TL;DR at the end. However, I actually admit I can be wrong in the following, so you know, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event. You’re probably better off reading the whole thing, because you’ll never see me admit it again.

If you're me, when one friend tells you that you’re overdoing it, you ignore them. When two tell you, you roll your eyes. When three, from three different friend groups, all tell you the same thing? Well, I sigh and continue ignoring them.

As you can probably tell, over the last week or so three different people from different friendship circles have accused me of trying to run before I could walk, have said that they have noticed that I'm more tired than I should be, that they are worried I'm not giving my body a chance to heal.

And as you can probably tell, I've ignored them...


Then, this morning, I couldn't find my hair scrunchie. It had been on my wrist, but now it was nowhere. Not on the floor. Not on my wrist. Not on my bed. I even checked under the cat.

Nothing.

It wasn't until I got to work and pulled at my tights (which had already bunched round my ankles like Nora Batty) that I realised how tired I apparently was.

Yup.

There, under my tights and around my left calf (looking nice and muscular) was my hair scrunchie. So I spoke with my boss and I'm stepping back from full-time work for a bit longer. I'll be napping more, I'll be back sitting under a blanket with a book or two, and I'll be letting myself rest.

Have I learnt my lesson? No. But I will listen to my friends and family because they know me as well as I know myself, but they also know how stubborn I am and see through that, and yes, I do have a word that starts with "a" and ends with "holes" for them.

Today is six weeks since my operation.

Just six weeks since they removed three-quarters of my liver, and yes, it was as massive as it sounds even though I've been playing it down. They cut through layers of muscle, removed the part of the liver with the most cancer, removed my gallbladder, and then stuck me back together with some rather large tubes sticking out. I’ll talk about that in the near future, when thinking about it doesn’t take me mentally back there.

Surgery isn’t just scars you can see; my body works differently now.

My maximum heart rate is lower and if I push too far, it feels like I’m drowning in my own chest.

It’s not me being unfit (at least that’s what the professionals say), it’s just how recovery works.

All I’m allowed to do in the form of exercise is very light yoga and gentle walking. 

I can’t lift a kettle that's more than half full without feeling like someone’s put an elbow where a rib used to be, so I’m officially removed from tea-making duty.

I have to sit whilst emptying the washing machine, whilst I'm doing the dishes, or whilst I'm preparing meals.

I have to sit in the shower, I have to rest after washing my hair.

I can’t lift shopping bags, I can’t push the trolley in the supermarket.

I can’t do the things I used to do in the way I used to do them.

This is my new normal.

I’m grieving my old normal.

Things like doing two gym sessions, going to work, a quick one-mile lunchtime walk, a three-mile evening walk or jog, doing my chores and then another gym session.

Now my mornings are spent walking round and round my garden. Sometimes, if I’m feeling up to it, I walk up and down the hill outside my house. Sometimes, if I'm feeling plucky, I'll walk a mile to a local shop, but then I have to sit down before heading home because I’ve done too much.

It kills me because I had worked so hard to be fit over the last four years.

And yet.

I can see I’m better than I was when I first came out of surgery.

I can see I'm better than when I first came home.

So what if chores get done sitting down?

So what if I have to nap?

So what if I have to sit on a bench pretending to be engrossed in my phone whilst I rest?

My progress may be tiny, but it is still progress, and I'll keep trying.

I'll keep trying, because the cancer will be back.

I know that there will be more tests, there may be more surgery or maybe chemo or radiotherapy or one of the other many treatments.

I can’t control what comes next. I can't control when it will happen. All I can control is how ready I am for whatever comes next and when it decides to happen.

So, Mr PippaD and I are doubling down. Doing everything the medical team and dietician ask, tracking food (not that it's hard, I've been doing that for the last four years!), hitting my macros, eating way more protein (a 50% increase!), taking supplements, drinking my water, sleeping, and of course walking.

One of my surgeons told me at my check-up that the operation went better because of the effort I put in beforehand. That miserable 600-calorie diet, the walks, the training.

It all mattered.

That’s the one thing I can hold on to. The one thing that pushes me on. I did that and it mattered. It will matter again.

I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get back to the gym, to running, to feeling like me. Optimistic me hopes it will be late November ready for Christmas (I have costumes to wear). Realistic me knows it might not be until the start of Lent, or later.

So, I’ll keep walking in circles in my garden, around the city, around the stadium, around the local streets. I’ll keep making little improvements because I am going to be READY.

TL;DR: Six weeks after losing three-quarters of my liver, I lost my scrunchie up my tights and found out three friends were right. I’m doing too much. So I’m back to napping, reading, and being a garden-lap Olympian. My max heart rate is lower, push me too far and I don’t achieve a PB, I just nearly pass out.