134. Celebrating my aunt = celebrating life

There is a general consensus that my newly sprouted curls are a Good Thing.

They are invariably welcomed with cheerful delight.

"Elk nadeel heeft zijn voordeel!" my Dutch friend observed, which amounts to Every cloud has a silver lining.

Silver lining? It's a veritable silver Halo-of-Hair, expanding week by week. At this rate, I'll be sanctified by Christmas.

Going round with HoH is like having a companion with me at all times, someone rather separate from myself, living a life that's entirely her own.

Goodness me! I see what you mean! How marvellous! say those of you who've kept up with my blog posts, especially the hairy ones.

Is she yours?! Not adopted or anything, or ordered from the hairdresser? ask those who haven't.

HoH and I went to Holland last week.

It was our third visit together, but this time was different. This was not just visiting two sisters and the odd friend, who have been well up to date not only with my own progress but also with HoH's birth and growth.

This was a proper family gathering, teeming with assorted cousins and cousins-once-removed. I hadn't quite anticipated how poignant that would be. Years (even decades) could go by without meeting some of these relatives, but then we suddenly kept seeing each other. There were three funerals in the space of a year: my uncle, my aunt, my mother.

How wonderful, therefore, to gather in celebration of my mother's last remaining sibling, my wonderful aunt.

It was 60 years since she entered a Franciscan convent. There we all were, in our cheerful outfits and not a handkerchief in sight except to wipe away tears of joy at the beauty of life.

Perhaps it was not surprising that I got so much attention, with everyone asking the How are you question and exclaiming over HoH.

Yes, I'm fine now. (Let's not dwell on the ongoing tiredness.)
Yes, I'm back into the swing of things.
No, I've never had curls before; no, it's not a perm; and yes, isn't it amazing?

It startles me to think that it's only been 15 months since I last met these lovely relatives, at my mother's funeral. I still had my old hair then, it was less than a fortnight after my mastectomy, and I still had all the chemotherapy and hair loss and radiotherapy and hair growth to come.

Blimey. No wonder HoH got such happy attention.

With my aunt at her celebration last week

15 months ago, at my mother's funeral

But the real attention should not got to my hair.

This blog post's title should go to my aunt.

She has had such a difficult year mourning the loss of three of her siblings. My sisters and I were not alone in having lost our mother. Almost all my cousins lost a parent in the same year. Aunt helped us all with the wisdom of the prayers she wrote in thanksgiving for her life, parts of which I've translated freely:

Let this be a day of meeting each other truly
With the tides of life in the background,
where happiness and sadness, fortune and misfortune colour our lives
constantly, like ebbing and flooding.

Life is giving and receiving.
It does not pass without pain and sadness.
I believe that everything that happens has a place and a meaning in the wholeness of my life.
I believe that life is:
To be and to become who you are
Letting others be and become who they are.
Trusting, whatever happens.

God's love is given through people, a gift as constant as the tides.
I have learnt that love is the only thing that counts.

Dear Lord, let us hear Your voice in the rustling waters of all our doings.
And teach us to accommodate the ebbing and the flooding.
Let us be formed and ripened by the grooves and channels that have shaped our lives.

My aunt as a novice in 1955

Amen to that.

133. The VIP lounge revisited

Ah, the VIP lounge. Can I ever forget?

The chemotherapy chair

If you have followed this blog, then I bet you remember it too. In fact my observations written whilst sitting in my chemotherapy chair have worked their way up to the top of the "most read blog post" list, past my observations on the advantages of having cancer rather than depression (currently, and quite rightly, number 2 on the list) and my thoughts on my mother's grave (strangely, that one stands at number 3).

Yesterday, I found myself back on the chemo ward.

This is how it happened.

Despite working as a researcher at a university that sits in the hospital building, I haven't had much to do with the cancer wards before. But last month I was contacted by a film maker who wanted make a short educational film about cancer and learning disability for Macmillan Cancer Support. She was looking for someone with learning disabilities who could talk about what it's like to have cancer. Almost inevitably, she had found her way to my door (not many people specialise in this area).

"You want Amanda!" I said.

