Reflections From a Life Changed by Cancer
When Life Began to Change
It was in early 2024, following a bout of Covid, that I first began noticing changes in my health. What initially seemed like ordinary infections soon became a repeating cycle. I kept developing sinusitis, which would then move into chest infections.
The infections never seemed to fully clear, and with each one I felt increasingly exhausted and physically drained. There did not appear to be one clear explanation tying everything together, yet deep down I knew something was not right.
Gradually, I started losing physical strength, and everyday life began changing around me.
This became a turning point for our family. We stopped and seriously considered the future of our family business and the pace at which we were all living. I made the decision to retire, while my two daughters wanted more family time and a healthier work-life balance. Together, we agreed that self-care had to become a priority.
For me, self-care became more than rest. It became a search for answers.
Trying to Be Heard
One appointment remains especially clear in my memory. A GP I had never previously met told me:
“Only one thing could be dealt with at a time.”
The priority, she explained, was my latest infection. When I discussed bleeding symptoms that were concerning me, they were attributed to coughing caused by the infection. Despite telling her how unwell I felt, she decided not to prescribe anything and advised me to return in three weeks, explaining that it was viral and I simply had to go through it.
As I reflect on that appointment now, I remember the overwhelming feeling of not being fully listened to or understood.
Less than three weeks later, I was struggling to breathe and felt significantly worse. I returned to the surgery and this time was seen by a nurse. After examining me, she told me both my lungs were infected and “sounded like bagpipes.” She prescribed antibiotics and steroids and asked me to return once the medication had finished.
I explained how unhappy I had felt after the previous GP appointment and that I believed my symptoms had not been fully considered. By this stage, the chest infection had become severe.
Although the medication helped somewhat, I still did not feel well. At a follow-up appointment, I was told my chest had cleared and that perhaps I was simply someone who always needed to be busy. I was advised to wait until spring, with the expectation that by then my energy would return.
But this was not about doing too much.
In truth, I had very little energy left at all. My health problems had already been continuing for months, and I no longer felt like myself.
When I returned again for further checks and eventually learned that the GP had written in my notes that my enlarged tonsil suggested a viral infection. What troubled me most was that my tonsils had never once been discussed during the appointment. Had they been, I could have explained that I had lived with one enlarged tonsil since childhood, meaning that assumption alone could never have explained what was happening to me physically.
A week later I returned once more to the surgery, this time seeing a GP who was extremely helpful. He examined me properly, arranged tests, and prescribed further antibiotics. Shortly afterwards, another GP — one I already knew and trusted — personally contacted me to explain that the test results showed I required a different antibiotic entirely.
The medication helped partially. Some symptoms improved, but I still did not feel completely well.
Spring eventually came and went, yet I still felt deeply exhausted. I had little energy, and the sense that something was wrong within my body never left me.
By June, I returned to the GP surgery once again. This time, I met a doctor who listened. One of the symptoms I discussed was more unusual bleeding. She immediately arranged a hospital referral for further investigations.
Mull and Iona
Around this time, I decided to take a holiday. I had always wanted to visit Mull and Iona, so together with friends we rented a house on the Isle of Mull for a few weeks. I brought my two dogs, Toby, my Toy Poodle, and Maisie, my young Cockerpoo puppy.
I looked forward to peaceful walks, beautiful scenery, and simply resting.
Watching the dogs exploring the large garden and playing freely brought a sense of comfort and calm.
Visiting Iona was especially moving. There was a deep sense of serenity there — a stillness and peace that felt difficult to describe fully.
Yet even during those beautiful moments, something still felt wrong physically.
After outings, I often needed to sleep. I found myself exhausted by early evening and in bed long before night had properly begun. It felt as though I could do less and less, for shorter periods of time, before my body simply gave in to exhaustion.
One day during the holiday, I remember saying quietly to my friends:
“I think there is something really wrong with my health.”
And deep down, I already knew it was true.
The Diagnosis
Not long after returning home, I received a bowel screening pack through the post.
Strangely, I found it reassuring.
