Danielle Mulholland - Cancer - a diary of the Journey

09/02/2026

- radiation treatment leaves burn scars. I expect they will fade in time but at present, I look like a burns survivor. Which in a way, I guess I am.

The fatigue is still lingering but my cloudy mind seems to be emerging from its fog. I am taking this as a win. The treatment is brutal but the recovery doesn’t end when you leave hospital. Be kind to yourself. You can’t experience cancer treatment without some side effects and this little blog is just to prepare yourself.

Stay out of the sun. You do not need sunburn on top of your radiation burns unless you’re auditioning for “Fukushima the musical”. Not only will you hurt yourself even more, if your Mum is still alive, you can expect the wooden spoon to make an appearance.

Avoid hard foods like nuts. Unless you masticate them into a paste, when (not if) you throw up, the nuts come up as well and get caught in your nose. You blow your nose and blood will come out because they are sharp little buggers. Stick to soft foods for a little while, even when you get out of hospital. The ulcers in your throat haven’t quite healed and you do not want to do yourself more damage in celebrating your freedom. In this case, slowly, most definitely wins the day.

My hair has fallen out in clumps and I fear I am heading for the Telly Savalas look. So it may finally be time for a new hair look to match my cancer freedom. Although if the worst happens, I have all sorts of ideas to decorate my baldness in style. Hint - sparkles will be involved.

Most of all, keep your chin up. Get a second or even third opinion if your body disagrees with a doctor’s diagnosis. It is your life, your choice, your fight. I have had the privilege of surviving. Not everyone does.

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21/01/2026

From Jenny Dowell, former Mayor of Lismore.

“Today the 20th January is a big day for me. In the last two weeks I’ve had a blood test and also a CT scan with tracer dyes to look at what is happening with my cancer from my skull to the base of my spine and also, what’s happening in my brain.

Today I see the Oncologist and I’m expecting that while the cancer treatment may have done some things to stall whatever, I don’t feel well and I feel I’m deteriorating. My expectation is that it’s time for me to make some decisions about on-going treatment.

At the moment my treatment is divided into two different lots - pain management and it’s also the cancer meds that I take, hormone blockers and suppressants that work on the hormones that feed the cancer. I’m expecting that I will have some opportunity to talk about my quality of life.

I’m still losing weight, I’m struggling to eat. Food doesn’t interest me at all but I know I have to eat something. I force myself to eat a little, Sustagen and things like that to keep up a bit of strength. I have no feeling of hunger at all.

I feel like I’d like to progress this and that means going into the Palliative Care stage of life and hopefully at home. There’s a lot of things that will come out of today’s discussion. I know we have a fabulous Palliative Care team here. I know I can stay at home unless something like a fall puts me in hospital. My family is all supportive of whatever decisions I make.

I’m getting my affairs in order, even to the point of planning a funeral and writing a eulogy. I’ve chosen who I want to be my Celebrant and Funeral Director and what music I want, that kind of stuff. It’s quite a good feeling to have some control and people who die suddenly don’t have that opportunity, so I feel very fortunate to have time. My energy levels are very low but each day I choose something that makes me move. This week at Parkrun will be my last Parkrun Director role because I physically can’t do it, but I will continue to participate in Parkrun in some way as a volunteer in a stationary position (laughs) for as long as I can. I was here for the very first Parkrun and I don’t know if I will be here for the 10th anniversary Parkrun in April, but it’s been a huge part of my life.

I’m still involved with Red Cross. We had a meeting yesterday about the plans for the year and there is some exciting things happening. We have wonderful leadership in the employed space and I work with a fabulous team leader Irene Dawson so I want to be involved as much as I can. There’s a few things that I will do until I no longer can. I’ve just sent off today my book review for the Regional Library’s February newsletter. I’ve been doing that for about 8 years and I have two more in the wind. That will probably see me through, I don’t think I can do anymore book reviews.

