Back in my scrubs
Doctors decided to up my dose of chemo, try a stronger batch. It made me so ill. What was left of my oncethick, long brown hair came out in chunks.
I had to spend days at a time in hospital.
Having blood transfusions, being fed with a tube.
Then, in March 2020, with the arrival of COVID-19 lockdown, family and friends were banned from visiting.
I spent many long hours alone on the ward, lying in bed.
Cards, flowers and video calls kept me going.
Nurses and doctors, my old colleagues, came in to chat when they could. Kept my spirits up. But in April 2020, there was more bad news.
‘The chemo still isn’t working,’ my consultant explained to me.
By now, I was running out of options.
I was terrified, but I wanted to be brave.
Waking in the early hours, I’d search on my laptop for scientific papers on Hodgkin’s. Any scrap of hope. That month, I started an intensive course of radiotherapy.
Twenty sessions in just one month.
Clipped down to a table, a mask strapped across my face and neck, I waited for the laser to work its magic.
Now I know how my patients feel, I thought.
Was grateful I didn’t suffer claustrophobia.
Afterwards, I had to wait an agonising two months to find out if it’d worked.
Meanwhile,
I had to self-isolate.
At home, I missed my friends desperately.
Seeing photos of my colleagues graduating online was a low moment.
‘I wish that could have been me,’ I told Mum.
‘You’ll get there,’ she promised.
Most of all, though, I missed working at the hospital.
Helping other people.
Hearing about friends working on the front line, overwhelmed in pandemic-hit hospitals,
I felt helpless.
Finally, in July 2020, a scan showed the radiotherapy had worked.
The tumour had shrunk to 5cm.
Half its original size. While I wasn’t officially in remission or cancer free, the doctors said I was stable.
Although the tumour was still there, the cancer was unlikely to return.
Such a relief!
Finally, in September 2020, my greatest wish came true.
I was well enough to get back to my studies.
And, after qualifying this
June, I walked through the doors of Connolly Hospital, not as a cancer patient, but as a cardiac physiologist.
I’d swapped my hospital gown for scrubs, and it felt amazing.
Just months earlier, I’d been fighting for my life in the very place I was now saving them.
Because of what I’ve been through, I’ve a new-found understanding of what my patients are coping with.
I know first-hand how terrifying and lonely being sick in hospital can be.
That means I’m more determined than ever to do everything I can to ease their suffering.
I know it’s my purpose in life.
And I’m so grateful I’ve survived to do it.
Now I understand what my patients are coping with