Staring Down the Barrel of a Gun

I posted a while back about my cancer.? Well, it turns out that cancer cells are a bit like Pokemon.? They are difficult little blighters to find and catch and my doctors didn’t manage to catch them all after all.?

After a bit of a crazy time back and fore between 4 different hospitals with scans, colitis, covid, sepsis, and a ruptured bowel, in August 2023, a doctor who I’d never met before told me to put my affairs in order and gave me less than 12 months to live.? The melanoma cancer had already spread beyond the original site and now my whole torso was ‘riddled’ with tumours.? He was surprised I wasn’t already in a lot of pain. Some of the masses, were starting to show on the outside underneath the skin with several lumps appearing on my back, side, and boobs. ??For anyone who has seen the film ‘Gremlins’ it was like the scene where Gizmo gets wet, and all these bumps start to appear on his back.? You know the one I mean?? One of the bumps under my arm turned out to be a fungating tumour – one that had burst through the skin.? It smelt bad, really bad. I had put it down to recurring Hidradenitis Suppurativa - a long term skin condition I’d put up with for years. I kept it clean and covered as best I could with a dressing, but it was a constant reminder that the cancer was starting to eat away at my body.

The doctor was a bit blunt I thought, telling me that I was ‘staring down the barrel of a gun’.? Nice little metaphor to make me feel good.? It wasn’t until I saw my actual oncologist that I was able to understand what was happening and get the full picture.? All treatment would be stopped, and I’d be moved across to the palliative care team who would ensure that my death would be as painless and stress-free as possible.?

The only way I could describe how I felt at this point is numb.? I wasn’t sure if I should crawl up into a ball and cry, or to get angry and throw something.? There’s no manual telling you what to do when someone tells you that you are terminally ill.? My heart sank as I told the children – the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.? We all cried together and then started laughing ourselves out of the sadness.? It’s what we usually do as a family – find the funny to cope with the shite.

I resolved to keep the laughter going for as long as I possibly could, and I wasn’t beaten yet.

My oncologist tried (in vain as it turned out) to find some clinical trials in the UK that I’d be eligible for.? I set out to research the world wide web for possible lifelines that might offer me some hope and, more importantly, some extra time.

I found one such lifeline in Israel.? A hospital in Tel Aviv that was offering a revolutionary but experimental treatment - TILs therapy - as long as you were eligible, and willing to pay for it.? The same treatment has just been approved in the USA (for a small price of $500,000!!!) but was being offered out there at a bargain price of $120,000. I made an online inquiry.

It turns out that my oncologist had already thought about this one.? TILs therapy is available in the UK but only as part of a clinical trial.? My oncologist thought it was my best chance and tried to pull a few strings to get me accepted onto one of the trials but hey were closed to new participants.? Despite his best efforts, none of them would touch me because of side effects I’d had to one of the immunotherapy drugs I’d been given.? I was also rejected as a participant for any other trial in the UK.? I managed to catch Covid in hospital on one of my stays which completely exacerbated my colitis symptoms.? They had to give me infliximab, a drug designed to reduce inflammation which works by slowing down the immune system response.? The drug would warp any trial results. ?The companies funding these new medicines and procedures only want ‘clean’ participants who aren’t likely to skew their results with pesky complications.? They like you to be as healthy as possible too and if I were to have it done, I would need to have it done quickly before the cancer took hold my body was too weak to cope.

And time is something that I was running out of.

We spoke to the clinic in Israel, sent off a pile of paperwork and reports, and to my surprise I was accepted for the treatment.? We would have to borrow money to pay for it – thankfully Si’s Dad was able to step in and help with a long-term loan.? The video call with the team out there was really positive.? They explained that there was effectively a 60% chance of the treatment partially working and giving me a bit of extra time, and 30% chance of what they call ‘a complete response’. Effectively I was placing over ￡100k on a 1:3 bet; it was a big decision to make.? If I’d not been able to borrow the money, would I have sold the house?? I’m really not sure I’d have taken the risk if I’d had to use my own money.? ??

We started to plan our trip. Our new passports arrived, and we were about to book our flights and accommodation out there when ... Boom!

Hamas attacked and the entire country was in lock down.

No flights, bombs flying, soldiers and citizens on edge.? From my (very selfish I know) point of view it was an absolute disaster.? The situation out there is horrific, form whichever viewpoint.? But it was also my only hope. And at this point in time I just wanted to scream the fucking place down and ask “WHY ME?”.

We were left in limbo for a few weeks wondering what the hell would happen now.? There were still no flights.? Israel was a war zone.? With little chance of a peaceful solution during that time, I resigned myself to the inevitable, focused on the ‘putting my affairs in order’ part of the brief and made plans to finally sort the house out.? My thinking was that if I have to lie dying in this bloody house, there was no way I was going to look at the walls and ceiling in that state! Everything was being sorted finally – painting, new furniture, new floors, fixing repairs etc etc..? All my cashed in pension pot was going to be being spent on getting things the way that I wanted them so that I could die knowing that I’d left the family in a tidy home and without me looking at the ceiling thinking how badly it needed painting!

I put any thoughts of a treatment out of my mind and concentrated on making things ready for my family and their life after Kerry. I wrote letters to the kids and figured out my funeral plans although I never got round to figuring out some of the final details such as what music to play or whether to have quiche on a sumptuous wake buffet.? I planned to make the most of the time I had left booking tickets to things I thought I’d still be around for such as Billy Joel and Take That concerts, both of which were scheduled before my official ‘death date’.? I accidentally booked Wicked tickets for Cardiff in November not realising that I was booking a year ahead.? Rather than cancelling though I’ve kept them, and they’ll be another ‘I’m still alive’ milestone when we go next week.? ?

I tried not to focus on the news, but that was really hard.? The Hospital in Israel said they would see how things go once the chaos of treating hostages, and injured soldiers had settled and that they would contact me if they were able to proceed any time soon.? I did not hold out much hope.?

Then, just towards the end of October I was rushed into hospital for emergency surgery having been admitted with sepsis and a ruptured bowel.? I knew it was serious when I was seen straight away and taken into a cubical where I was strapped up to a drip and dosed up with antibiotics. ?The surgeon who operated warned me it was a risky procedure and there was a 1 in 10 chance of me not waking up and dying in the operating theatre.? ?He was very interested in my case however, and the possibility of treatment overseas and said he’d try and do things laparoscopically if he could.? The wounds would heal quicker and if things did calm down in Israel, ?I’d be in a better position to fly. No promises, however.

During the operation, he went in with the camera to see how bad things were.? He told me he was truly shocked by how much the cancer had taken hold and he was surprised that I was still alive. He removed what he could through the keyholes (some of the scars left are more like letterboxes in size) and stitched me up thinking I only had months left.? He told me that by taking away some of the cancer he was hoping to give me some extra time as well as easing the pain and discomfort in my final months.

The ’year left to live’ was looking increasingly overly optimistic and the Billy Joel tickets were on the line.

I got through the operation, but I was very weak. I struggled to do anything other than to lie in bed not even feeling well enough to read or to concentrate on watching television.? I kept the news on constantly hoping to hear just a little bit of positive news from the Middle East. I drifted in and out of consciousness with the wildest of dreams induced by the hardcore medication I’d been given for the pain.? One was about Simon in a tutu – very bizarre indeed. ?

We kept in touch with the doctors in Israel, but we were still in limbo and the political situation was looking worse than ever.? I lost my mojo a bit, and I had to force myself to get better, eating small amounts as often as I could.? Motivating myself was really hard.? It was almost as if my body was refusing to listen and just wanted to give up and die and my brain was too tired to argue.? Then I heard news of a possible temporary ceasefire.? This gave me a little bit of hope finally. I pushed and pushed myself as much as I could - just going up and down stairs, stretching and moving, practicing basic things like walking, and bending - gentle exercise designed to get my strength and mobility back. I was exhausted but determined to get back on my feet and make my last Christmas Dinner for the family if nothing else.