My reality is, I sleep a lot, my attention wanes as I’m reading and I can’t read as much as I did. I still have 6 books beside the bed. The changes I’m noticing are pain in my skull and I’m noticing my thinking isn’t as clear as it was. I’m noticing more lumps under my right arm which is not the arm that I had the cancer and lymph nodes removed 17 years ago. I’m noticing a thickening on my coccyx and I find it uncomfortable to sit.

I have a group of friends whom I communicate with regularly, whether by text, phone or meeting for a coffee and they’re in a similar boat to me or perhaps have a chronic illness, and we can have these really frank discussions about the reality of it but also the people who’ve stepped up and reached out, you don’t expect, and those who’ve not stepped up or reached out that you thought might.

It’s an interesting experience, this dying one.

Time has gone out the window. I’m much more comfortable in sitting and doing or not doing for as long as I can. People have become more important than things and activities. It’s quite rejuvenating to sit down with someone and have a heart to heart conversation. Also, I know I can keep confidences really well, I’ve always done that. I feel that I trust the people close to me and they trust me. I feel that this period of reflection and just being is quite a learning experience as well.

I’ve gone right through all my Mayoral stuff and I was just going to throw it out but the Historical Society said NO!! we’ll have it! They’re in a terrible situation so I don’t know….. but I’ve labelled that to them. There are things I want to go to specific places and others I’m giving away things. I have a fabulous group of women I went to Teachers College with and we started in 1968 and we’re still friends. I went through all my brooches, necklaces and scarves and chose something for each one and sent them off. I chose brooches for the women I did canteen with and I took those to our December lunch.

I was meant to go bushwalking in three weeks to the Snowy Mountains with a group of local women. I was so looking forward to it as I’ve done a lot of bushwalking. I had to withdraw because my body is not up to it. One of the women suggested I pick some flowers from my garden, give them to her, she will press them and take them to the Snowy Mountains so a little bit of me will be spread around.

The good thing about having time to prepare for death, is you can do things like that and steadily think about what I want to give to people as a part of me.

That’s probably plenty.”

You have a lot of support Jenny, and we are all thinking of you. 💕

13/01/2026

The Recovery
The treatment was brutal, and the recovery is less “uplifting montage” and more “extended blooper reel.” Everyone assumes that once treatment ends, you bounce back. In reality, you just trade one set of problems for another and get sent on your way with a smile and a leaflet.

My memory has packed its bags and left without so much as a goodbye note. This is particularly frustrating for Simon, who now has to repeat things several times before they stick - assuming they stick at all. I nod along confidently, only to ask the same question five minutes later like it’s brand new information. On the plus side, every conversation is full of surprises. On the downside, Simon is living in Groundhog Day.

Most of the sores around my face, neck, and chest have faded, which feels like a small win. Unfortunately, several stubborn ones are still hanging on for dear life, presumably out of spite. : you can, in fact, get sores on your scalp. Combine that with hair falling out in clumps and you start to look less “brave cancer survivor” and more “extra in a low-budget Chernobyl documentary.” Mirrors become optional at this point.

And then there’s the mental gymnastics. Even after being declared “cancer free,” there’s a tiny, irritating voice at the back of your mind asking, “But what if it comes back?” It’s persistent, unhelpful, and impossible to mute. Personally, I refuse to give it any real airtime. If I start entertaining that thought, I’ll never stop. Also, I’ve already done my time - no sequels, thanks.

So instead, I focus on the future. Or at least a version of the future that doesn’t involve hospital gowns and IV poles. What are my priorities now? What actually matters? What do I want to do with whatever is left of my life - preferably while fully clothed and with my hair making a partial comeback? Recovery isn’t graceful, it isn’t pretty, and it certainly isn’t dignified, but it is happening. And for now, that’s more than enough.

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12/01/2026

BRIDGE WORKS AND TEMPORARY ROAD CLOSURE
CEDAR POINT BRIDGE - EDENVILLE ROAD

Cedar Point Bridge will be closed to all traffic for approximately four weeks while the damaged bridge deck is replaced. Once works are complete, the current 5-tonne load limit will be removed.

