Scan results today and the news wasn’t good. It must be the worst part of an oncologist’s job – giving bad news.

Whilst the bowel tumour hasn’t grown, there are more tumours in my liver.

The chemo is no longer working against Alan. It seems he sniffed it out and set about reinforcing his claim on one of my most important internal organs.

Despite preparing ourselves to receive the update, Magro and I both sat and cried in response. It feels completely defeating to know that the physical drain I’ve been putting my body through with each treatment hasn’t paid off. I can’t relay exactly how flattened we both were by this today. It doesn’t matter how much I try and ready myself for bad news, it remains a shock to my core and yet another chink in the trust I once had in my body.

What next?

A referral to a radiology team who focus on targeted therapy. It may involve surgery to insert radioactive beads into my liver. Mmmm….sounds like fun.

Dr Duenna discussing my case with her team of doctors from different specialties to consider other options.

And me? No chemo this week. The world’s shittiest silver lining.

Tonight I have no words, no energy, no space for conversation, no humour, no anything. I will take something to help me sleep and tomorrow I will start again. Like a ball that’s been slightly deflated, I’ll bounce, but just enough to get over the net.

Thank you, Magro, for walking this path with me.

And thank you to all of you who have been following my story via the blog. It helps me to process what is happening. It helps me to let everyone know what’s happening without having to have hundreds of individual conversations about my cancer. It helps me to read your messages of support. I read every one. Thank you.

In two and a half hours I will lie down for my first big PET scan since treatment started. This is the scan that will paint a picture of the inside of my body. The outcome of the invisible war that has been raging inside me will finally become known.

I had a similar scan about twelve weeks ago when treatment was in the early stages and it had looked promising. It gave us all a boost and helped me to feel like the treatment was working its toxic magic. It should give me confidence going into this scan.

And it does. But I woke up this morning in tears for the first time in a long time. And if I had to put words to the thoughts and feelings they would be: helplessness, a lack of control, fear and an awareness that the stakes couldn’t be higher. There has been no test that I have ever taken that is more important and there is literally nothing I can do to effect the outcome. That is why the phrase ‘finally lost their battle with cancer’ is so infuriating to anyone with cancer. There is no WAY to win at cancer.

I heard about Santosha recently. My yoga teacher introduced us to the term a few weeks back and I found its meaning to be strangely reassuring. At its simplest, Santosha means ‘contentment’. I know. It’s a stretch to believe I am going to find contentment in my current predicament. But there is something very therapeutic in the idea that striving in this particular context is pointless.

For me, it is the understanding that I am where I am, my body is where it is at and I choose to accept that for now, everything is as it should be. My body is doing its best to heal – I am content in this knowledge. I trust. I accept.

And whatever the outcome, that becomes the new point of acceptance. Of faith in my body, of trust in my medical team, and contentment in this beautiful life I am living.

Sound a bit fluffy? It might to you. It probably would have to me a few months ago. But now I find it the most powerful idea I’ve discovered since this shitshow began.

So whilst I woke up scared and crying, I try to focus on my breath which is always here, keeping me alive. A reminder that my body is strong and capable and has been doing its living best for me for 47 years. And even though it is really difficult I ask myself to trust. To choose contentment and acceptance in this place and time.