We reached the middle of November still in a state of shock. ?Surprisingly despite the ongoing fighting, the hospital in Israel was suddenly keen to get me out there if I was up to it. After checking the flight situation (there was one flight a day from the UK into Ben Gurion run by the Israeli Government supported El Al airline) I sent them a video of me ‘up and about’ doing things to prove to them that I was healthy.? I have to say I felt like a bit of an idiot filming myself doing things like running on the spot, but it seemed to do the trick. I should also say I was a bit of a fraud too.? It took me 2 days to properly recover from making the video – I was bloody knackered. They also wanted a brain MRI and another CT scan before agreeing to anything.? We organised this privately, but it was such a faff to do.? It seems you can’t just go to clinic and get it done; you need a referral from a doctor.? You can pay for a consult if you need to, but this adds a couple of hundred quid onto the bill. ?We had to travel up to Windsor for the tests and they were reported within 24 hours – it always amazes me that it takes the NHS in my area at least 4 weeks to report.? I have previously waited 8 weeks for results to routine scans.?

The hospital in Israel was happy with my scans, impressed enough by my video, and told me to get to Tel Aviv if I could.? Out there they would do further tests out there to make absolutely certain that I would be able to cope with the treatment. There were still no guarantees they would go ahead.? We were able to book flights towards the end of November, and so began our first journey into a warzone.?

Tel Aviv is the most beautiful city and the people who live there are lovely.? It’s a very modern, clean, forward-thinking metropolis.? It was a very strange experience for us being out there at a time when the only non-Jewish foreigners were either diplomats or journalists.

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I organised the entire trip in less than 2 days. Hotels, flights, insurance (Si managed to find some from a specialist company that insures journalists in war zones), airport parking, currency, instructions for the kids, dogs, absolutely everything.? I booked a very modern hotel in the centre of the city for the first part of our trip.? It was right next door to a mall and within easy walking distance of shops and restaurants and I figured it would give us a decent base. What I didn’t realise at the time of booking was that it was also right opposite the IDF headquarters and a short walk from Museum Square which had become the focus for the families of the hostages who had being taken on that dreadful day.? If things escalated, then it was likely to be the first place to be targeted.? But equally, there was a certain sense of reassurance that it was probably one of the most protected areas of the city.

Somehow, I’d also managed to book flights which would mean us arriving in the city shortly before the start of Shabbat.? Everything closes by sunset on a Friday and the whole country shuts down for night prayers and family dinners.? Absolutely nothing was open.? We were able to get a meal at the hotel, but the bar was closed.? There was no alcohol available and there no shops in the neighbourhood open other than a tiny 7-11 that catered to the late-night needs of the IDF soldiers selling both cigarettes and hard liquor.? We wandered up to the shop craving snacks and fizzy drinks, and Si wanting a little drop of something after a very long and tiring journey.

The guy behind the counter must have been late 20s in age.? He started speaking to us in Hebrew and when I asked if he spoke English, he got immediately quite excited.?

“Are you journalists?” he asked.? “The Media Centre is closed until Sunday.”

The IDF Media Centre was in the next block.?

“No, not quite,” I replied. ‘I’m here for treatment.”

I told him about my cancer, and about the TILs treatment that we’d come for.? He was really interested and asked lots of questions about why I couldn’t have it in the UK, and why I chose Israel, and how we felt about the hostage situation and being in the city while it was being bombed.? Our whole journey had been a mad one, and to be honest we were still in a bit of shock to be out there. It was actually quite cathartic talking to him.? He listened intently, and I found the whole experience of telling my story strangely comforting.

“I know you are strangers to me, but may I say a prayer for you?”

I’m not a religious person at all.? Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t do God in any shape or form, but when you’re dying, and someone wants to say a prayer, I always think ‘go ahead and fill your boots mate’.? It does me no harm and if it makes them feel better about themselves who am I to stop them??

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

This felt different.?

“Excuse me then,” he said and proceeded to disappear for around 30 seconds, returning with his kippah on and his prayer shawl draped around his shoulders.? He was carrying a small Hebrew prayer book.? I stood awkwardly while he chanted in Hebrew, reading from the little book, and rocking back and forth.? I have no idea what the words meant but they were absolutely beautiful.? I cannot really explain it, but I felt strange sense of warmth and love.? Like the words had wrapped around me.? I was mesmerised and completely overwhelmed at the same time.? Whether it was his age or just the thought that this stranger cared that much about my wellbeing I have no idea.? Maybe it was just the enormity of the whole situation suddenly hitting me. Whatever it was, it still gives me goosebumps and makes me emotional thinking about it now.? I came out of the store and walked back to the hotel filled with tears and unable to talk.? It was a really powerful, spiritual moment that I will remember for the rest of my life. ??The only time in my whole life where I have ever felt the power of faith and it was strong enough to move me.

After a really good sleep we got up for breakfast, arriving at the restaurant to a chaos of kids. They were everywhere.? Over the course of our time at the hotel we spoke to various families and discovered that the only other residents at the hotel were either families uprooted from kibbutz that had been attacked in the South of the country or journalists who were reporting the situation for American and European audiences.? Some of the families had relatives who had been captured – mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, aunties, uncles, grandparents.? There was a definite sense of hope in the air as the temporary ceasefire started and the news was full of reports that Hamas had started to release the first set of hostages. Coming from the UK it was a little unnerving to see so many ‘normal’ people carrying rifles to breakfast.

The families had basically set up camp and the hotel provided them with as much support as they could.? Several charities had desks set up where they could get clothing, access to things like toiletries.? They provided snacks and toys for the children, as well as books and pens for home-schooling.? They provided an area where families could set up their own candles etc. for Friday night prayers (and subsequently Hanukkah which started just before we left the hotel). Many of them had escaped the attack, running for their lives with nothing, while others had managed to gather up their precious family valuables but had left with little else. It was a weird feeling being an outsider in that situation, but we felt welcomed and oddly at home there.? I guess all of us were in a pretty shitty situation one way or another.?

Our first visit to the hospital was an interesting one.? The centre there is massive and resembles a small town rather than just a hospital.? It even has its own MacDonalds. When we arrived, we were escorted down long corridors lined with huge glass windows all of which were covered with plastic tarpaulin.? There was no building work that we could see so it confused us as to why these temporary curtains were there.? There were IDF soldiers with guns everywhere, guarding rooms, and corridor off-shoots.? Our guide explained they were there to stop the paparazzi.? As it turns out, about 2 hours before we got there, the government had brought in the first group of the hostage children for check-ups and the hospital wanted to prevent the media getting pictures of them before they were ready. They were being looked after just across the hall from me.? All the news I’d been watching on SKY, BBC, CNN, was literally happening outside the door and here was little old me in the middle of it all.? Unbelievable really when you think about it and completely surreal.

We spent the next few weeks back and fore the hospital for various tests and some very intrusive poking and prodding all designed to make sure I was healthy enough for the treatment.? I had no idea why I needed all of this – maybe I should have read the leaflet properly before I started. The reasons for all the testing would become much clearer later in the process, but more about that later. It was like I was having a full MOT – heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, eyes, brain everything was checked, and double checked before they organised a small surgical procedure to remove one of the tumours on my side. Thankfully they were able to do this under local anaesthetic, as the alternative was for them to take a large tumour from my breast which would have been a far more complex operation.

My little tumour was personally escorted to the lab by the professor in charge of the trial.? There it would be processed and the ‘TILs – Tumour Infiltrating Lymphocytes’ (in other words, the super-duper cancer fighting cells) would hopefully grow, and reproduce in mass numbers. I was awake throughout the process and was able to mark some of the key differences between the systems in the UK and in Israel.? The operating theatres were all several floors below the hospital.? I guess you adapt after years of bombing and by putting them safely underground, the hospital can continue with treatment regardless of what is happening upstairs.? The whole area was huge, with operating rooms branching off a wide central corridor and waiting area.? The hi-tech equipment was state of the art and all the machines were shiny and new contrasting starkly with things like seating, wheelchairs, operating couches where a ‘make do and mend’ approach was clearly evident, and these were largely held together with gaffa tape. I noticed as well that the scrubs and sheets they used in the operating room were creased bundles tied up with string and sent straight from the laundry clean and dry.? Ironing is time consuming and expensive.? Linen functions just as well despite the creases, so why waste money on unnecessary parts of the process just to make something more aesthetically appealing??

