‘Last Chemo !!!! I draw a blanket to my face and cover my eyes. The tears come...
VICTORIA DERBYSHIRE’S CANCER DIARY
YESTERDAY BBC presenter Victoria Derbyshire described her horror at being diagnosed with breast cancer. Today in exclusive extracts from Dear Cancer, Love Victoria, the 48-year-old, who lives in London with partner Mark and sons Joe and Oliver, recalls finally getting her life back... Sunday, January 10, 2016
Four days after my fourth chemo. I feel like a very, very old woman. I can barely move, am totally wiped out and find it difficult to get out of bed even to go to the loo because of agonising pains in my stomach and lower back. Mark advises me to stay where I am and says he’ll take care of everything. I feel guilty but relieved.
As I drift in and out of sleep I’m aware of the front door closing, the dog’s barks and the children’s footsteps.
I have zero energy, and aches in my legs and hips which remind me of going into labour. Maybe this is the cumulative effect of chemo. Despite paracetamol, Anadin and ibuprofen, I can’t alleviate the aching, nor can I get comfortable in bed. Later I shuffle downstairs for a bowl of cornflakes, and then walk painfully back up to bed.
It’s the worst day I’ve had since I got cancer, and I hate it.
Thursday, January 14
It’s announced that Alan Rickman is dead, from cancer. In an unhysterical way I find it difficult to cope with hearing about another high-profile death from cancer. And then I feel guilt – I should be grateful because I’m still here and there are families everywhere mourning loved ones who’ve died from this disease. Slowly, gradually, I’m emerging from the painful fog.
Today I can stand upright and walk reasonably normally without crippling aches in the tops of my legs and hips.
Now, with a little energy coming back, I need to get out in the fresh air before all my muscles seize up.
After days of being confined to our bedroom, feeling the crisp January breeze on my face makes me feel deliciously awake, alert, alive. Apart from anything else, it is so boring being in bed all day.
Wednesday, January 27
Penultimate chemo. This is significant, although mine and Mark’s routine is the same as it is every three weeks: I pack my chemo survival kit — blankets, a scarf, hot-water bottle and phone. Mark takes the iPad, newspapers, water, and bags so he can go to Tesco.
On the car radio Chris Evans is playing Sir Duke by Stevie Wonder; the words “you can feel it all over” seem appropriate ahead of what I’m about to experience in the next couple of hours.
The cold cap goes on at 9.30am and swiftly induces nausea, but again I’m not actually sick, I just retch a couple of times.
Monday, February 1
It’s the Monday after the penultimate chemotherapy. I’ve spent a few days sleeping off the drugs and am still wearily spaced out. There are about three eyelashes left on the top of each eyelid and underneath there are just very short stubs. As a result, most of the week my eyes have been streaming.
I’m now sanguine about any more sideeffects — so the eyelashes go, and I think, yep, come on, what else have you got? What else do you want to test me with?
Monday, February 8
I weigh myself at 4.15am. I’ve put on half a stone since treatment began. I don’t feel like I’m eating more, but clearly I’m less active than normal. Plus I’m taking steroids, which can lead to weight gain. It feels pretty unimportant compared to everything else.
Back at work, and in our brightly lit studio just before we go live on air, I record some more video diary. Despite the full TV make-up, including false lashes, it can’t hide my swollen eyes.
I receive a tweet from a viewer saying they could see a tear trickle down my cheek while presenting today. I explain it’s not a tear in the traditional sense; my eyes are weeping as a side-effect of the chemo.
Monday, February 22
LAST CHEMO!!! Wake up at 6am in a really good mood. Last summer I was facing the unknown, aghast at the cataclysmic news that I had cancer. Here I am today with one breast gone, little hair, no eyelashes or brows – and also, hopefully, no stray cancer cells inside me either.
In a few hours’ time I’ll be able to put the most brutal part of treatment behind me. Mark is with me as usual, and this is the easiest session of the six. It passes quickly. Suddenly the egg timer rings, which means it’s finished. I raise both my arms and clench my fists.
“That’s it,” I say, but my voice is subdued, not triumphant. “Cool.”
Then I draw the blanket to my eyes and cover my face. The tears come.
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’ve had cancer. I can’t believe I’ve endured chemotherapy.
I can’t believe that’s it. I’m shell-shocked.
Monday, March 7
From home I watch the diary of my final chemo session as it goes out on our programme today. It’s as though I’m watching somebody else – this isn’t me on screen enduring this, and it
Hard to cope with the news Alan Rickman is dead, from cancer. But I should be grateful I’m still here