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧:
From 7am Monday 12 January 2026 to 4pm Friday 6 February 2026
(Start date is weather dependent.)

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞:
Edenville Road will be closed at both the Summerland Way and Omagh Road intersections.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭
• Access to Omagh Road will be available via Summerland Way and Anzac Drive

06/01/2026

So… apparently I’m not dying.

Which, frankly, feels like a pretty solid plot twist.

Yesterday I had my PET scan - you know, that fun little medical experience where you lie perfectly still while a machine judges every life choice you’ve ever made. Then today I get the phone call. The one that decides whether I’m celebrating or quietly Googling “how to put my affairs in order without alarming everyone.”

For months, I’ve been living with this dramatic little cloud hovering over me going, “Anyhoo… could be terminal.” That kind of uncertainty really adds spice to life. Everything gets darker, heavier, more existential. You don’t just buy groceries - you contemplate your legacy in the cereal aisle.

And the treatment?

Oh yes. Brutal.

Radiation and chemo tag-teaming me like I personally offended them. Add metastasis into the saliva glands and lymph nodes and suddenly optimism feels like a hobby for other people. I was not confident. I was cautiously pessimistic at best, doom-curious at worst.

So the doctor says the word “remission.”

Now. Let me be clear.

“Remission” sounds suspiciously like “mostly fine but don’t get too excited.” It sounds like there’s a tiny group of cancer cells hiding behind a curtain whispering, “Heehee, see you later.” So yes, my voice went a bit hysterical when I immediately asked:
“Right… but is there any cancer left?”

Because I did not go through all that for a participation trophy.
And then came the magic words.

No.
None.
Nada.
Not a whiff.
Not a rogue cell.
Not even a cancer vibe.

Cancer has been completely evicted. Bags packed. Keys taken. Lease terminated. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 cells.
Reader, I may have internally screamed.

This was a full, unfiltered, emotionally justified WOOHOO moment. The kind where your soul does a little jazz hands routine while your brain shouts, “TAKE THAT, CANCER.” Somewhere, I’m fairly sure the universe heard me start the happy dance - and yes, it was wildly uncoordinated.

I am one of the fortunate ones.
I made it through the dark bit.
I got the ending people hope for.

And now?

Now I dance.
Badly.
Joyfully.
Cancer-free. 🎉

Stay tuned for other cancer stories, straight from the mouths of other patients.

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27/12/2025

A low-key Christmas full of love, family, and laughter—absolute perfection. I know how lucky I am to still have most of my family with me, and my heart goes out to anyone doing the silly season without a loved one. Sending extra hugs your way 💛.

We had a few glorious days with the grandbabies, plus an evening packed with love and laughs with both our girls, our son-in-law, and of course the tiny humans who rule us all - our grandies. As always, it involved endless hugs, kisses, and very serious play with whatever random object had captured their attention for a solid three minutes.

In a stunning display of bravery (or stupidity), I spent Christmas tormenting my sister by asking if she needed help aftershe’d already finished a task. Washing up done? “Need a hand?” Bench wiped? “You sure you’re okay?” I did this repeatedly. For sport. I’m honestly shocked I survived - only I can trigger that slow head turn and dead-eyed, slightly feral, murderous stare. Worth it. 🤣

It was a simple Christmas, reminiscent of the old days, though sadly without my brother-in-law’s parents. We blended the two family Christmases, with traditions popping up everywhere - The Greed Game on Boxing Day, the single gift on Christmas Eve so that a little bit of each family’s Christmas lives on in the next generation (and possibly confuses them forever).

My favourite part, apart from the dangerously good food my sister makes, was the Christmas train. We all have moments where we revert back to being children, and apparently mine involves sitting on the floor, completely mesmerised by a working train set. Zero shame. Full joy. 🚂

I hope everyone had some joy in their life for Christmas - no matter what form it took. A new year is fast approaching and my New Year’s resolution is to spread happiness and kindness whenever I can and let go of past grievances which add no value to my life and are just boulders on the shoulders, weighing me down.