In between hospital visits we got to explore Tel Aviv.? It’s a beautiful city and I really would love to go there again but as a proper tourist.? Wherever we went the locals assumed we were journalists – what other Westerners would be willingly walking around in a war zone? They were all fascinated as to why I needed to travel to Israel of all places for cancer treatment and at every telling of my story, I was offered prayers and good wishes. We walked for miles, ate amazing food, and watched beautiful sunsets on the beach.? Honestly, if it wasn’t for the cancer, it would have been one of the loveliest holidays ever!

You could never quite escape the troubles though.? The hotel was surrounded by soldiers armed with rifles and there were helicopters landing regularly on the roof of the IDF headquarters across the road.? We only had a couple of bomb alerts.? The first took place while we were settling to sleep so we headed to the solid core of the hotel joining all the other families in their pyjamas sitting on the concrete stairwells scrolling away on their phones.? You could hear the reassurance of the heavy thumping as the iron dome took care of the missiles preventing any damage, death, or destruction within the city. The second time it happened we were at a market on the other side of town.? We followed what everyone else did and headed into a small supermarket where the shopkeeper was ushering us into a secure basement room. It seems the Israelis take this kind of thing in their stride and as soon as it was over, life just carried on as before.?

We were allowed to return to the UK for Christmas while the cells were growing in the lab.? We were told that they’d ring us when they were ready but that it would likely be around 4-6 weeks. This was quite a tense time, and the waiting was horrible. ?Although we had paid over ￡90k already there was absolutely no guarantee that the cells would grow.? It was a huge gamble (one my father, a betting man, would have cried at!) and we knew we might have been left with nothing but a massive debt.? If they grew, we were hoping to return to Israel in the middle of January for the second part of the treatment.? ?????????????????????

Back in the UK, I made a bit of a big deal about Christmas.? I figured it might be my last one and spent time, effort, and money making sure it was a good one despite feeling like absolute shit. I could feel my body shutting down.? Anyone who has ever come close to death from cancer will know what I mean when I say I was ‘cancer tired’.? Every movement was a chore, every joint in my body ached, and I was fighting a permanent feeling of sickness in my stomach kept at bay with medications.? I could only eat small portions, and even then, I would just pick at things.? I lost a bit of weight and ironically everyone who saw me would comment about how ‘well’ I looked somewhat ironically.? I joked about the ‘cancer diet’ and how it is definitely one I wouldn’t recommend.? I hid a lot from family and friends about how I was feeling inside.?

Si was my absolute rock.? I think he was the only one who really saw what was happening and he basically became my permanent carer helping me during the day while still trying to keep his clients happy by working during the night.? The rest of the world just saw the emotional armour I’d put up. “You’re so strong,” is a mantra I heard constantly.? I’m not sure what they expected me to do. Fall apart, cry in the corner, and just get on with dying quietly? ?

Me and Si also made things legal and had a ‘not wedding’.? It was actually only a cynical tax avoidance exercise.? Due to the cancer, my pensions had been commuted and the insurance had paid out meaning there was no more mortgage to pay and a rather large lumpsum sat in my bank account.? As we weren’t married, the house and the lump sum combined might have taken me over the inheritance tax threshold - and with all the assets in my name this could have been a problem for him and the kids when I died.? We’ve been together for 27 years and have 2 children, so we didn’t make a big deal of it.? Just the 4 of us in a register office and a civil partnership ‘ceremony’ where we signed a form.? The kids thought it was hysterical and laughed for the entire time we were in there.? We also ‘celebrated’ with a meal at the Beach House, but only because it was on my bucket list to go there, and it was the only way I could get Simon to agree to come out with me! The staff there were lovely, and they gave us a congratulations card signed by the whole team which is our only real memento of the day.? Lucky I’m not a sentimental shit, I guess!? I still remain Miss Matthews though.? That’s something I’m bloody proud of so it will stay that way till my dying day.?

My phone rang as I was answering the door to my Christmas meat delivery.? I let it ring thinking that if it was important, they would ring back.

When I checked it, my heart sank.? It was a call from the hospital, and they had left a message.? I was absolutely terrified thinking they were ringing to tell me that the cells hadn’t taken and that it was all over. Why else would they have rung me so early?

I took a few deep breaths and rang the ansaphone.? The message was from our hospital liaison Yanna, and she sounded quite excited.? ‘Kerry, your cells are ready, and they are really strong.? Some of the strongest we have ever seen on this programme. When can you come to Israel?? Can you ring me as soon as you get this.’?

I was gobsmacked as I figured out the time scales.? It had been just over 2 weeks since they harvested the tumour.? These weren’t just super duper cells; it seems these were super-super-duper special cells.? When I rang her back the hospital wanted me to fly out straight away which would mean flying back to Israel 3 days before Christmas and starting the actual treatment a week later.? After a bit of discussion, we compromised, and I agreed to fly out on Boxing Day which meant it would start instead on my birthday – the 4th of January – happy bloody Birthday Kerry!

I managed to cook Christmas dinner – I’m really not sure how.? I put a stool in the kitchen and had to sit down every couple of minutes, and needed help lifting saucepans, dishes etc. but I did it.? I sat down to eat and managed a few morsels.? It was a shame really because according to the kids it was the best one they’d ever had.? I even made my usual selection of puddings.? After dinner Si cleaned the kitchen.? I was too tired to do anything but I did manage to sort out the leftovers and box them into meals for the kids for the next few days, and chuck a few ‘meat and gravy’ portions into the freezer.? Father Christmas brought them a coffee machine, a panini/sandwich maker, an air fryer.? It’s almost as if he knew they’d be on their own for a couple of weeks.? Clever Santa.

I went to bed around 7pm and woke up the following morning just in time to drive to the airport at lunchtime.? That night was full of surreal metaphorical dreams about car crashes, falling off cliffs, and the kids being taken away from me.? The morphine killed the pain but it certainly gave life to the imagination! Even though I’d slept for around 15 hours straight, I was still exhausted.? I really wasn’t looking forward to 14 hours of travelling. ??

The airport was surprisingly busy.? It took us a while to get through the security systems.? The fact that we were now legally a couple seemed to cause problems with the airline and it took us a while to explain the situation before they’d let us check in.? Suited officials properly screened us, asking us questions independently and checking our luggage and phones, before allowing the staff to issue boarding passes. Then we had to queue for security.? I should really have booked assistance, but that would have complicated matters.? Airlines will sometimes refuse passengers who they consider ‘unfit’ for flying- it had happened to a cancer patient friend of mine recently – and required GP letters before they will let you board. My GP charges ￡60 a pop for this ‘service’ and we hadn’t had time to organise it anyway due to holiday closures.? I just needed to grin and bear it and go through the same process as everyone else.? Once we were airside, we headed straight to the bar where I drank a couple of large brandies before heading up to the gate area.? Thank goodness for my pillow – I cwtched up against Si on the hard airport chairs and had a little nap before we boarded.

The apartment I’d booked was lovely. Compact and bijou in 80’s estate agent-speak, but it was perfect for our needs with a bedroom, bathroom, utility area with washing machine, and a small kitchen and living room.? The owners left us a little welcome cake – pistachio and lemon - and it was delicious even though I could only manage tiny pieces at a time.? We found a few little supermarkets nearby and bought staples like pasta, rice, cereals etc.? The plan was for me to cook meals for as long as I was able while Si got on with some work online when he was able to. Neither plan worked out and Si ended up doing most of it. The constant nausea was by now quite overwhelming and even the smell off coffee set me off. Being in the kitchen was no longer my happy place it seemed.? Si did his best to tempt me with things he knew I liked, but I hardly ate much at all.?