I have told you about Amanda before (long time ago, but worth reading again: she is a rather extraordinary woman). Amanda has learning disabilities and has recovered from cancer. The whole rigmarole: surgery, chemotherapy, radiotherapy.

Last week, we all squeezed into Amanda's flat. Standing room only. As always, she spoke eloquently of her experiences, remembering them vividly, even though it was over a decade ago.

Filming at Amanda's flat

Now here's the thing. When Amanda and I first wrote her cancer story, I thought it was a story about learning disabilities. That was nine years ago. But when I re-read that story on the tube on my way to her flat, I discovered it was a story about cancer.

Most of Amanda's cancer experiences could have been mine.

It made me cry.

In fact, during my chemotherapy treatment I'd been wondering how on earth she managed to get through it all. I needed an iron will to return to the dreaded chemo chair again and again. How much harder for people who may find it difficult to understand why they need to sit in that chair and be poisoned.

Amanda not only understood this, but she had the necessary iron will. I went to talk with her a few hours before the film crew arrived, because I wanted to know more.

Yet again, Amanda spoke of her mother who had died of cancer when she was young.

"I know it sounds stupid," she said, "but when it was really hard, I talked to my mother. I felt that she was there with me."

Only now do I truly understand that this is far from stupid, and far from strange. My mother, I told Amanda, was there too, at my bedside in my darkest hours, even though (or perhaps because?) she was dead.

Next up was me.

The film crew came to my office yesterday. I was willing to be interviewed (although much less of a natural screen presence then Amanda, which you will certainly agree with once the film comes out). But I insisted that there should also be a "real" nurse in the film, on a real hospital ward.

Which nurse? Which ward? I rang the hospital's learning disability nurse specialist. What would he recommend?

What he recommended was Lovely Nurse on the chemotherapy ward.

So there I was, last week, back in the VIP lounge to find Lovely Nurse and ask her if she was willing. I walked in with my new curly locks and my professional badge, feeling much happier being Staff rather than Patient. Would anyone recognise me?

Saviour Nurse did. Immediately. She looked up from what she was doing and rushed over, hugging me: "Ooohh, how good to see you, how nice of you to come back here!"

I was impressed. Different looks, different context, and it's six months since I had my last shot of chemotherapy.

Most other nurses did a double take. I could see them thinking... I know that woman from somewhere, but who is she? But it didn't take them long to figure it out. This is an excellent ward with excellent nurses. Lovely Nurse herself remembered me too. She treated me once, when I had to rush in with a suspected bladder infection.

And yes, she was more than happy to be filmed.

It was a rather different arrival-on-the-chemo-ward yesterday.

Instead of turning up with a supportive husband/daughter/friend, an undemanding magazine and a comfortable T-shirt, I came with a camera man, a film director and side kick, a colleague/actor/friend and a confident mascara-and-lipstick smile. It was only Amanda and Lovely Nurse that needed filming, so I cheered them on from the side lines.

Knowing the ward had its uses. When I spotted that there was a free corner in the VIP lounge (two patients in adjacent chairs had just left), I knew other patients might be waiting but there was a possible gap. Could we film there perhaps?

We could.

Amanda and Lovely Nurse in the VIP lounge

"What is it like," the film director wanted to know, "being back on this ward?"

"Fine!" I grinned. "Much nicer this time round. No problem at all."

So I thought. But then I had to rush into the Ladies with a sudden bout of nausea, retching into the toilet bowl.

"This is bringing back memories," Amanda agreed. "I feel... not upset, but strange. I have butterflies in my stomach."

Clearly, a cancer year is not easily erased. We enjoyed the experience, but afterwards we needed to sit down together with a cup of tea.

Even now, looking at that chair in the photograph at the top of this blog post, I feel faintly sick.

The only thing to do, we knew, was to laugh about it all. We had both brought our chemo wigs, just for the fun of it. We thought we might put it on a PowerPoint slide next time we give a talk about cancer together.

So here we are. Onwards and upwards.

Don't we look fetching in our wigs!

Less fetching perhaps in each other's wig... 

132. A different kind of bucket list

I only follow one other blog. It's by Kate Granger, a young doctor who is now in the late stages of terminal cancer.