However, before this year is out, I would like to thank those people who were so amazingly thoughtful and generous of heart to me over the last few months. From the drop in visits to items designed to occupy the hand and mind, being in hospital is now just a fading memory except for the kindness and thoughtfulness shown to me by others. The hospital days are fading now, but that kindness isn’t. It landed deep. It hit me right in the feels. I did have to rescue a Lego set which was marching out the door but it was Harry Potter! It had to be done! 🤭

Happy New Years Everyone! 🥳.

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27/11/2025

So, my dear friends, it’s been a while since I’ve posted, and for that, I deeply apologise. But, you see, I’ve been busy… growing a new collection of skin. And by “growing,” I mean breaking out.

Picture it: my face, neck, and shoulders, all generously adorned with lovely, crusty sores. These aren’t just any sores. Oh no. These are the premium, deluxe model - the kind of sores you’d expect to find on a boiled potato left out in the sun for too long. I am, at this point, a walking advertisement for an all-you-can-eat pepperoni pizza that’s been left out in a hot car.

The sores are about the size of a two-cent piece, and they’ve taken to spreading like they’ve signed a lease agreement for real estate. I’ve got them everywhere: across my face, my neck, my shoulders… even behind my ears. Which, as you can imagine, is truly delightful. In fact, if I stand at just the right angle and squint, I can almost hear them saying, “Welcome to the party!”

And what are they, you ask? According to medical professionals, it’s “radiation dermatitis.” Sounds so scientific and clinical, doesn’t it? So polite and dignified. But really, it should be called “Skin’s Revenge: The Sore-ening.” Because these little monsters are actively plotting against me.

Now, a word of advice - don’t get cocky just because they let you out of the hospital. Leaving the hospital is just the beginning of your suffering. You’ve reached a milestone, but the goal? The goal is to avoid becoming an actual radioactive mutant. Without the superpowers.

Once you’ve crossed the threshold of freedom, you may think it’s time to pop a champagne bottle in celebration. But no. The celebration is over. Now, it’s time for you to be the proud owner of the Urban Sprawl of Sore Town, where every bump, scratch, and weird itch threatens to start a new colony.

: Don’t touch them. Don’t look at them too hard. Don’t even think about them. These are not your friends. The more you pick at them, the more they multiply. Like a cursed game of Whack-A-Mole. For every mole you whack, two more show up wearing tiny little I Love Radiation t-shirts.

Let me just say it outright: If you get the urge to scratch, rub, or pick at them… you’re asking for trouble. I’m talking full-on medical disaster territory. And this is not a reality show where you get to come back from the brink of sepsis and laugh about it. No, no. This is your skin’s version of a horror show where the plot twist is that you’re the villain.

And let’s not even discuss the morning routine. Because that’s a whole other level of absurd. Getting dressed when you’re a human pizza takes time. Do you know how long it takes to make sure you’re fit to be seen in public? About as long as it takes a middle-aged possum to get out of a wheelie bin after a few too many late-night snacks.

Then there is the prolonged period of time getting dressed in the morning do you are fit to be seen in public. You don’t want a sudden outbreak of medieval plague doctor masks or to have people begin to say “hi”, then their eyes catch up with their brain, they stumble around you and take off at a sprint, pulling out the covid handy sanitiser to douse themselves from head to foot. So to avoid feeling unloved and a teeny bit like Typhoid Mary, you think a few light scarves will cover the worse bits.

However, by the time I’m ready to leave the house, I’ve probably covered myself in more scarves than a Middle Eastern market during a clearance sale. The goal here is to cover the worst bits without looking like a ninja in hiding. And yes, while I look like I’m on my way to a secret meeting with a high-profile, cloaked figure, it’s still better than walking around with radiation scars exposed for the world to enjoy.

