti-sickness meds) and I was moved into a private room before I could even really properly regain my senses.
That night I honestly did feel like the ward was my home.
I had so many visitors from the staff on the ward. They came in for little chats about Dr Pepper, which radio shows and presenters they liked (not one of them said me! Rude!), window cleaning, The Rock holding three watermelons sitting on my hips (if you know you know), the book I was listening to (Thank you Ross Greenwood), why on earth I was working on my laptop just hours after my surgery (Shut it, I was bored!), comparing how many steps we take each day... You know me. I make friends everywhere.

Friday morning I was more alert.
I had breakfast, despite not really wanting any (I’m guessing my stomach had shrunk? Plus I still needed to poop. I hadn't pooped since Tuesday!) I waited for Flyfour to arrive, and I had what was possibly the best shower (I finally got to wash off the blood, contrast and David Dickerson tan) before it was confirmed I was being discharged!
Nurses and porters shouted “Bye Pippa!” down the corridor like I was a weird local celeb. I told them I’d see them in six weeks, whilst waving and grinning like an idiot.
So. Why am I sharing this now?
I want you to know that behind the selfies and memes and fundraising runs, there’s a whole lot of raw, messy, terrifying reality.
It’s not just “Oh look, Pippa’s got a tumour and she’s making jokes!”
It’s my husband watching me fight for my life and making those sad puppy dog eyes at me when he thinks I'm not looking (Spoiler: I'm always looking).
It’s my children being scared and making me tiny amounts of pasta to eat, because I can't manage anything else.
It's my sister, trying to believe me when I say that it's not all bad but knowing that I'm lying.
It's my friends who are making me laugh, giving me costume suggestions and making sure they know I can be vulnerable to them.
It’s me, choosing to believe that my stubborn, sarcastic, beautiful body will do what it needs to do.
I’m choosing to believe that my stubborn, sarcastic, beautiful body will do what it needs to do.
But I can’t do it alone.
I need you. I need the memes, the prayers, the texts, the check-ins, the “How are you *really*?” messages.
The reminders that it’s okay to say, “I’m not okay today.”
This is just the messy middle bit. The BIG one, the hepatectomy, is coming in August. And I’m gonna need you more than ever.
TL;DR:
✅ Sorry, the updates weren’t real-time. They are now.
✅ Two tumours: Tumourthy & Tumourlene.
✅ Liver resection or… cake. I mean death.
✅ Had three ops this past week.
✅ The first operation didn’t work, the second attempt did, and the third operation went well.
✅ I was sick. I cried. I didn’t poop.
✅ I’m on an 800-calorie diet.
✅ The BIG operation is in August.
✅ I need you. Memes. Prayers. Texts. WhatsApps. Selfies. Things that make me laugh or remind me I’m not alone.
Lastly. I am absolutely not going down without a fight.
**PS:** I’ve finally pooped. You’re welcome.