Kate has only written two blog posts since I signed up, but they are poignant. In fact the one from two weeks ago has stayed with me every day since I read it, and it has lifted my spirits, so let me share it in full.

The things I love about life…

Posted on June 1, 2015

Serious illness has forced me to think hard about how I spend my remaining time on this planet and what I really enjoy about life. 

This is my list. What would you put on yours?

Christopher

My family & friends

Being a doctor 

Teaching 

Lazy Sunday mornings with no alarm clocks

Cuddles with my nephews & niece

My flute

Baking

Cherry blossom

British asparagus

Podding peas in my parents’ garden

Strawberries and cream

Daffodils

Crunching autumn leaves

Band practice

Exploring new places

Going out for dinner

Sunday roasts

Champagne

Willow trees

California

Embroidery 

Clean bed linen

Spa days

My kitchen

Sunflowers

Candles

Fundraising

Swimming

Afternoon tea

It's the clean bed linen that has me gasping.

This is a different kind of bucket list. It's not Things I've never done and I want to do them before I die, but Things I love about my life, and I want to appreciate them again and again before I die.

Savouring the little things in life, the things that make life beautiful.

It's not the big aspirations, the bungee jumps, the travels around the world (unless you're into that kind of thing of course), but the things that we may take for granted. The things we would miss most and the things we might not even realise we enjoy.

That is exactly what I would want to focus on if I only had a little time left. It's what I wanted to focus on when I was ill. It's what I am hugely appreciative and grateful for now. The Moonwalk or the trip to Iceland may well be on my list (as "Exploring new places" is for Kate) but they are outnumbered by the ordinary day-to-day things.

Clean bed linen, definitely. Not forgetting the electric blanket. (I know, I know, it's June, but aahhhh, the bliss of sinking tired bones into the warmth of said blanket.)

The feeling of water on my skin.

Playing a board game with my daughter.

But why wait until there's only a little time left?

When you are ill and tired, your list shrinks, but there is always something on it. I couldn't play a board game when I was coping with chemotherapy, but I still loved the electric blanket. And the daughter herself, without the board game.

Reading Kate's list reminded me to enjoy and appreciate these little things. The wind on my face. My husband opening a bottle of wine when it isn't even a Friday night, and getting two glasses out of the cupboard. Singing in the choir. Tulips. A tidy kitchen.

(Children, if you happen to read this: A Tidy Kitchen is on my list, one with a sock free floor and the margarine in the fridge, not next to it. Believe me: happiness will follow.)

So... what's on your list?

131. HAIR!!!

Spot the difference.

June 2012

May 2015

There were, of course, various in-between looks. Like these ones, for example.

July 2014 (too long,
but is it worth going to the hairdresser
if it's all going to fall out anyway?)

July 2014 (yes, it is worth going...
The pixie cut, just before it all fell out)

But you can see why my hair has become a talking point.

Or, rather, an exclaiming point. People don't talk in normal Times Roman font when they see my hair. They talk in CAPITAL LETTERS WITH EXCLAMATION MARKS AT THE END OF IT!!!

Because it looks nothing, nothing like it has ever looked before. I mean, seriously, quite apart from the rather startling greyness: THERE ARE CURLS!!!!!!

That needs at least - at least - six exclamation marks. I have never had a single curl in my life. This is how my career in coiffures started...

1970

...and it was ever thus. If fashion dictated a more voluminous look (1980s, I'm looking at you), then a shelf full of hair raising products was needed to prevent the cat-that's-been-out-in-the-rain look, the one where your hair faithfully follows the contours of your head, clinging to it for dear life. (That June 2012 photo? Seems a natural look? Let me tell you, it kept the hair gel-and-blow-dryer businesses in comfortable profits.)

Nowadays, when you put me out in the rain, the curls just go curlier.

So here's the scenario.

You haven't seen me for a couple of weeks/months/years. This can go any of the following ways.

Option 1

I LOVE YOUR HAIR!

Yes, that's right. LOVE, not just in capitals but in bold, and underlined.