Because here’s the thing - people will stare. You think you can avoid it, but no. The second you leave your house, you will inevitably encounter someone who’s just dying to ask about your new “radiation chic” look. They’ll come in, all wide-eyed and curious, and then… they’ll lean in a little too close. Too close to that one sore you swear has been trying to kill you from the inside out.

This will not stop the macabre and the curious from asking to see your radiation wracked body. They may even come close to sticking a finger into one of your sores, whilst making appropriate disgusted noises, the least of which is “ewwwww”. Why thank you - that’s made me feel so much better, you mutter to yourself as you hurtle towards your car, put on your sunglasses, hat and anything else that will hide you from view and shrug down in your seat, praying this fresh hell will be over soon.

You’ll be so busy trying to cover your face in horror that you’ll forget your scarf has slipped down, exposing even more of the glorious, weeping wounds. It’s a full-on performance now, and you’re the main act. No one’s throwing a bouquet of flowers, though. Just sanitiser. They’ll be dousing themselves in sanitiser like they’ve just touched week old roadkill.

And let’s be honest: at this point, you’re praying that everyone will just stop looking at you like you’re the star of a new zombie apocalypse movie. You’ll probably climb into your car, cover your face, and roll the windows up so you don’t get air-kissed by the atmosphere itself.

You’ve officially reached the level of “out of sight, out of mind.” The trick now is to leave the house, cover every exposed inch, and pray you don’t meet anyone who wants to, I don’t know, insert their finger into a raw patch of skin for no reason other than sheer curiosity. Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that humanity will never pass up the chance to poke something that looks like it might explode.

for partners in this situation. If your loved one all of a sudden utters the word “OWWWWWWW” - do not, DO NOT, utter the words “what’s wrong now”? Oh I am sorry - do my little spikes of white hot pain inconvenience you? You will find your loved one go from cuddly bear to “I am going to gut you like a fish” Polar Bear with an attitude before they return to contemplating the seascape of sores. The word “now”? Erase it from your vocabulary for your own health.

Anyway, that’s it for now. Just remember: don’t mess with your sores. Don’t touch them. And if you’re ever feeling sorry for me, just think: at least I’m not still in the hospital. Yet. And neither is Simon which is a testament to my self control.

And to those of you who have been kind enough not to run for the hills when you see me approaching in public, I appreciate you.

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18/11/2025

After two weeks at home, I’ve also discovered a new and exciting personality trait: I no longer produce normal human temperatures.

Apparently my thermostat has decided to express itself artistically. One minute I’m a penguin on an ice floe; the next I’m a Victorian governess swooning from “the vapours.” My hubby keeps asking if I’m okay, but I can’t answer because I’m too busy alternating between wearing three jumpers and lying spreadeagled on the floor like a fainting goat.

It’s the glamour for me.

And let’s not forget food. In hospital, meals arrived whether you wanted them or not - usually while you were mid-nap or mid-existential-crisis. At home, I have to fetch food.

Sometimes I open the fridge, stare at its contents, and then close it again because nothing in there politely asks, “And how are we today, love?” while sliding lukewarm toast at me.

The betrayal.

Meanwhile, my body has taken up a new hobby: Surprise Plot Twists. Got used to one symptom? No problem. Here’s a new one. And another. It’s like my immune system got bored and started improvisational theatre.

I wouldn’t be surprised if, next week, my kneecaps just packed their bags and left. “We’ve discussed this,” they’d say on the way out. “We’re not doing this storyline anymore.”

The crisp skin of last week - when you think you’ve reached Peak Crispy, your skin blisters again, like it’s levelling up for a boss fight you never agreed to play. Flamizene becomes the closest thing to intimacy you experience. You start whispering to it, “Please. I’ll give you my firstborn. I’ll give you my Netflix password. Just stop the damn itching.”

But no. The itching stays. The blisters multiply. It’s like my neck is hosting a bubble-wrap factory without the satisfaction of popping anything and flaking skin from every pore. That’s commitment.

Speaking of flakes, at this point I’m convinced I could be legally classified as a geological formation. Archaeologists could dig me up and confidently announce I’m from at least three strata simultaneously. If this continues, I’ll be sedimentary by Christmas.