New Year’s Eve was fun.? Simon and I went for an evening meal at a local restaurant (my last supper so to speak) and then returned to the apartment.? We were both fast asleep by midnight.? At midnight exactly we were woken by the shutters shaking, and then boom, after boom, after boom.? Half asleep we both thought the same thing about strange sounding fireworks before we realised it was actually a bomb attack.? The booms we could hear were the iron dome system stopping them from landing on our heads.? I almost pooped my pants.

We were back at the hospital on New Year’s Day where there were more checks, including a scan, before treatment could begin.? I also had to have a dose of immunotherapy before the whole thing started and they had to put in a Hickman Line which would provide direct access to my blood stream.? This was done under local anaesthetic and insertion was scheduled to take place the day before I was due to be admitted. The process wasn’t painful, but it was very uncomfortable.? They needed to place it on the right side of my chest where I have extensive scarring from my original operation.? For those of you reading this who don’t know, I had my ear removed, a parotidectomy and a neck dissection 2 years ago.? Surgeons (unsuccessfully) attempted to remove the ‘primary’ and prevent the original cancer from spreading.?

Nothing is ever simple with me and as expected the doctors struggled to get it to sit properly in the vein due to the scarring. I could feel the doctor pulling and tugging away at my skin trying to ensure the tube was fixed exactly where it was supposed to be.? It wasn’t painful as such, but it was really uncomfortable, and it left me feeling a little claustrophobic as if someone had put something heavy on my chest; a feeling I would just have to get used to. ??Having it in did make the next part of the process easier.? In one of my previous hospital stays I managed to blow 5 separate cannulas and I had blood taken daily from my feet because my veins had decided to give up the ghost. I grinned and bared the discomfort. I knew it meant easy access to my bloodstream and I didn’t really fancy the alternative.

We were expecting to go ‘home’ after the process and to get a good night’s sleep before returning the following day.? As we came out of the hospital, to head back to our Airbnb, there was another call from Yanna saying that the doctors needed to speak to me urgently.? Panic set in once again.? Was there a problem with my cells?? Had the earlier scan shown that the cancer had spread to the brain ruling me out of treatment?? Were there problems with one of my tests?? Yanna couldn’t tell me anything more just that the doctor couldn’t see me until later in the day after his clinic had finished.? We spent a couple of horrific hours at the hospital just hanging around waiting for them to tell me that there was a problem and that it was all over.?

As it turns out, it wasn’t as bad as we had predicted.? The scan had shown that the tumours sitting on one of my kidneys had grown substantially and were now in danger of causing a blockage which could create problems for the treatment.? They couldn’t risk kidney failure. They needed to put a stent in.? This would be done under general anaesthetic and would cost another $4500 which needed to be paid there and then.? Thank God for credit cards. ?I really could have done without Santander flagging up the transaction as dodgy at that point (not the first time I might add and if I wasn’t for the faff of doing so, I’d have switched my accounts by now – they are truly the worst bank to deal with and they’ve caused me several embarrassing moments in shops).? They rejected the payment. Of course, it was a bank holiday in the UK so trying to sort it was completely futile. Imagine if that had been a life-or-death situation where I needed treatment to save my life!!? Fortunately, I’d kept another credit card account going (and bonus – I got Tesco points as well!!!) so we were able to pay on that. It was all hastily organised and agreed that I would go and get my stuff and return to the hospital that evening ready for the operation first thing the following day.?

I spent that night in a hospital room on a general ward shared with a lovely young lady who had severe endometriosis.? Her parents came to visit her, and they were so kind, offering me cakes, sweets, halva, and soft drinks. Si had to leave me overnight.? I was quite nervous being there alone, and it was a real comfort to have them translating things from the nurses and orderlies on that particular ward who spoke little English.? Thankfully the language barrier wasn’t a problem when I was moved after the surgery to the Bone Marrow Unit.? The staff there were obviously highly trained and used to dealing with overseas clients and all spoke English exceptionally well.? In normal times they treat a lot of American patients who travel to the country.? Procedures in Israel cost a lot less than in the USA and medical insurance policies apparently won’t cover some things we take for granted in the UK.? Where we consider bone marrow transplants and stem cell therapy as a ‘standard’ care-pathway for some cancers, some of the US insurance companies consider them experimental.? They classify them as ‘elective’ and won’t cough up and pay for them. It makes you realise how bloody lucky we are in the UK – the NHS isn’t perfect but by God, at least it’s free.

I was taken down for surgery at 7-30am.? The first patients were lined up on beds ready to be wheeled into theatre.? One in, one out, one in, one out in a constant stem of procedures.? While I waited, I watched and admired the efficiency of the pre-op team as they moved from bed to bed checking details and recording observations ready for the surgeons.? There were two separate rows on either side of the room. Behind the doors on one end there was a suite of operating theatres and each of us was labelled and matched with the associated surgical teams ensuring that the correct procedure would be done to the right patient. I was smiled when I saw that I was going to Theatre number 4 – my ‘lucky’ number as a child.? Patient history was stored on iPads which the nurses checked, double checked, then got the patient to check themselves before moving on to the next one.? It was really impressive, and I marvelled at the efficiency of their system. ?The surgical team came to collect me from the pre-op team, a quick ‘handover’ took place and off I went for my turn behind the doors. In my experience, there’s a lot more ‘faffing’ in the UK and a lot more time wasting and waiting around. ?Here the processes were streamlined with dedicated teams concentrating on and mastering specific aspects of care.? ?I waited less than 10 minutes to go in to have the stent put in.? Back in the UK later in the year, I would have a 2 hour wait for it to be taken out!

I don’t remember where or when I woke up.? I just remember arriving on the Bone Marrow Unit and meeting the most fabulously naughty nurse who looked after me throughout my stay.? She made me laugh consistently with very rude jokes and her tales of trying to hook up the doctors and nurses.? It turns out she was well known as the hospital’s traditional Jewish matchmaker.? I taught her Welsh words and swear words in English which she would repeat back to me loudly and inappropriately.? She really was a superstar who made a horrible situation bearable.?

The following morning, I woke up to find Yanna at the side of my bed.? She had a rose and a small cake in her hand which she gave to me saying ‘Happy Birthday Kerry’.? It was such a lovely thought and so unexpected.? I had a little cry and said thank you. She wasn’t actually meant to be working but thought she would come in early just to check on me and make sure everything was ok before they started the treatment.? Such a lovely thing to do for someone she hardly knew.

The room was like everything else in the hospital.? It was clean, airy, light, and perfectly functional.? There was a fridge, microwave, and television.? It was ensuite with a massive balcony overlooking the city. Nothing was particularly modern and the whole room was distinctly utilitarian.? There was a fitted sheet on the bottom of the bed and the blankets were made out of a really odd combination of fabric and plastic.? They were warm enough though and probably quite practical in terms of use. The catch on the bathroom door had obviously been repaired numerous times – you could see the previous holes where it had been attached – and the shower was a simple hose with no shower head. ?

There was also a plastic jug on the side cabinet.? I soon found out what that was for!

Dr Guy, my consultant came in and asked if I was ready.?

I was hooked up to a drip by a specialist nurse who first of all took blood from the Hickman and then attached me to my ‘leash’.? I had wires everywhere and several packets of fluids hung from a very high-tech drip stand.? The jug, it seems, was for me to measure my urine output. I had to pee in the jug and write down the amounts every time I went to the loo; not an easy process. It wouldn’t have been so bad except the chemotherapy drugs they were giving me were very heavy on the kidneys (hence the need for the stent).? To protect them as much as they could I was given an additional drug which increased urine production.? For five days I ended up having to get up every two hours for a wee, while hooked up to a drip and trying to make sure I got it all in a small plastic jug and remember to write it down. I was bloody knackered by the end of it!?

On top of everything else, I tested positive for some random virus or other which meant that I had to be kept in isolation. I cannot for the life of me remember what the virus was, but they think I picked it up when I had the bowel resection (thanks Morriston Hospital!!). It wasn’t dangerous for me, but I could infect other patients.? There was a big red notice on my door apparently warning the nurses to ‘suit up’ when they came in and wear masks and aprons every time they came into the room.