For some time, I had been trying to raise concerns about bleeding symptoms, yet previous explanations had linked them to coughing caused by repeated infections. Receiving the screening pack felt as though perhaps now something would finally be investigated properly.
A week later, I was contacted and asked to attend the hospital for further tests.
I attended the appointment with my daughter, and a colonoscopy was carried out. Afterwards, we were taken into a separate room where the consultant gently explained that cancer had been found.
Even writing those words now feels surreal.
Following the GP's referral, I had also attended a hospital appointment for gynaecological investigations. At one stage, I was given the option of having part of the testing carried out immediately or waiting to have everything completed together. I discussed the decision with the hospital nurse and, two days later, with my own GP. Both agreed that completing everything at once would be the best option.
What followed became an emotionally exhausting period of my life.
There were delays, conflicting information, long periods of waiting, and growing uncertainty. Eventually, after several difficult months, I was diagnosed with a second primary cancer.
The way I received that news has stayed with me.
I was informed over the phone by a doctor who, while speaking to me, was also speaking to other people entering and leaving the office. Hearing that I had a rare, high-grade cancer whilst the conversation around me continued so casually left me feeling numb. Especially being told my only hope was surgery. I ended the call shocked, overwhelmed, and deeply let down.
Finding the Right Support
The confusion continued for some time afterwards.
Different information was given at different stages, delays continued, and the colorectal team were forced to pause parts of my treatment while decisions were still being made elsewhere.
At times, I felt emotionally lost within the system.
On one occasion, I was told that I was no longer considered a patient within Lanarkshire and that there was no point in contacting the consultant or hospital team who had previously been involved in my care. I remember feeling deeply confused and anxious.
I asked who my doctors now were and who I should contact moving forward. I was told that I would need to wait to hear from a hospital in Glasgow and would probably see the anaesthetist first, but that it should not take months.
By this stage, there had already been several delays and long periods of uncertainty. When I calmly questioned the waiting time and tried to gain clarity about what was happening, my ability to follow the situation seemed to be questioned in a way that felt patronising.
Yet I fully understood what was being said — it simply did not make sense to me and left me feeling caught in a state of limbo during an already frightening time.
I felt that my attempts to ask questions and seek clarity were sometimes interpreted as panic or misunderstanding simply because I had cancer.
In reality, the stress I was experiencing came not from an inability to understand, but from the lack of clarity surrounding what was happening and from feeling unsupported whilst waiting for answers.
I have never been someone who reacts with panic. Quite the opposite — during difficult moments I tend to become calmer, trying to understand what is happening whilst still looking for light, even within darker situations.
One of the hardest parts of a cancer diagnosis is the feeling that so much control has suddenly been taken away. During those moments, accurate information, genuine understanding, and simply knowing support is there can make an enormous difference.
Being told how I felt, rather than being listened to, only added further confusion during an already emotionally difficult time.
Looking back now, I believe much of that distress came not from the NHS system itself, but from individual communication and the way information was handled during certain moments of my care.
Had it not been for my GP, Dr J Trainer, I think I would have felt completely alone medically.
More than once, she spoke on my behalf, clarified information, and ensured I received accurate answers when everything felt uncertain.
During some of the moments when I felt most vulnerable, her support, kindness, and willingness to speak on my behalf meant more than I can fully express.
Eventually, I was referred to the Royal Infirmary in Glasgow, and for the first time things began to feel more organised and clear.
Because I had two primary cancers, surgery was considered my best option.
I first met Dr Rhona Lindsay at Stobhill Hospital. From the moment she spoke with my daughter Jodie and me, I felt reassured. She encouraged questions, explained everything carefully, and treated us with warmth, patience, and professionalism. As we left the appointment, my daughter quietly said: “What a wonderful doctor you have now, Mum.” And she truly was.
I later met Professor C Roxburgh at the Royal Infirmary. His calmness and quiet confidence immediately brought reassurance. Alongside him was Aileen, the colorectal nurse specialist, whose kindness and warmth made such a difference during an incredibly frightening time. Speaking with her felt natural and easy, almost as though I had known her for years.
For the first time in a long while, I felt some of the fear and anxiety beginning to ease.