And the fatigue…The fatigue is so dramatic it deserves its own BAFTA. I stand up too fast and my soul briefly leaves my body to file a complaint. If you find me passed out in the Main Street, this is why. Just roll me out of the way of pedestrians and be on your way….

I used to think I understood the concept of “tired,” but no. Past Me was adorable. Past Me thought yawning twice was exhaustion. I’d like to go back in time and pat her gently on the head - careful not to shake off any more flakes - and whisper, “Sweet summer child, you have no idea.”

And the hair. Oh, the hair.

My bathroom looks like a small woodland creature exploded. I keep expecting David Attenborough to materialise and whisper, “Here we see the shedding human in her natural environment, unknowingly creating a nest for an as-yet undiscovered species.”

Honestly, losing clumps is one thing, but when they start sliding down your back like soft, creepy spiders, that’s character development nobody asked for.

So yes, I’ve started naming my prospective wigs. Why not? I’ve earned a little chaos.

The platinum one is “Disaster Britney.”The short red bob is “Witness Protection Barbie.” The curly one is “Chaotic Good Sorceress.”

I plan to rotate them based on mood, energy levels, and whether or not someone deserves a disturbing scare.

And you know what? Maybe that is the silver lining of all this mess: the sheer creative freedom. If my body is going to behave like a soap opera villain, the least I can do is become the unhinged comic relief.

Happy days? Absolutely not.

But deeply, deeply funny ones?

Oh, absolutely.

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11/11/2025

Just over a week out and I’m back at work — brain functional (mostly), body vaguely cooperative, and doing what needs to be done. I’m still tired, though. When I get a spare day, half of it vanishes in a puff of smoke as I sleep until midday. 😳 It’s like my body is filing an HR complaint against me for “overwork during recovery.”

The Skin Chronicles

One thing they definitely left out of the information booklets: the rashes. And the dry, peeling skin. And the “skin splits” — those charming little tears that appear in inconvenient places where the skin creases, dries, and just gives up on life.

- scarves are your new best friends. They hide a multitude of crispy sins.

The rest of my skin currently resembles a fine snow globe — except instead of winter magic, it’s me. The additional symptoms I’ve been assured are “perfectly normal” include extra body-wide flakiness, new burns, split skin, hair shedding like a cat in spring, taste buds that have apparently gone on strike, and an extreme case of the itchies. 😳 “Normal,” they say. 😳 Normal. 😳

Where is a Harry Potter–style Healer when you need one?

Food, the Final Frontier

Food remains a challenge. Even salad, because of its sharp, pointy, scratchy corners. Bread? Firmly on the side of cancer. Who knew that lettuce could be weaponised?

My lovely Mum is still making Simon’s dinner while I carefully weave my way to the fridge to see if there’s any of that leftover — but more importantly, whether there’s any soft frittata left. That way I avoid another lecture about the importance of nutrition.
At the moment, my menu looks like something designed for a Victorian invalid: soft eggs, barely warmed crumpets, smoothies. But I’m out of hospital. Happy dance. 🎉

Back in the Chair

Yesterday I was back at work, chairing Council meetings and making some tough decisions. It was exhausting, yes, but also weirdly grounding. There’s something comforting about slipping back into your old rhythm - even if your body feels like it’s been through a war zone.

At least I didn’t flake out mid-meeting and need to be carried from the room. I don’t think there’s enough muscle in the building to pull that off!

The Quiet Gratitude Bit

Through all of this, I’ve been overwhelmed by the kindness around me - my friends, family, colleagues, and the community. I suspect it’s been harder for them than for me. They’ve watched, worried, and held me up when I couldn’t quite do it myself. So: thank you. Truly. 🙏

Cancer is a solitary battle fought in a crowd. You do it alone, but you never really do it alone.

What Comes Next

This might be the end of my cancer story, but not the end of the story. Over the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing the voices of others - people with breast cancer, ovarian cancer, prostate cancer, skin cancer, and more. Each one has a story worth telling, raw and real, told straight from the horse’s mouth.

