It’s 1:00 in the morning

and I’m sitting upright in bed,

shaking, crying, hurting in places I didn’t even know could hurt.

 

I woke up gasping for air —

proper gasping —

like someone had their hand around my throat in a nightmare

and I jolted awake trying to breathe again.

 

Then the bone pain hit.

Not a dull ache.

Not soreness.

 

No — it was like someone took a baseball bat

and swung it straight into my spine,

my ribs,

my hips,

my legs.

 

Every pulse of pain went straight through me.

 

I dragged myself out of bed

and there it was on the pillow:

 

A chunk of my hair.

 

Just lying there like it belonged to someone else.

 

I knew it was coming.

I refused the cold cap —

hair has never been my priority

and mine was damaged anyway

with the red dye waiting to go on.

 

But still…

seeing it there

hits different.

It makes everything too real.

Too close.

 

Mum came in,

half asleep,

worried sick,

and gave me my morphine.

She didn’t even ask what hurt —

she could see everything hurt.

 

And it does.

Everywhere.

 

Blinking hurts.

Breathing hurts.

Sitting hurts.

Standing hurts.

Thinking hurts.

 

Even crying hurts —

but I’m doing that anyway,

because how else do you process a night like this?

 

I’m wrapped up in my dressing gown,

my hat,

my slippers,

shivering like a pensioner stuck in a snowstorm,

and Mum is fussing around me

even though she’s 71,

5ft 1,

and weighs about as much as a bag of sugar.

 

I’m 5ft 6.

Used to be a size 16.

Now everything hangs off me —

jeans, leggings, underwear.

Nothing fits anymore

except pain.

 

I told Mum earlier

I might need to get carers soon.

Not because she isn’t amazing — she is —

but because she shouldn’t be lifting me,

helping me out of baths,

catching me when my legs give way.

 

She’s tiny.

I’m not.

 

She just nodded,

because that’s what she does —

takes everything on her shoulders

even when they’re tired too.

 

And yes,

I’ll admit something that made her roll her eyes:

 

I told Morgan she needs to go to Primark

and get me some “old lady pants”

because all mine are falling off.

 

She laughed.

I laughed.

In between the hurting,

there are still tiny pockets of ridiculousness

that keep me going.

 

Tonight is hell.

Tonight is pain.

Tonight is fear and exhaustion and frustration

all tangled into one long, cold, aching mess.

 

But I’m still here.

 

Wrapped up like a little Arctic explorer,

crying into my pillow,

watching my hair shed,

waiting for the pain to ease even a little

so I can lie down again.

 

And despite how awful this feels —

how heavy it all is —

I know mornings still come.

Comfort still comes.

Help still comes.

 

There’s something about nighttime that makes everything worse.

 

The pain gets louder.

The thoughts get heavier.

The house gets too quiet.

The ache in my bones settles in deeper, like it’s been waiting all day for its moment to shine.

 

In the daytime, at least there are distractions —

Mum pottering around, the TV on, phone going off, sunlight coming through the curtains.

 

But at night?

 

It’s just me and the pain.

Me and my thoughts.

Me and this body that doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

 

I swear the dark changes everything.

It makes every fear feel bigger.

Every ache feel sharper.

Every breath feel like I’m climbing a mountain.

 

And tonight, on top of all that, I’m worrying about Saturday.

 

Stefan Wants a Full Day With Me

 

He means well.

He loves me.

He misses me.

He wants us to spend time together — properly, not just little visits squeezed between chemo naps and painkillers.

 

He’s been talking about a “full day together,”

going out, 

making memories.

 

And part of me wants that too.

Wants to feel normal.

Wants a day where I’m not wrapped in blankets like a burrito with trust issues.

But the truth?

I can hardly stand right now.

My legs shake.

My bones feel like cracked glass.

The exhaustion hits me in waves that nearly knock me sideways.

 

The idea of being out all day —

walking around, sitting upright for hours,

smiling through the ache,

pretending I’m okay —

It scares me.

But I keep telling myself:

I can do this.

I hope I can do this.

I want to be able to do this.

 

I’ll grit my teeth,

bite down on the pain,

wrap myself up warm,

take my meds,

and try. I owe him this. 

 

The mood im in i want to go to mine and find the pills I hod and take that with the morphine  I dont know ifni can carry on anymore im in so much pain