The chemo killed the white cells.? It also killed my appetite completely.? I’m not sure what it is about hospitals, but they never seem to be able to get food right.? Hospital meals are truly awful wherever you go. They kept giving me these trays with some random selections of soups, meats, and vegetables – I let Si eat most of it although I did manage a couple of mouthfuls of soup every now and again. I felt sick constantly and passed the time ‘half-watching’ reruns of Dance Moms on Netflix on my laptop.? The nausea meds helped but didn’t stop it completely.? I really did feel awful. My only respite was when Si came in bringing me ice-cream form the shop downstairs.? Israel has amazing ice-cream and no matter how sick I was, its luscious sweetness and intense flavours was always welcome.? Definitely food of the gods.

The chemotherapy was designed to kill off all my white blood cells giving the cancer fighting TILs cells a better chance to spread and to take hold in my system.? Once the cells were all depleted, I had to follow a leukopenia diet which meant I was only allowed to eat certain foods (and nothing from outside of the hospital unless it was dry and packaged).? I didn’t really feel like much anyway.? ?I ate McVities GoAhead biscuits which I’d taken with me to Israel.? They were the only things I could stomach.? Everything else tasted like poison, and even water tasted funny.? I tried to keep up my fluid intake with bottles of iced tea and sipping cold bottled water as often as I could, but even that was horrible.? Everything I ate tested of soap and everything I drank tasted of metal.

The chemo stage of the treatment lasted for 5 days.? During this time, we got to know the nursing team and they asked if Si was ok to stay with me once the TILs started. He was happy to stay. It can’t have been easy going back to an empty flat, in a strange country, in the dark, while there’s a war on, alone.? He had planned to try and do some work while he was out there but that never really happened other than keeping a few clients ticking over.? I kept in touch with the kids via Whatsapp trying to put a ‘happy face’ on every time we spoke to them, and then having a little cry to myself as soon as I hung up. I missed them so much every single day, but I had to get through this so that I could get back to them and hopefully spend much more time with them before I died. ?

There was a ‘put you up’ bed in the hospital room. Si stayed most nights.? He ate the food they gave me and developed quite a liking for the sticky sweet halva served with virtually every meal.? The nurses wanted him there to keep an eye on me while I received ‘up to 6 doses’ of a drug called Interleukin2 depending on how well I tolerated it. I definitely should have read the leaflet on this drug and heard alarm bells at this point.? ?‘Up to’ 6 doses?? The word ‘tolerated’? It turned out to be the most terrifying experience of my life.

One week after I arrived at the hospital, Dr Guy arrived smiling carrying an IV drip filled with a milky looking substance.? There was something quite ceremonial about the way he presented the cells to me as if making an offering to the gods. ?‘These are good cells Kerry, really good cells.’

Me and Si were both quite surprised by how ‘normal’ they looked.? I’m not sure what either of us was expecting – some kind of green magic potion maybe. It looked like someone had poured a pint of milk into a drip.? He said they were 98% saturated (whatever the hell that meant) and that it was the highest level of saturation they’d ever had.? He also told me they were massively rich in ‘CD8’ cells, so they were really hopeful.? Apparently, my cells were record breakers for the hospital.? A good start, I guess. The nurses attached them to my drip and off they went back into my body hopefully to start killing off the fecking cancer.

Then came the next bit.? The nurses said I might feel ‘a bit shivery’ about half an hour after the drug goes in.?

A bit shivery? I could cope with that.

I was also told that my heart rate might rise, and my blood pressure might drop – as a non-medical person that sounds impossible.? Apparently not.

Again, I figured I could cope with a few palpitations and feeling a bit faint.

They attached the drip, and left us to it, telling us to call if I started to feel cold.?

It started with a bit of a chill, so Si popped a second blanket over me.? I started getting colder, and colder, and colder and underneath the blankets I was shaking violently.

Within 2 minutes my heart rate was hitting dangerous heights, my oxygen levels and blood pressure were dropping through my boots, and despite 6 blankets piled on top of me I was shivering so intensely that the whole bed shook with me. Fully conscious of the experience, the fitting was horrific. I had no control over my flailing limbs – the only way I can describe it is that it was like a conscious, ice-cold epileptic fit.?

In a bit of a panic, Si ran out to find the nurse who came in and administered pethidine and some other drug through my Hickman.? It took about 15 minutes for the medications to start kicking in and for me to regain control of my body.? It was another hour before everything returned to an acceptable level. It would take a long time for me to feel normal again. ?I was exhausted right through to my soul.? My muscles ached worse than if I’d run a marathon, on one leg, in a donkey costume. Honestly, I cannot express how bad I felt and awful it was.

The experience after each dose got progressively worse, and in the end, the intense fitting lasted nearly an hour.? The doctors did ‘um and ah’ about whether to give me the next dose each time, but it seems I am indeed superwoman after all and I managed to complete the full treatment.? They told me afterwards; I was the only patient they’d had who tolerated all 6 doses.?

While I lay there dreading every time the door opened in case it was the nurses bringing in the next dose, I forced myself to put out of my mind any negative thoughts.? The only way was going to get through this was to focus on the positive.? In my head I started planning for the future.? I promised myself if I got through the treatment, I was buying myself the biggest ‘fuck off’ greenhouse I could for my garden.? I made mental lists of the things I would grow and had the rest of the garden all planned out in my head.? I also thought that maybe if things went really well, I could start a little business to keep me occupied and to give me a focus.? I started planning a sauce & condiments business after waking up from a dream in which James Martin phoned me on a Saturday Morning to talk about the blackberry balsamic that I’d started making and selling.?

Si stayed with me holding and stroking my hand or shoulder throughout.? I was (and still am) so grateful for his presence.? I was so weak and pitiful by the end.? He forced me to eat holding biscuits to my mouth so I wouldn’t have to move, he helped me wash and clean myself, he dropped water & iced tea into my mouth, peeled fruit for me to eat, and brushed my teeth.? He even tried to comb my now very matted hair.?

Dr Guy visited me every single day.? I was really touched by this.? You have to bear in mind that he had a very young family of 5 at home, there’s a war going on, and family is everything to the Israelis. He monitored my progress really closely for the entire time I was hospitalised.? I think he really enjoyed coming in to tell me that my white cell count had come back up to normal which meant that I could start eating normal food (Yes, I sent Si down for a MacDonalds and ice cream!).? He was also happy to tell me that there was a strong marker in my bloods that they look out for which often correlates with positive outcomes.? Still no promises, but things were looking really good.?

I was moved down to a normal cancer unit the day after the last dose of Interleukin2.? Kept in isolation due to the virus (I still can’t remember what it’s called), I was given the room furthest away from the desk and given a buzzer to call if I needed anything.? I felt like a lepper, but it did mean the room was quiet and the nurses mostly left me to it.? ?I slept a lot, and I mean a lot.? In fact, I struggled to keep myself awake. The tiredness felt different though.? Really different. ?I’d been feeling ‘cancer tired’ for months before this whole thing started but this kind of tired was like my body telling me to stop and let it catch up with itself.? Complete and utter rest was all I could cope with.?

The doctors gave me the all-clear to leave the hospital after 2 of the longest weeks of my life.? I wasn’t cleared to fly yet, and there was another dose of immunotherapy and a scan to go before I’d be allowed out of the country. We went back to our little apartment. ?I couldn’t wait to get back there and get a decent cup of tea if nothing else.? Before I could leave though they had to take out the Hickman.? The orderly who came to collect me was such a lovely, funny man.? He tried talking to me in English but didn’t know much other than football – he was a Chelsea fan apparently – so trying to explain to him I was Welsh not English was almost impossible.?

“Ryan Giggs?? Gareth Bale?” I realised he’d gotten the gist of the conversation!

He wheeled the bed as if it were in Mario Kart.? The small operations unit was right at the other end of the hospital about 7 blocks away and the journey involved several lifts, a couple of tunnels and some very public spaces. Every time we arrived at a lift, he would empty it before taking me in there, shooing everyone out with some kind of rant in Hebrew.? He told me he was taking a ‘short cut’.? He drove me through operating theatres, garbage areas and I even went through a kitchen at one point – the chefs just lifted their heads up and waved their chopping knives as we went past.? He must have been known to them because none of them seemed to mind us being there.? He ran as he pushed the bed travelling at a ridiculous speed until we finally reached the building we needed.? He had to key us in and while he closed the door behind us, I stared at one of the longest, steepest downhill ramps I’ve ever seen. He must have seen the look of fear in my eyes cos he gave a little giggle.?