So, strap yourselves in for Chapter 2. It’s going to be honest, confronting, and sometimes darkly funny. Because if there’s one thing cancer teaches you - it’s that humour is the best weapon we’ve got when everything else feels out of our control.

If I can help tell their stories with the same grit and gallows humour that got me through mine, then maybe, just maybe, we’ll all find a little more light in the dark.

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03/11/2025

I’m freeeeee!!!!

02/11/2025

After a few false starts, I can smell freedom. It smells like fresh air, sunshine, and fruit I still can’t taste. The irony is delicious - allegedly. My taste buds have taken extended leave, possibly until Christmas. “Up to three months,” they said. Conveniently after the fact. Funny how that detail was left off the “Welcome to Medical Hell: A Journey” brochure.

But soon - so soon - no more hospital menus offering the three daily choices of:
1. Take it.
2. Leave it.
3. Suffer.

And let’s talk about those food choices. One vegan patient in the whole hospital and yet vegan chicken is a staple. Now, bless the vegans - your discipline is commendable - but if something looks somewhat like chicken, claims to be chicken, and yet contains precisely zero chicken… what eldritch ingredients lurk beneath that bread crumb coating? I’m a visual eater: if I cannot identify what’s on my fork, the fork goes down. Hard pass. On the plus side, I think I have shed a few kilos….

Meanwhile, my suitcase is packed so tightly that airport security would be impressed. Every charger, every book, every random comfort item that seemed necessary for survival - all zipped up and ready to make a run for it. The doctor has done his final rounds, and the verdict is favourable. If he’d dared to suggest otherwise, I would have been spotted rappelling down the exterior wall at dawn, hospital gown flapping in the wind like a superhero cape. With dignity, obviously.

The staff - oh, the staff. The thing about hospitals is they force you into a strange new social ecosystem. You’re in your worst state, and yet these extraordinary humans show up day after day with smiles, patience, and superhuman resilience. The nurses? Absolute angels disguised as caffeine-powered miracle workers. The doctors? Brilliant minds wrapped in delightfully quirky personalities. The catering team, the housekeepers, the wardies - every single one genuinely friendly, cheerful, and somehow immune to the general misery of the place. I love seeing people happy in their work - it restores your faith in humanity a little.

And then there is my closest companion on this epic saga: The Ice Machine.

Don’t underestimate it. When your throat feels like it’s been sandpapered by radiation and fire ants, ice is life. And the joy of having a 3-litre bottle so you’re not dragging your broken body to the kitchen every time you drain a 250 ml cup? That is luxury. That is royalty. That is survival.

What I won’t miss:
- Being woken at hours usually reserved for bakers and burglars
- The serenade of beeping machines that refuse to suffer in silence
- Hospital gowns designed by people who hate modesty
- The constant parade of “just checking” interruptions just as you drift off to sleep
- The glamorous procedure of spitting into tissues because swallowing is a negotiation

What I will take with me:
- The reminder that humans are tough - tougher than we ever want to find out
- The gratitude that comes when you realise how deeply you are loved
- The pride of knowing stubbornness can be a legitimate medical strategy
- A new appreciation for ice chips - Michelin-star level ice chips
- A story worth telling, with comedic embellishments for maximum impact

In less than 24 hours, this building, these corridors, these 5am wake-up calls will be rapidly disappearing in my rear-view mirror. And I will be heading home to my own bed, my own pillow, my own bathroom (oh, the bliss), and food I can’t taste but can at least admire visually.

Freedom is close enough to touch - if only my fingers weren’t still slightly shaky. Still, I’ll take trembling freedom over comfortable captivity any day.

Tomorrow, I go home. No ifs, buts, or coconuts - tomorrow is THE day. For all of you who have been part of this journey with me, have sent notes, cards, arts, crafts, LEGO, puzzles etc - I thank you all dearly. It has meant the world to me. ❤️