ISN'T IT LOVELY! you say. You turn to others, all equally keen to comment.
LOOK AT HER!
DOESN'T HER HAIR LOOK WONDERFUL?!
I'M JEALOUS!
I'VE ALWAYS WANTED CURLS!

Don't get me wrong, I'm joining in with gusto. I'm happy to have this conversation several times a week. (And I do.) Wouldn't you much rather discuss hairdos than chemotherapy regimes?

Plus, I genuinely want people's opinion. I'm all for Dutch honesty, which can, to the polite English person, seem to border on rudeness. But I now find that if you've had chemo-induced hair loss, even the English are finally unafraid of speaking their minds. Opinions abound, and I'll hear about them.

"Hm, I'm just wondering whether this is getting ridiculous," I'd say. "Perhaps I should ring my hairdresser?"

And they'd go, "NO!! LEAVE IT LIKE THIS! I LOVE IT!"

Or they go...

Option 2

ACTUALLY, I LIKED IT WHEN IT WAS SHORT!

I have some sympathy. I also rather liked it when it was short. More than liked: I loved the ultra-short look. (Hence my hairdresser suggestion. Wasn't the shorter-than-short look somewhat better than this poodle-like arrangement?)

The drawback: very short hair was (and still is) more high-maintenance than it seems. Not the hair itself, but the rest of me. Without the make-up and the earrings, the funky look (I'm using the most-heard vocabulary here) quickly turns into the old-man-look. And the trouble with make-up is that all too often I just can't be bothered.

More than once, supermarket checkout youngsters (it's usually youngsters) have squirmed with embarrassment at their mistake after I returned their greeting of "Good morning sir" in a voice that clearly didn't match my appearance.

One person went one step further, and said ACTUALLY, I LIKED IT WHEN YOU WERE BALD.

Too bad. I'm not going back there. Let me say that again: I! AM! NOT! GOING! BACK! THERE!!

Option 3

GOODNESS, WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR?!

You may well ask. I am as startled by my new look as you are. This doesn't sound like a compliment (and it usually isn't - it's often followed by Option 2).

Option 4

I LIKE WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO YOUR HAIR!

This came from someone I hadn't seen since 2012, and who was unaware of last year's trials and tribulations. She clearly thought I'd been busy with the scissors and curlers.

The dilemma: What to do with it?

Keep it ultra-short? It's quite possible that I suddenly lose heart and call Andrew the lovely hairdresser in a moment of despair.

Let it grow? And grow, and grow, and see what happens? I'm intrigued. How will this end? When will gravity take hold of my curls?

"You looked more like yourself when you had no hair at all," a friend commented recently, and whilst this sounds bizarre, she has a point. I look in the mirror and I think, Hm, who does that remind me of? I definitely don't remind me of myself.

Shape it? Whilst it grows and grows? Because frankly, my current state of affairs feels like a carefully rounded hat.

Dye it? I'm not the dyeing kind, I tried it for a year or so but it was too much like painting the Forth Bridge. Having said that, my current shade of grey is rather startling and only this much removed from the Blue Rinse.

Whilst I am pondering these matters, it suddenly occurs to me who I am reminded of when I look in the mirror. No, it's not me.

Reader, I believe I have finally turned into Denise.

Me as Denise, August 2014

130. The Moonwalk... what next?!

The official photos have arrived in my inbox. Here they are.

The Night Owls Team

The finishing line

Well deserved medals!

Were we mad? I think so. Plus, I am concerned that taking part of this was the first symptom of a new affliction. The day after the walk, as I was resting in bed with pleasantly aching limbs and a large number of blisters, I found myself browsing the website for the Nijmeegse Vierdaagse, or the Nijmegen Marches.

This is worrying. The Nijmegen Marches (in the Netherlands) involves walking four marathons in four days. It's a huge event which has been in my consciousness since childhood, as there are always news reports about the weather and the number of walkers dropping out each day. (We're talking thousands here. Dropouts that is, not walkers. Over 40,000 people take part each year.)

The Moonwalk organisers also send teams to take part in this annual event. This does sound completely bonkers, but let me own up: I loved the walking. I miss the motivation to train for a ridiculous event like the Moonwalk. So, I've registered interest in the 2016 marches...