“it’s ok missus, I go slow now,”.? And he moved around to the front, holding on to the trolley as the momentum pulled it down the little hill.

They prepped me for the procedure making me change into a blue plastic two-piece boiler suit. I had to wear a very fetching shower cap and toe covers for some reason.? ?The Israeli/American doctor came in to the cubicle to tell me that the procedure would be done under local anaesthetic, but I would be given a sedative to keep me still and it would take about half an hour to ensure it was done properly.? He left, then came back about 2 minutes later.?

“What did you have done again?”, he asked, “and how long has this been in?”

I gave him the quick version of the TILs process and told him the date it was inserted.

“Tell you what, instead of you waiting I’ll do it now if that’s ok” and before I had time to respond he put his hands on the Hickman Line and expertly removed it, placing it on the tray held by his assistant standing behind him. No pain at all, he just whipped it out. No anaesthetic, no sedative, just a sticking plaster to cover the exit wound.

Later that evening we packed everything away and headed back to the apartment.? I was wheeled out to reception, but I was determined to walk to the taxi rank (ulterior motive – I could have a gelato on the way!).? I can remember taking it very easy walking down the metal staircase to the apartment.? We closed the door, pulled down the shutters, and I went to bed. That’s pretty much where I stayed for the next 3 weeks, getting up only for the toilet, to shower, and to go back and fore to the hospital for follow up appointments.? Netflix and cross stitch kept my very short waking hours busy while Simon became ‘chief cook and bottle washer’.? To be fair, he managed to make some tasty food, but portion control was a bit of a problem; my appetite was pretty wrecked still and things still tasted a bit funny so a lot of it was wasted.? Our wonderful Airbnb hosts brought us leftovers from their Shabbat dinners – the most gorgeous Jewish chicken soup and I now understand why it’s called Jewish penicillin! And after weeks of just water and iced tea, I started drinking proper tea again.? We ran out of the Tetley tea bags I’d brought over quite soon but the black teabags we were able to buy made a decent alternative.

The ’tired’ feeling I had continued but each day I felt a little stronger.? I remember going into the bathroom and staring at myself in the mirror. I was wrecked.? The skin on my face was red, raw, and peeling and a nasty raised rash had spread from my neck down to my shoulders and back.? All of this was to be expected, and I took my medication religiously to calm the heat and itching while using a thick oil-based cream to keep the skin from completely drying out.? My long red hair was matted and almost dreadlock like.? Intense conditioners hadn’t helped, and it remained dry and brittle.? I needn’t have worried on that score though.? I would soon be totally bald.? My entire head of hair effectively came out in two pieces over 2 days – like a pile of ginger wire wool. My scalp underneath was smooth and shiny, but OMG was my head bloody cold.

I sent Si down to the mall to find me a scarf and a bobble hat. ??He came back with seven different scarves in various patterns, and a floppy cross between a beanie and a bucket!? I picked one of the plainest scarves and practiced wrapping it around my head like the Orthodox Jewish Tichel.? Youtube was useful in showing how to wrap it, but I’ve always had a funny shaped head and getting it to sit right was quite a knack.? Wearing it I blended in at the hospital.? Unlike in the UK, the headscarf didn’t scream ‘cancer victim’ and I didn’t feel self-conscious at all, except when people kept trying to talk to me in Hebrew.? Most importantly it kept my head warm.? Israel has warm winters, like Spring in the UK, but the nights can get a bit chilly, especially when there is no heating.

At my first follow up appointment Dr Guy asked if I’d noticed any of the lumps had gone down.? I was honest with him.? I’d been terrified to touch my boob to see if there was a difference.? I think psychologically I’d taken ‘what you don’t know won’t kill you’ quite literally.? If I touched my boob and the lump was still there, would that mean the treatment hadn’t worked and that everything we’d gone through had been a waste of time? He said not to worry, it was a bit early still, only 10 days after the TILs had been given and we’d wait until the first scan which was scheduled to take place at the 30-day point.

Back in the apartment I needed a shower. I looked at myself in the mirror and I gave myself a ‘pep talk’. ?

“Come on Kerry, put your big girl pants on.? Get in there and just feel the bloody thing.”

I picked up the flannel, soaped it up and started wash myself.? I washed under both armpits and then lay the flannel flat on my hand rubbing it gently on my right breast where the lump was.? I couldn’t feel anything.? Not a lump, not hardened tissue, nothing.? My boob had basically reverted back to its previous soft squishiness.? I took the flannel away and used my bare hand this time, gently prodding the area where the large lump had been.? It had gone.? I couldn’t feel a thing.?

I came out of the shower and told Simon.? We both got quite emotional, and I cried as he hugged me tightly.? “Thank fucking God,” he said.

I’d booked our flights home for the end of the month after a second dose of immunotherapy, and they needed to do the scan a week later.? The hospital urged us to stay put, and to get that out of the way before returning to the UK.? By this time, I needed to be properly home.? Both the kids had undertaken University exams without me there to support them, and I needed to see them.? Hettie had done one lot of her finals while we were out there.? She graduated in the summer with a IIi Mathematics degree by the way and I’ve never been prouder.? And George had completed his first lot of assessments for his Politics and International Relations degree.? They’d been forced into ‘adulting’ by our absence, managing everything in the house including looking after my beautiful fur babies. I missed all of them intensely and not seeing them for so long was starting to really hurt my heart.? I needed to hug them, and they needed to hug me and to see how well I was doing. ??Het welcomed me home with a welcome hug; she was fed up with ‘adulting’.

It was a ?‘whistle stop’ visit back to the UK before a whistle stop visit back to Israel – all a bit manic and silly really when we just could have stayed.? I felt well enough to drive part of the way from Heathrow, incredible when you think about it really.? ?I hate being a passenger and don’t travel well so choose to drive whenever I can. ??

Arriving back at proper home felt good. It’s become a bit of a joke with us, but every time I return from hospital I’ve craved ‘Coleg Sir Gar chicken curry half and half’.? Now, for the uninitiated, half and half is apparently only a Welsh thing, where you get a portion of curry with half rice and half chips.? When I worked at the college, they used to do the best curry half and half once a week (on a Tuesday I seem to recall). We always made sure on curry day we would have lunch in the canteen, and it became a bit of a ritual with a couple of colleagues (you know who you are!). I even instigated a protest when the new catering company took over and tried to make us choose between the two accompaniments. I’ve never quite been able to match it.? Instead, Si usually buys a ready meal Tikka Masala and some pilau in Tesco and then some chippy chips on the way home from the shop.? This has now become my comfort meal of choice.? That night, it tasted better than any food I have ever eaten, and I greedily gobbled every single last morsel. Curry, rice, and chips has never tasted so good (except of course on Tuesdays at Coleg Sir Gar).

The hospital in Israel confirmed the date and time for the scan. ?We were able to book the return flights back to Israel. There was only one flight available that day (the other one was fully booked) and it arrived at 5am in Tel Aviv.?

Going through airport security with a bald head was an interesting experience.? By this stage I’d adopted the beanie as standard attire, and the arsey guard instructed me to remove it. I was ready for a fight.

?“Excuse me? What was that?”

“Can you remove the hat please?” he repeated.

“I’m a cancer patient and I’m bald.” I replied.

Instead of challenging me, he waved me straight through.? I was bloody gutted! I’d worked myself up by this point and had already prepped the letter of complaint in my head.? One thing this disease has taught me is the letter of the law when it comes to disability and discrimination. I’m not sure what he thought I was hiding up there, mind.? The beanie hugged my head tightly so it’s not as if it looked like anything could be smuggled through.? It would have stood out a mile. ?