Surgery
My surgery would require two surgeons with different specialities because of the complexity of having two separate primary cancers. The operation would also be performed robotically — something I had never even heard of before.
A few days before surgery, I dreamt that two male doctors were performing my operation. At the time, I thought little of it.
So I was more than a little surprised on the morning of surgery when I was told that a male doctor would be standing in for my surgeon, who had unfortunately become unwell.
Rather than frightening me, it gave me a sense of peace. Having had the dream and now seeing events unfold this way, it felt somehow as though everything was happening as it should.
Dr K Burton immediately reassured me, carefully explaining both the procedure and his experience. He also had a natural humour that helped ease not only my anxiety, but also the fear my son and daughter were carrying that day.
Listening to him, I felt completely safe, just as I had with Professor Roxburgh.
More than that, I felt certain I was going to be alright.
The surgery lasted around seven hours.
When I eventually woke, I remember seeing my son, my daughter, and then Dr Burton beside me. I was told the surgery had gone well, although further treatment, including chemotherapy and radiotherapy, would still be needed.
Even through the pain and exhaustion, I remember feeling immense gratitude.
What amazed me most afterwards was the robotic surgery itself.
Had this method not existed, I genuinely do not know if I would still be here writing these words today.
The day after surgery, I was already able to shower and eat breakfast. I was sore, of course, but I felt far better than I could ever have imagined after such major surgery. I had undergone a radical hysterectomy, the removal of part of my bowel and rectum, along with fifty-three lymph nodes.
Yet despite everything my body had endured, my recovery progressed remarkably well.
I remember thinking often about how extraordinary modern medicine truly is, and how fortunate I was to have been treated by such skilled surgeons and healthcare teams.
There are many frightening moments when someone hears the word “cancer” and surgery is undoubtedly one of them. But if there is one thing I would say to anyone facing robotic surgery, it is this: Do not be afraid.
For me, it gave me not only successful treatment, but also a recovery far kinder than I ever expected possible.
Treatment and Difficult Decisions
Following surgery, I was referred to Dr Rosie Harrand, the gynaecological oncology consultant at the Beatson in Glasgow.
By this stage, it had been explained to me that Professor Roxburgh had successfully removed all visible bowel cancer during surgery. However, because both cancers had also involved lymph nodes, there could never be complete certainty that every cancer cell had been removed.
Both the bowel cancer and the endometrial cancer placed me within a high-risk category for recurrence.
The endometrial cancer, which had been identified as Grade C, was considered particularly aggressive, and because of this the focus of further treatment centred mainly on that cancer.
One of the difficult realities I learned during this time was how complex treatment decisions become when someone is diagnosed with two separate primary cancers. It was explained to me that chemotherapy could not effectively target both cancers independently in different ways at the same time, so decisions had to be made based on overall risk and what would potentially offer the greatest benefit.
I began chemotherapy hopeful that my body would tolerate it well.
Unfortunately, the physical impact on me was severe.
After only two rounds, it became clear that my body was no longer coping safely with the treatment. The side effects became overwhelming, and eventually the difficult decision was made to stop chemotherapy altogether.
Throughout this process, Dr Harrand explained everything to me carefully, honestly, and compassionately. Further discussions then took place regarding radiotherapy. However, it was ultimately felt that radiotherapy was also unlikely to benefit me in the way originally hoped.
The concern was not only about the immediate effects of treatment, but also about protecting my body from further damage that could potentially limit future options. If treatment left me too physically unwell or caused significant internal damage, then important medical interventions later — including possible future surgery or targeted radiotherapy — might no longer be possible if they were ever needed.
Those conversations were emotional and deeply difficult.
There is something profoundly confronting about sitting with doctors and discussing not only treatment itself, but the balance between treatment, future possibilities, and quality of life.
Yet even during those difficult decisions, I felt immense gratitude for the honesty, compassion, and humanity shown to me by the medical teams caring for me. The intention was never simply to continue treatment at any cost, but to make thoughtful decisions that considered both my wellbeing in the present and what options might still remain available for the future.
From that point onward, quality of life became central to every decision being made.