Anyone else...????

Let me make it clear that this is no longer part of a recovery plan. In the summer of 2016, I will have recovered. This is just, oh, a new hobby perhaps?

Let me hope that by 2016, I will have recovered from this new ailment. Because honestly, who would want to suffer four days of crowds, blisters and near-collapse in the Dutch summer heat?

129. The weeks/months/years of recovery

So, we did the Moonwalk. All 26 miles of it. Pretty good, if I may say so myself. The fundraising wasn't bad either: we astonished ourselves by raising over £5,500 for breast cancer research and charities.

How are things a fortnight later?

Was I a total wreck in the week following those 26 miles? And have I now recovered fully, not so much from the marathon but from my cancer year? That was the plan, after all. I once wrote that in my view, my cancer story didn't end with the final shot of treatment (January) but with the Moonwalk in May. 

The answer is no, and no.

Not a total wreck, happily and surprisingly. I slept a lot during the aftermath. (I'm talking 12 hour nights. Haven't done that since, oh, toddlerhood probably.) But wow, I felt strong. On top of the world. Two days after the walk, I was back at my desk with a clear mind and a body that felt fitter than healthier than it had done for a year.

Clearly, I thought, this is the answer for recovering cancer patients. Marathon walks: a miracle cure. They should come on prescription.

But whilst I am evidently much, much better now than I have been for a very long time, things are by no means back to normal.

Or perhaps they are? Perhaps this is my new normal. It's called Older Age. That's what it feels like, anyway. Well past middle age. Youth a distant memory.

That day, when I cycled to my GP with my dodgy lump, I was sliding pleasantly from youthfulness into fit and active middle age. Then I lost a year. And now I've woken up and I find myself in a new groove, one where I need afternoon rests and where getting up from the floor is an event that needs careful orchestrating.

I mean, when thirty-somethings offer you their hand when you get off a train and you look at them and think, Blimey, I could be your mother, you cannot escape the fact that you've moved up a generation. These shifts used to happen gradually, but now they've happened overnight. Well, perhaps not overnight, but overyear.

I'm not complaining. I wake up happy, every single day. Hurray! A new day, and I can DO THINGS! I can work. Garden. Sing. Cook. Walk a marathon. Yesterday, I finally started cello lessons again. How wonderful is that?

But I have to be very careful not to let frustration get the better of me sometimes. A few fully active days in a row: no problem. But they are inevitably followed by a few days of lethargy.

It's all to do with expectation. I can enjoy planned rests, but you may catch me moaning if I had plans to keep going all day and I can't.

I thought I'd be back to my old self after the marathon, but she is still a distant memory. Perhaps she won't be back?

What I don't know is whether the current state of affairs is due to...

(a) after-effects of the cancer treatments, or

(b) side-effects of the daily pills that suppress my oestrogen production (the leaflet says that both fatigue and bone pains are common), or

(c) old age. See above.

If it's (c), the ongoing fatigue will last for the rest of my life. Downhill from here, even. Chin up and get used to it.

If it's (b), I've got another decade of this. Ten years of hormone treatment, they said. Unless I decide that the side effects are not worth the slightly lower risk of the cancer coming back. Hm. Percentages and chances and perceptions of cost versus benefit. Tricky one.

But could it be (a)? One sprightly and hardworking colleague, who went through chemotherapy some years ago (and who, like me, worked on and off throughout), confided that four months after her treatment ended, she thought Perhaps I just can't ever work again. It took six months, she said, before she looked up in surprise because she suddenly wasn't tired. Ah! she thought. Yes, NOW I remember! This is what it was like, not being tired!

Someone else said it wasn't until five years after breast cancer treatment that she felt her old self again. And a doctor I met when I gave a lecture at a hospice recently told me that the fatigue from radiotherapy lasts a year.

Only time will tell. And time, I am beginning to realise, mustn't be measured in weeks. Perhaps not even in months, as I have been doing. ("In a few months' time, everything will be different.")

I have to be patient and start thinking in terms of years. In the meantime, let me remember this again and again...

