{"id":368150,"date":"2025-08-23T21:20:10","date_gmt":"2025-08-23T21:20:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/368150\/"},"modified":"2025-08-23T21:20:10","modified_gmt":"2025-08-23T21:20:10","slug":"ive-been-diagnosed-with-cancer-twice-in-the-past-12-months-heres-what-the-pamphlets-dont-tell-you-emily-thompson","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/uk\/368150\/","title":{"rendered":"I\u2019ve been diagnosed with cancer twice in the past 12 months. Here\u2019s what the pamphlets don\u2019t tell you | Emily Thompson"},"content":{"rendered":"

I\u2019m 45 years old and currently battling cancer. A few weeks ago, I threw up at work with such force that I peed myself. My first thought was: the treatment pamphlets tell you to sip peppermint tea and keep a fan at your desk for nausea, but nowhere did they mention you might find yourself in the staff bathroom vomiting so hard you become incontinent. If they had, I\u2019d have popped a spare pair of undies in my work bag.<\/p>\n

I was diagnosed just before Christmas last year. It was a complete shock: I was 44 and the healthiest I\u2019d been in years. At first, I was given an excellent prognosis, and after the initial shock, I rallied like never before. I decided I was going to face this head-on, full of positive energy.<\/p>\n

But after surgery and pathology, the language shifted. They started using the word \u201cgood\u201d instead of \u201cexcellent\u201d, and we realised this was going to be more of a fight. I gathered as much information as I could, along with every resource available, determined to be prepared. But nobody told me about the messy parts.<\/p>\n

After speaking to some fellow cancer warriors, I\u2019ve compiled a list of the advice I wish I\u2019d been given at the start.<\/p>\n

1. You don\u2019t have to follow the advice<\/p>\n

At one of your initial appointments, you will be handed a tonne of information from the Cancer<\/a> Council, and most of it is solid gold. But you don\u2019t have to do everything that\u2019s recommended. This is a shock, and I\u2019m sorry it\u2019s happened to you, and it\u2019s OK to do this your way. I started by sharing everything publicly and was overwhelmed with wonderful support. Nine months in and I\u2019ve retreated into myself and don\u2019t want to talk to anyone about it. Both are OK. My oncology counsellor told me to stick to my normal schedule as much as possible and not to give cancer more power than it already has. This was fine until recently when I had to cut back hours at work. I\u2019m not giving cancer power, however \u2013 I\u2019m giving my body the rest it needs.<\/p>\n

2. Give your body what it needs<\/p>\n

Right now I need rest, <\/strong>nutritious meals when I can handle them, sunlight and movement. There\u2019s new research that suggests exercise plays a vital role <\/a>in cancer treatment, and it\u2019s encouraged where possible. Personally, I find it improves my mood, gets me outside and helps me feel I\u2019m taking a proactive step towards health. Likewise, I spoke to a fellow cancer warrior who explained that she loves juicing \u2013 each day she will head to the fruit market and carefully choose her fruits and vegetables. She explained she understands that juice is probably doing nothing for her cancer, but it\u2019s not bad for her and helps her feel proactive. I\u2019m not into juice, but after speaking with her, I now have salad for lunch every day. My daily bowl of rainbow veggies isn\u2019t a cure, but it is a ritual that feels as though I\u2019m telling cancer to fuck off.<\/p>\n

3. Your body will change in unexpected ways<\/p>\n

You might pee yourself when you spew \u2013 look, it happens. Chemotherapy in particular will mess with your digestive system and you will immediately map out the toilets of any public space you are in. You might lose your hair \u2013 everywhere. Losing your nasal hair means your nose will run constantly. Losing your pubic hair makes you fart really loudly. Steroids make you pack on weight; other medications will strip it off frighteningly fast.<\/p>\n

4. Cancer hurts, and some of that pain is financial<\/p>\n

I have stopped working full-time and we are so very broke right now. My diagnosis coincided with the cost-of-living crisis, so we\u2019ve never needed a second income more. And cancer is expensive. It\u2019s not as bulk billed as you would expect \u2013 the fine needle biopsy used to diagnose my cancer cost $380 after the Medicare rebate. The medical costs add up quickly.<\/p>\n

5. You will become your own best advocate<\/p>\n

Sure, you should find a knowledgable medical team who has your best interests at heart, but you know your body best. If something doesn\u2019t feel right, keep pushing until it\u2019s paid attention to. It\u2019s OK to demand that scan, try a different medication and to discuss treatment options. You are not difficult. You deserve solutions.<\/p>\n

6. You will lose friends and gain unexpected ones<\/p>\n

There\u2019s this idea that challenging times \u201cshow us who our real friends are\u201d but that\u2019s not the case at all. Cancer is a lot, and not everyone can take this journey with you. It doesn\u2019t make them bad people, it\u2019s just that life is heavy for everyone and they don\u2019t currently have space for you. But the people who stay with you will hold you up in ways you never knew you\u2019d need, and you\u2019ll make new friends too.<\/p>\n

7. Cancer is a rollercoaster<\/p>\n

Lots of metaphors work, but this one is the best. The sudden jolting start, the highs, the lows, the speed increase and decrease and the twist you didn\u2019t see coming. All of this is geared to get you to the exit: remission or NED \u2013 no evidence of disease. But here\u2019s what you didn\u2019t know: if you\u2019re lucky you can get off the rollercoaster, but you can\u2019t ever leave the amusement park. Every three, six, 12 months you have your scans and blood tests and see if you\u2019re being dragged back on for another spin. I was thrown back on this year after a scan revealed new tumours, this time in my lung. I have lost the positivity that powered me through the first round. I\u2019m not sharing as much because there\u2019s nothing to say. It isn\u2019t fair the first time, but the second time hits you where it hurts.<\/p>\n

8. You aren\u2019t alone<\/p>\n

There is so much help available. My family and friends, once they knew what was going on, cooked meals, grocery shopped, took care of our youngest and supported our eldest. I live in regional New South Wales and the charity Can Assist<\/a> has been a lifeline. They pay for all of my cancer medications, including my radiation meds, and will cover transport and accommodation costs when I have to travel to Sydney for treatment. Your local hospital should be able to point you in the direction of a social worker who will find all of these helpful options for you. There\u2019s probably a support group near you \u2013 make use of it.<\/p>\n

9. You don\u2019t have to stay positive<\/p>\n

You don\u2019t have to be brave. You don\u2019t have to be the best cancer patient and be liked and be an example to others. It\u2019s OK to cry. Just make sure you reach out for help if it feels as if you are drowning in your tears.<\/p>\n

10. You won\u2019t be the same<\/p>\n

But that\u2019s not necessarily a bad thing. You will experience a loss of autonomy like never before. One moment my husband and I were discussing trying for a third baby, and the next I\u2019m signing forms promising to not get pregnant for at least 12 months post radiation. But I\u2019m stronger and surer of myself now, and I understand the fragility of life. I take fewer things for granted and prioritise my family over my career.<\/p>\n

The pamphlets can\u2019t tell you all this. But those of us who\u2019ve been on the ride can.<\/p>\n

And if you\u2019ve just found yourself holding that ticket \u2013 pack the spare undies. Trust me.<\/p>\n