On diagnosis

Oh deary me where do we start? Where to begin to catalogue the events that so dramatically changed your life? For instance, where exactly is the beginning? It could be the creeping lethargy, the inabalility to get going in the mornings, the reluctance to play with the children because of the energy involved. It could be the call from the GP asking if I could come in immediately to discuss my blood tests. Would it be when the consultant uttered the dread word cancer? Or perhaps it begins when the first tendrils of chemotherapy snake themselves into your bones to destroy everything in their path? Whichever one you choose they're all pretty grim.

The official start , however is the diagnosis. This is when the wheels of the NHS start to turn in your direction and when you realise that when it works it's a pretty amazing thing. It begins with a vial of blood, taken at the request of the GP and dispatched to the local path lab for analysis. Routine. Or so I thought. The phone rings. It's Wednesday afternoon. It's my GP. Could I come in for a chat about the results? Now. The GP spoke softly, mentioned "anomilies," indicated further tests would be needed, "to be sure." But she was pretty sure it was something serious. Within hours I was admitted to the local hospital because they too thought it was something serious. The consultant who'd first spotted the problem arrived with a very long needle which she informed me she intended to stick into my hip bone to perform a bone marrow biopsy. This would confirm what the something was and just how serious. It was left to consultant number two to fill in the details. The something was cancer. A lymphoma. Waldenstrom's Macroglobulinaemia.

GP consultation - Monday morning Diagnosis - Friday afternoon. Five days and your life's in freefall.