Note to self:
Be happy and enjoy what you have, rather than be sad and frustrated about what you don't have.

128. One foot in front of the other

In the end, my son's advice was the best.

Just start and keep walking.

So that's what I did, one foot in front of the other, ignoring the urge to sleep and the aching hips and the cold and the mile marking posts that seemed to be appear at, oh, about two-mile-intervals. (Except at the end, bizarrely. You'd think the distance would start to stretch like elastic, but no, after 20 miles they seemed to jostle for attention.)

This was definitely not a night to Listen To Your Body, as my consultant and countless concerned friends had urged.  I wonder how many of the 17,000 Moonwalkers would have made it to the finish if they had all listened to their bodies? Just saying. It was not only recovering cancer patients who qualified for a Pure Madness Medal.

"I'll see how far I'll get," I had told everyone beforehand (including your good selves, reading my blog). Covering my back in case I'd had to chicken out halfway through.

Of course, they all said. No shame in giving up when it gets too much. Listen to your body. Etc.

Except my Best Friend, who had arrived to cheer us on, welcome us back and fry our breakfast in the morning. She was having none of it.

"I think you are going to make it," she said confidently.

"You are not going to give up. You'll be kept going by the adrenaline from the event and by sheer determination."

We both knew she was right. Deep down, I've always known it. Barring a catastrophic physical collapse, there was no way I would stop. Sore feet? I'd crawl.

Best Friend's statement gave me just the confidence I needed. Of course I'd make it. Was it ever in doubt?

Determination abounded among Moonwalkers. Towards the end, people hobbled along clutching friends' shoulders. Some dispensed with their trainers and walked in their socks. I was full of admiration for the Moonwalkers carrying excess body weight or pushing a friend in a wheelchair.

But collapse was a possibility. In fact it happened to one of the Night Owls after she'd got to the finish: shivers, nausea, lightheadedness, vomiting.

It was obvious that Owl would have to come along. (If you haven't met Owl, read about him here.)

Isn't he too heavy? people wanted to know. The answer is: no heavier then a prosthesis!

My younger daughter insisted that Jokery (remember him?) should be carried on the other side, but it felt like too much of a sum total. I did like the idea of taking him though. Whilst Owl represents the entire sorry saga of my cancer year, Jokery represents the support of family and friends. The solution came in the shape of four safety pins and a hat. This proved to be a stroke of brilliance, as he acted like a beacon for other Night Owls. It can be quite hard to identify your friends in a sea of pink hats.

Love the outfit! I heard people say throughout the night. Best effort I've seen so far!

Effort? You can say that again. The effort Owl and Jokery have made this year is beyond words.

The theme of this year's Moonwalk was A Night At The Movies. The idea was to make your bra decorations reflect this theme, so there were plenty of spotty Dalmatians and Cruella De Vils.

"Owls!" one woman exclaimed as I emerged from a loo break. "Love it! What film is that from?"

"It hasn't been made yet," my friend replied.

We all gathered at my house, conveniently situated just 5 minutes' walk from Clapham Common where the event started and finished.

Nothing like seeing friends and strangers in their bras in the kitchen to break the ice and get into the spirit. There was a surreal moment when I came down the stairs to find a perfect stranger (friend of a friend), scantily clad, standing in the hallway fiddling with her bra and looking completely at home. Fabulous.

By the time we were ready to set off, we were in high spirits. I had been worried about being too tired in the evening, but I'd spend most of the afternoon in bed, and there was nothing else for it. Don't Listen To Your Body must include ignoring any urges to lie down and sleep.

We gather at our house for last minute preparations... food, fingernails and frilly bits

 

14 Night Owls, ready for the off!

Some of the 17,000 Moonwalkers...

Let's gloss over the wait before the start.

We got to the Big Tent around 9.30pm and finally set off just after midnight. It was a bit too long, a bit too noisy, a bit too crowded. But never mind. We knew all along that this would be one of the harder parts.

...and we're off!

The first few miles are rather slow...

What I hadn't reckoned on is how hard the first 5 or 10 miles would be.

