After 40 years working, I retired in 2023, healthy and happy, ready for a new chapter with my husband Mitch. Life was good - gym sessions, travel plans, and the joy of approaching our 60th birthday celebrations. Then, late in 2024, a nagging ache in my right shoulder changed everything. At first, I dismissed it as an age related 'twinge', but the pain worsened. My GP arranged tests - bloods, X rays, all normal. Physio suggested a frozen shoulder. By December, mobility was limited and sleeping was agony.

By early 2025, the pain had intensified and my arm began to swell. I returned to my GP, who referred me to the hospital’s Urgent Medical Assessment Centre (UMAC). Tests showed 'unremarkable' results, and a Doppler scan ruled out a clot. But a CT scan of my shoulder caught something unexpected in my abdomen. A full abdominal scan revealed 'extensive omental disease'. I was told, on 4 February, that I had cancer - though the primary source was unclear.

Despite the shock, I focused only on the shoulder pain. My UMAC consultant arranged further urgent scans and a biopsy of shoulder. The shoulder biopsy came back clear, but the abdominal results raised further concern. 

Over the following weeks, I endured more scans, biopsies, and consultations. My care was passed to the Cancer of Unknown Primary (CUP) team. By early March, utterly exhausted and in constant pain I couldn’t complete an MRI scan. When I returned to UMAC, they admitted me immediately. Fluid was found in my lung; 700ml was drained. Still, I felt oddly detached from it all - the pain overshadowed everything else.

Then, after a consultation with a haematologist, came the first real diagnosis: diffuse large B-Cell Lymphoma (DLBCL) Stage IV, with bulky disease in my shoulder and spread to my abdomen, kidneys, and adrenal glands. It was aggressive, treatable, and hopefully curable.

I was transferred to the haematology ward, but within days I became critically ill with tumour lysis syndrome. My family were called in, and I was rushed to ICU and told there was a 50/50 chance of survival. 6 rounds of POLA-R-CHP chemotherapy began immediately in intensive care, delivered through my PICC line as I drifted in and out of consciousness.  

Somehow, I pulled through. After several days, I improved enough to move back to the ward. But I was unrecognisable - immobilised, oxygen dependent, catheterised, 20kg heavier from fluid retention, barely able to lift my arms. With extraordinary support from nurses, physios, and my family, I began to recover.

A PET scan after two cycles showed an amazing early response: minimal disease left and clear lungs. My next 4 rounds of chemo were as an outpatient after being discharged early April. By May, I was doing exercise classes for cancer patients and attending Maggie’s Centre courses. Then, a cruel blow in June: my earlier abdomen biopsy, after 3 months had come back - it was Burkitt lymphoma, an even rarer and more aggressive cancer, though still curable.  I felt as if I had been diagnosed all over again.

Treatment continued: two rounds of high dose methotrexate in hospital. I tolerated the treatment incredibly well, supported by an expert team, constant monitoring, and sheer determination.

By August, scans confirmed remission. But the full plan wasn’t over - two additional rounds of R IVAC chemotherapy were required to ensure any microscopic disease was eliminated. This was another gruelling inpatient phase, 3 weeks each time. I was in remission but now having another chemo regime. Was it ever going to end?

My final chemo began on 28 October, my birthday. Staff decorated my hospital room to celebrate. Though a delay in the final bag of treatment upset me, finishing it was an emotional milestone. Determined not to miss Mitch performing in Maggie’s 'Strictly Come Dancing' event - a tribute he’d trained for in my honour - I negotiated a night pass from hospital to attend. I made it, surrounded by friends, family, and cheering nurses.

By late November, my last PET scan showed no evidence of disease. I was elated but had radiotherapy to come. 3 weeks of radiotherapy came to a timely end on 22 December, just in time for Christmas. I did struggle with the radiotherapy, as I had to wear a very tight fitting mask over my face, neck, and shoulders to keep me very still.  It was very claustrophobic and didn’t become easier as the days went on.  I could feel myself becoming anxious each day travelling to the hospital.  The radiotherapy itself was only about 7 minutes, but I had the mask on for about 20 minutes for set up etc.  

From a simple shoulder pain at the start of the year my world turned upside down, but 2025 ended on a high. Through it all, the compassion of nurses, doctors, Macmillan staff, physios, and my loved ones carried me forward. 

Now in remission, recovery isn’t just physical, it’s emotional, and communal;never a solo act. In January 2026 I took on a challenge to walk 62 miles. When I first left hospital in April 2025, I literally couldn’t walk out the door and thought this would be a fitting way to start my full recovery in 2026. I asked my family and friends who sat by my hospital bed day after day, fed my family, dried my tears, who never left my side and finally got to hug me after all my successful treatment ended, to now walk beside me taking on the challenge.

I am feeling a bit unsure of myself at the moment, going from weekly, if not bi-weekly blood tests to 3 monthly blood tests, but I suppose I need to adjust to my new norm again.  The specialist nurses are on the end of the phone if I am anxious about anything or have any questions.  Always, always ask questions, get to know what your blood results mean, I had plenty of practice in hospital and if you can build a good rapport with your medical team it makes all the difference.