Back in August 2024, I discovered a lump in my neck. An initial ultrasound showed "no sinister features," and my worries were instantly put aside. But the sense of relief was short-lived.
By December 2024, I had developed a persistent, unshakeable cough and seemed to catch every cold. Then, in January 2025, came the relentless, full-body itch, followed by drenching night sweats and sudden weight loss. Doctors offered various explanations: asthma, scabies, eczema, anxiety, stress, burnout. I felt dismissed, yet I knew my body was screaming for help.
My persistence finally led to an X-ray, which showed abnormalities, prompting a CT scan. The results were concerning: potential autoimmune disease or lymphoma. I was sent for a biopsy on the very lump I’d had checked months earlier. The phone call that came on 30 April 2025 is a moment I will remember forever, as I was told I had Hodgkin lymphoma.
2025 was supposed to be a year of immense joy and celebration. My partner and I were due to be married in December, and we were going to try to start a family. Suddenly, all plans were replaced by stark realities. The haematology team scheduled a PET scan to map the spread of my lymphoma. They mentioned the high risk of infertility from chemotherapy, offering the option for me to freeze my eggs. In addition, I was given the news that I would lose my hair. The consultant even suggested postponing the wedding.
I cycled through every raw emotion: anger, crippling upset, anxiety, and deep fear. I simply could not have survived that period without the incredible support of my family and friends.
The egg retrieval process began in May 2025. The relentless injections, blood tests, and internal scans were hard, but the hope of a future family made every moment worthwhile. I endured it all, and today, I have 14 eggs safely stored, ready for the day we need them. During this time, the staging of my diagnosis was confirmed as stage 4 Hodgkin lymphoma. The cancer had spread to my spleen, and there was an 8cm mass in my chest.
A few days later my partner, Jack, had a thought that changed everything. "Holly, why don't we just get married next month instead of postponing?" I was initially taken aback, especially given the uncertainty of my future. But we realised what truly mattered and decided to seize the day. Jack and I were married on 2 June. The very next day, 3 June, I started chemotherapy. While some may think we’re mad—chemotherapy as our honeymoon—it was the decision that felt right for us.
My treatment plan was escalated BEACOPDac, an intense chemotherapy regimen. I clung to the hope that if this didn't work, there were other options. Positivity was my only choice.
Two weeks after my first cycle, my hair began to fall out—clumps on my pillow, then handfuls. It was devastating. But I decided to brave the shave, a small act that made me feel like I was taking back control. There were moments looking in the mirror when I didn’t recognize myself, but my sister’s kind words became my mantra: "Beauty is about how you carry yourself, Holly." This gave me the confidence to sit on the chemo ward with my beautiful bald head.
I endured two cycles of this regimen, which were the hardest thing I’ve ever done; the side effects were terrible. On top of everything else, I was, and still am, going through chemically-induced menopause.
A mid-treatment PET scan brought the first great news as I was told I was likely to have had a full metabolic response. The hard days suddenly felt worth it. I pushed through two more difficult cycles, one of which landed me in an ambulance because I was so unwell.
After a total of four cycles, I had my final PET scan. A few days later, on 29 September which is Jack's birthday, the phone rang. There were no cancer cells left in my body. Seeing the look of pure relief on my mum and dad's faces melted my heart. When I called Jack at work, he said, "that’s the best birthday present I could have wished for."
Today, I am navigating a new me. My body doesn't feel the same, and I still have moments of anger, sadness, and tears. But I constantly remind myself that I was given a second chance at life, a chance not everyone receives.
My hope is that this story gives hope to others. Above all, I want everyone to trust your instincts. You know your body better than anyone. If I hadn’t been so persistent, I might not be writing this story today.