The crowds made it slow. We passed Big Ben at the stroke of 2am. Two hours gone already? We barely got going! We went on to Tower Bridge, back along the north of the river, and By the time we passed Big Ben again it was well after 4am. Dawn was breaking. Less than 12 miles covered. Blimey, such a long way to go still.

Walking in the dark was not as magical as experienced Moonwalkers had said it would be. London is lovely and quiet! they'd said, but that isn't true. London is never quiet. Plenty of cars at 3am. Plus, it's cold.

...but by the time dawn breaks, the crowds have thinned

Never mind. Keep going, one foot in front of the other. Ignore body screaming for sleep. I may, just may, walk another marathon again one day. But never, NEVER AGAIN at night. That is just a ridiculous thing to do. Other Night Owls agreed that the nighttime business was one of the hardest parts.

Soon after the start, one pair and one trio of Night Owls had gone ahead, as we knew they would and should do. Impossible to walk with such a large group where everyone has a different pace. Others disappeared gradually, doing their own thing. For a long time, there were seven of us, catching up with each other regularly.

After half a marathon, you begin to recognise others who walk at your pace. You begin to greet each other.

"Ah, there's the owl again!" one Moonwalker cheered as we passed her for the umpteenth time.

Another came running after me as we were about to leave for home, having finished."I just wanted to thank you!" she said, "you kept us going all the way."

How, I didn't ask and can't imagine (our Beacon Owl? Our cheeriness?) but it was nice to hear.

It's getting light and it's still freezing!

Halfway at Marble Arch. Definitely going for the Full Moon!

Hot chocolate at Sloane Square (22 miles) beats hot chocolate on the cancer ward!

For the last ten miles, it was just my friend Louise and I, bringing up the rear.

(I might as well name her, as she's got her name scrawled across her chest in the pictures, so no point trying to keep anonymity.) 

We always thought we'd be last in the team, and it suited us. I needed to stick to a strict regime of 60 minutes walking, 5 or 10 minutes sitting. They advice against stopping, but I knew it worked for me. The few times in training when I'd gone on for over an hour, I'd felt faint and weak. But some of the remaining seven Night Owls were struggling with the cold and couldn't bear stopping, so we waved them on.

In the end, it wasn't that hard. We laughed at our weaknesses and our struggles to get up from the floor, like old ladies. We smiled and waved at anyone cheering us on. (Mostly, the Moonwalk volunteers. Londoners are rather blasé about people walking around London in a bra on a Sunday morning, although the vicar on her way to church did a double take.)

We were amazed and delighted when we realised, around the 20 mile mark, that we were really going to manage this.

Those last six miles? We grinned and giggled all the way through.

The emotions hit me at the final mile. That last bit, between Battersea Park and Clapham Common, is my stamping ground. I have walked and cycled it countless times, always on my way home from wherever I've been.

But this time I had 25 miles behind me. And behind that, a rather demanding year. This was no ordinary homecoming.

"I can't talk now," I had to tell Louise who was chatting pleasantly. "Oh dear, I'd better keep hold of this hanky."

Later, I heard from other Night Owls that they, too, had cried. Even the younger ones. But their tears seemed to be miserable I-CAN'T-walk-those-last-miles type tears. One Night Owl, who is super fit and runs half marathons, said that this was much, much harder.

"I am not alone!" she told me today. "I have a friend who ran the London marathon last month and who did the Moonwalk this weekend. She said that the Moonwalk was the most difficult challenge she has ever done!!"

I don't quite believe them, but still, hearing it gives us a pleasantly smug feeling. Because I cried only with the emotion of it all, realising that I am on my way to recovery.

Effort? This was nothing, nothing compared to the effort of chemotherapy.

This has been a challenge for all 14 of us. Most of us have slept and slept and slept. I am hobbling around the house in a state of pleasant exhaustion.

But this, my friends, is a lovely kind of tiredness. This is tiredness that gets better with rest. This is CHOSEN tiredness. 

This is nothing like having cancer. Marvellous.

Arriving back at Clapham Common. Need I say more?

Welcomed by faster Night Owls, friends and family

About to cross the finishing line...

...and look, we can still dance a jig!

You can still sponsor us! Here is the link again... THANK YOU!