Arriving back at Tel Aviv in the early hours, we would have a very long wait until my appointment at 6pm.? I knew there would be an awful lot of hanging around.? We went straight to the hospital and camped out in the large reception area (surprisingly we weren’t the only ones to do so).? My trusty pillow was with me still and a woollen scarf double as a blanket, and I was able to catch some sleep.? Si stayed awake the whole time feeding himself strong coffee from the little bakery and keeping himself watching videos on his phone.? He really was (and still is) my rock. I was woken up by a blood drive. Life in the City felt so normal, it was easy to forget that there was still an ongoing war and there were casualties arriving on a daily basis.? Things like this served as little reminders of what was really going on. There was a constant line of Israelis waiting to give blood throughout the day and the harsh realities of war were clearly evident as the stand was mostly run by injured military staff wearing prosthetic legs and in wheelchairs.?

We stayed in a hotel near the airport that night before flying back in the early hours of the morning. ?Anyone who has ever stayed overnight close to an airport will know that there is usually a lot of noise from a steady stream of departures and arrivals.? We were less than a mile from the airport and it was absolutely silent.? The only air traffic coming into Ben Gurion at this point started with daylight around 5am with the first arrivals and was done and dusted by midday. We learned later that El Al planes were kitted with anti-missile technology as standard.? It’s amazing how warfare and its consequences have been normalised over the years so no one really thinks of this as odd.

I’d deliberately booked a slightly later flight to give us an extra couple of hours in bed knowing that the day before would have been very long indeed.? I must have been distracted when I booked it though, because as we checked in for the flights, I suddenly realised my complete and utter cock up.? The car was parked in the meet and greet at Heathrow airport.? Our flights however were due to land in Luton airport – 35 miles away!? I had no choice but to come clean to Si.? He must have felt sorry for me though and didn’t rinse me as he usually would have – I guess having cancer has its benefits!

I managed to book a transfer relatively cheaply online and the company sent instructions to meet at the pickup point.? We flew into the Luton and as I looked out the window, I spotted the burnt remains of the carpark, remembering that it had been destroyed about a year earlier by an horrific fire.? That would possibly make things a bit more complex since all the maps of the airport were showing the pickup point to be in that carpark. I panicked thinking that the website I’d used was a duff one; the information email they had sent me was out of date. I imagined Si and his face if I had to tell him I’d not only messed up the flights, but I’d also paid ￡70 to a dodgy website, and we had no cab!

He was thankfully kept busy though while I tried to work it out.? According to the guy on security, he has a very common name, which is why his passport seems to get picked up every single time.? Luton has automatic biometric readers which to be fair, usually run quite smoothly.? Si’s passport never seems to work, and he had to join the queue with all the non-UK citizens to be checked manually. Thankfully it gave me enough time to WhatsApp the company and get details of where our driver would meet us.?

As we came out from the airport, we ignored the bus (which we would later regret) and started following the signs to the temporary carpark. Bearing in mind how little sleep we’d both had, as well as my cancer, we were absolutely knackered.? The pick-up area was about a mile away from the terminal building.? Fortunately, we had minimal luggage.? We took it easy and walked down and back up the other side of what seemed to be a massive hill.? I’ve never been so relieved to see a guy with a sign with my name on.? We both flopped into the back of the cab, and I popped my pillow on its side.? I cwtched up to Si and closed my eyes.?

I remember thinking as I drifted off that I really hope this is not the last time I would see Israel.? I would love to return to the city and do some of the ‘sites’ that we were unable to see – to go to Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, or the beautiful city of Haifa.?

That last journey home was like a huge weight had been lifted.? Emotionally and psychologically, I was exhausted. It was done.? ?I had done as much as I possibly could to try and keep myself alive.? All I needed now was for my body to stick to its part of the deal.

At the 1-month scan, the news from Israel was good.? Dr Guy reported that there had been a significant decrease in the size of the tumours.? Some had shrunk substantially and the one on my boob was now hardly traceable on the slides. Overall, it was around a 40% decrease since the previous scan I’d had at the start of the month. 40% in 4 weeks?? I’ll take that.

The hospital agreed that they would monitor my progress from the UK rather than my having to fly back to Israel every 3 months.? Throughout my entire time out there they were very conscious of the political situation. With things the way they are, I think they were just grateful that the research could continue and that there were idiots like me willing to fly to a war zone to participate.

We’ve been back in the UK for around 9 months now, during which time, I’ve grown in both physical and mental strength and had time to come to terms with what has happened, and the legacy left to me by the last two and a half years. Those of you who know me well know that I’m usually hardcore, nothing phases me and I’m independent as hell.? One of the hardest things I’ve had to accept is that I’m no longer superwoman and my body is no longer capable of doing some things that I have always taken for granted.

I was lucky and I have managed to slot straight back into the NHS. My oncologist has been amazing, and he’s finally retired (happy retirement Prof!).? ?He’s been trying to do it since I started this whole journey back in 2022 but kept getting pulled back in to the system. I was one of the special patients he’d kept hold of.? He’s been behind me all the way and his wonderful team has helped to make the process go as smoothly as possible – it’s amazing how complex NHS red tape makes things sometimes when trying to access your own records.? I have a feeling he might have broken a few official rules and procedures along the way to make all of this possible.

And as for the cancer?? Well, it’s a case of so far, so good.?

I have 3 monthly scans and get the discs printed off each time and then send the reports over to Israel once they are available.? It’s annoying that Hywel Dda continue to delay the results making ridiculous excuses each time.? It seems I have to go through PALs every time to make sure they are reported promptly – the last one took nearly 6 weeks! Scans are going well though and the good news is that the last one showed the only tumours remaining are on my kidney but that the larger one is now only 1.5cm in size.? It was originally much larger than this.?

The cancer hasn’t gone, and I’m not ‘out of the woods’ so to speak, nor will I ever be.? I’m still carrying this bloody disease in my body, and I have no idea how long the super-duper TILs cells will continue to fight it.? Contrary to what many people think, melanoma is fucking serious, and it’s a cancer that never really goes away.? It lurks in the background ready to pounce when you least expect it.? In my support group on Facebook, they use an analogy of a dandelion.? If you pull a dandelion from your garden before the flower has the chance to seed, then the dandelion doesn’t come back.? If, however, you leave the dandelion to seed and the wind blows the tiny little fairy like pips to all parts of the garden, then they can take root anywhere.? They can also sit there, dormant for years, waiting for the right conditions to grow and start again.? That’s what melanoma is like, and that’s why they have to take so much tissue around the primary site that they do when they try and cut it out.? If it has already spread and seeded, you’re pretty much fucked.

I see things differently now to what I did before.? Over the last few months my strength has grown, and I’ve started doing some of the things I used to do (albeit aided by a lot more equipment as I cope with my disability legacy).?

I bought my F-off greenhouse which sits proudly in the middle of the back garden. I have a lovely chair up there and it’s become my happy place – lathered in sun cream and with a hat on of course.

I’ve bought two large stand-up trugs to grow vegetables in.? They are waist height and I’ve loved tending them this year – we’ve had radish, kale, beans, lettuces, pak choi, onions, and celery from them. ?I’m more of a ‘director’ in the wider garden than a ‘producer’. Si does the heavy stuff and just follows my instructions (although secretly I know he takes as much pride in the fresh fruit and vegetables we get – he’s particularly proud of his very prolific raspberry patch that gives us enough fruit to keep us going through the winter). There’s still a lot to do out there but we’re slowly transforming the back into my own little produce paradise.?

My kitchen has been finished finally, designed to make things easier with cupboards and equipment and a stool to allow me to reach things – Si is brilliant as well and helps me when I need him to. He bought me fancy new knives that slice swede like butter so that I don’t have to use as much pressure.? It’s amazing the difference having a decent knife can make to the physical effort required for chopping food. ?

I have a proper mixer so I can still make bread without all the effort of the kneading.? I don’t have the physical strength or the stamina to do it by hand anymore. She’s called ‘Pru’ by the way, not after Bake Off as you might think, but after the compensation cheque that the Prudential sent me after messing up one of my pension pots. I bought a proper KitchenAid with all the kit – so thank you Pru! Similarly with the bathroom – it’s all been designed with my disabilities in mind – that goes in this week and I can’t wait to have a proper walk-in shower and a seat to sit on in the bathroom (other than the toilet!!!!)

My scarring is uncomfortable, and I have little feeling in my right shoulder and neck and down one side of my face.? I still can’t close my eye properly, I have a wonky smile, and I have a titanium rod screwed into the side of my head, onto which I clip my silicon ear every morning.?

The treatment has saved my life for now but for how long it will last is anyone’s guess – but then any one of us could be run over by a bus tomorrow so I try not to worry.? I’ve always said worry is a wasted emotion. What will be, will be and there’s absolutely nothing anything can do about it!? The doctor’s also think I’ve been left with a condition called ‘Sjogren’s Syndrome where it’s not just cancer cells being attacked but healthy ones too. It causes a number of symptoms but is not life threatening.? They can treat it but that would involve drugs which could potentially stop the TILs from working – and obviously I don’t want that to happen.? The worst part is the constant arthritis-like pain in my joints which means I can't do some physical things that I'd perviously taken for granted. I try and walk when I can, but I tire very easily. Stairs are a problem still - I'm like a dalek - and I try to use the escalators or lifts where I can. I also have constant dry eyes and mouth which means increased eye tests and dentist visits. My teeth are crumbling badly and I regularly get toothache from teeth that the dentist is reluctant to take out in case of complications. I am constantly bunged up like having a permanent cold, and the dry mucus in my nose causes the more ginourmous boogies anyone has ever seen in the history of the world! I won't go into detail about the bowel/bladder problems either - all you need to know is that I have to always have a toilet nearby.

My hair has grown back really well. It’s a different colour, texture and just a mass of curls. I’m no longer ginger but now mostly grey.? It’s so much thicker than it was.? My hairdresser cannot believe the difference.? Most chemo regrowth starts off as curly apparently (something to do with cells being flattened) but even after 4/5 cuts, I still have ringlets.? ?I did buy a wig when I first got back but it was uncomfortable and itchy.? I looked like a Tina Turner tribute act.? It went back in the box, and I have used my trusty beany instead.? That’s come out again now this Autumn except this time there are now lots of curls sticking out! I’ve also discovered, bizarrely, that I’m no longer allergic to MSG. My entire system has basically been re-written so things I’ve struggled with in the past (certain scented products for example) are no longer a problem.? I need to find a rough haired dog (like a border terrier) at some point and see if I’m still allergic to them, just as a test.? I used to come out in hives when I went near Si’s parents’ old dog.? Basically, I’m Kerry 2.0 the robot version. I'd prefer to go back to the way it was before but as long as I'm still alive I'll cope.

Sadly, we’ve had to say goodbye to Si’s Dad over the summer – we were all devastated, as you can imagine.? He held on for long enough to see me well enough before succumbing to his own brand of this cruel, horrible disease. Si felt the burden I know of both of us being ill, and he nursed his father stoically.? I was little help to him in terms of support (I had no choice but to focus on my own recovery) and I will always be grateful to Dave for enabling me to take the gamble and to get treatment that is currently keeping me alive.? I owe it to him as much as anyone, to make the most of whatever time I have left.? It could be months, it could be years, it may even stretch to decades. I won’t ever know what’s around the corner, so I’ll do my best to live the rest of my life as well as I possibly can. As I said earlier, none of us know what’s coming next, do we? ?

So that’s me.? My story.? I told you it was a long one, didn’t I? I’m living the best life I can, in the best way I can and trying to do positive things every single day.? It’s why I’ve decided to set up Magic Cauldron.?

Only I could take a terminal diagnosis and turn it into a new enterprise adventure!!!? But that’s exactly what I’ve done.? It’s something I can use as an excuse to spend time with the kids now that they are grown-ups and don’t need me anymore.? Hettie will be helping with the marketing I hope (and the taste testing!) while George is going to finally get a job working on my market stalls dealing with customers and taking payments.? He’s also my lacky and does all the lifting and heavy stuff.? He’s actually quite interested in working on some new flavours as well – odd considering he can’t stand the smell of vinegar. ?He watches a lot of cooking videos on YouTube apparently – and I have to say he does make a mean carbonara.

I still get good days and bad days, so he’s going to become my contingency plan to keep the business going, even when (or if) I am not able to. ?The good thing about being my own boss is the ability to manage my time around my capabilities and to work at my own pace.? I get days where I’m fired up and ready to go, but then others where I can hardly lift my head from the pillow and where I leave them all to it downstairs. It’ll be good prep for them for when I do eventually succumb to the cancer. I’m not putting any pressure on myself, and I will only take on as much as I think I can cope with (with or without assistance).?

?I’ve always loved cooking and my cauldron comes out every year to make jams, chutneys etc. out of my foraged finds. Combining my three hobbies – cooking, gardening, and foraging – Magic Cauldron is the perfect focus for my retirement boredom. Before all this cancer malarky, I spent time helping my sister at markets when she created Gower Preserves (she makes awesome stuff – you really should try it!) and I figured I wanted to do that, same as her.? Obviously, jams and chutneys were not an option, so sauces and condiments are an alternative that means I won’t be in direct competition.? It’s a similar business model however – small batches, home-made, naturally preserved.?

So why the cauldron?

There’s always been a bit of a family joke about us all being witches.? When we were kids, my mother convinced us that she was one – she was born on All Hallows Eve, she could grow parsley and has a wart under her arm.? She convinced all the grandchildren they would go to witch-school and that the unused door in the front room led to a magical kingdom.? She told them that her dog was actually a ‘sister’ (there are 4 of us) who went through it one day when she wasn’t supposed to and came back as a dog! Five-year old Kerry really wanted to be a witch too – and, in some way you could say I am.? I’m not one of these anti-vax weirdos who rejects conventional medicine, but I do believe there are many natural concoctions that can help alleviate symptoms (I swear by ginger for nausea, I make a high vit-c syrup out of hedgerow berries that helps when you’ve got a cold, I use mugwort, camomile, and lavender to help me relax and to sleep - not to mention the old Joanna now and again). I have a really good knowledge base of plants and wild edibles and I know how to process this stuff to make use of it in a wide range of contexts.? I actually have two cauldrons, and I’ve even now got my own broom (and I got very excited making it). ?You can follow us on socials @magiccauldronsauces - website coming soon!

I am trying to keep the business sustainable by using as much homegrown and foraged produce as I can.? This year I didn’t get the garden sorted until late in the season.? I’ve been able to use mainly my own apples, tomatoes, herbs, and chillis but I’m already planning my beds for next year to grow all my own garlic and onions to use in the sauces that I make.? Jars and bottles can be returned for a discount on new produce.? Food waste and surplus packaging is processed in my compost heap and hot bins.?

I’ve taken a gardening course.? I’ve really loved doing this and it’s helped me to build my confidence and to try new ways to structure things in the garden to make the most of the space and the soil conditions.? I’m currently testing new flavours, and I’m looking forward to working with the experts on new product ranges and on different preservation methods – avoiding any non-natural ingredients.?

Can you tell how excited I am about this?

If you see me out and about, please come and say hi, even if we’ve fallen out over the years.? I bare few grudges.? Don’t feel obligated to buy anything (I promise you won’t be disappointed if you do), and don’t be afraid to ask me anything about my cancer, or about anything really about my life.? ?I’ve been very private about my health struggles over the last few years, telling only family and a few close friends. ?But now it’s time to shout from the rafters, especially if makes people change their habits in the sun, or if it stops them using deadly sunbeds.? Contrary to common perception, skin cancer is a killer, and I will happily tell you about the importance of a proper sun skincare routine.? Can you believe sun cream is still taxed as a luxury?? And why the fuck aren’t cancer causing sunbeds banned?? I would also add that if you do have any suspicious marks that won’t heal, or moles that look a bit odd or have changed, or brown raised patches that suddenly appear then DEMAND to see a doctor and get them checked out by a specialist. Don’t take no for an answer – it could just, save your life.