A hard convoy with Kelly

Talking With Kelly

I spoke with Kelly today.

Well… more like I made her speak to me, because I could feel she’d been avoiding me, and I finally asked her straight:

“Have I done something wrong?”

Bless her — she didn’t dance around it.

She looked at me, really looked, and said she was finding it hard to come and see me because when she does, she sees everything:

The pain.

The weight loss.

The exhaustion.

The way my body’s changing.

The way chemo is chewing through me.

She told me she can’t bear seeing me like this, so she’s been speaking to Lexi more, and Lexi’s been going to her house instead.

And you know what?

I didn’t get angry.

I didn’t get hurt.

I understood.

One thing cancer teaches you — brutally — is that people don’t always pull away because they don’t care. Sometimes they pull away because they care too much, and they simply can’t handle seeing someone they love go through hell.

I told her I understood, but if she can’t face seeing me, she can still ring me. I’m not going to bite. I’m not going to make her watch me fall apart. Sometimes a voice is enough.

She hugged me.

Told me she loved me.

And I told her I loved her too.

Because that’s the truth.

No matter how messy this gets, the love is still there.

When someone goes through cancer, we lose people — not because we’re bad, not because we’ve changed, but because they don’t know what to say, or they can’t bear to watch us fight this battle.

I told her that.

I told her I get it.

And weirdly… I’m okay.

I’ve already made peace with the fact I’m going through this mostly on my own.

Everyone sees us differently now.

Some stare.

Some pity.

Some avoid.

Some love quietly from a distance.

And maybe that’s just how it has to be.

After my talk woth Kelly

I left Kelly's and i went to mums , I sighed I sat there for a minute, trying to figure out whether I felt relieved, sad, or just… empty.

Probably all three.

Her honesty meant a lot.

But it also reminded me of something I keep learning again and again:

cancer is lonely as hell, even when you’re surrounded by people.

There’s the physical loneliness — when the pain hits at night and you’re clutching your rib cage like it’s falling apart.

Then there’s the emotional loneliness — when everyone is there but not really there, because they can’t walk inside your mind and feel what you’re feeling.

And then there’s the special kind of loneliness you get when your own body feels like it’s turned against you.

But then… the humour creeps in.

It always does, or I think I’d lose my mind.

Because while I’m sat there reflecting on life like some tragic Victorian widow, my stomach suddenly decides to speak up with that loud chemo growl — you know the one — the “I’m-gonna-make-a-scene-whether-you-like-it-or-not” warning.

And for a second I thought:

Imagine me having this deep emotional moment

and then shitting myself mid-thought.

That would be my life in a nutshell.

Even my body interrupts my dramatic moments.

I actually laughed.

A real laugh — the painful, chest-hurting chemo laugh, but still a laugh.

Back to Reality

After the emotional avalanche and the digestive threats, I tried to get on with my day.

Mum popped her head round the door, checking on me like I was a newborn kitten, asking:

“Do you want a brew?”

They always think tea is a cure.

I said yes. It was something that stayed down

Of course I said yes.

Then I just lay there, thinking about everything — Kelly, Stefan, Ryan, pneumonia, chemo, my kids, my mum, they all see me different and Ryan is better off with out me , Stefan is emotionally blackmailing me

My Kids are trying to get on with life , Mum bless her isn't happy Im looking at hiring a carer as shes told old to help and move me , hey im offering £4,500 a month , and then extra for taxi fees for me for hospital appointments . Hey and seeing me nakd as I need help getting in and out of bath as I have about 5 a day as im that cold

The truth is:

I am doing this mostly alone.

Not because people don’t care — but because it’s hard to watch someone you love hurting, and it’s even harder to ask for help when you’re used to being the strong one.

But I’m still here.

Still fighting.

Still swearing.

Still laughing at my own disasters, and losing people in the process .

And tomorrow… I’ll get up and do it all again, even if I wobble, crawl, cry, or nearly shit myself in the process.

Because that’s life at mo — brutal, ridiculous, heartbreaking, and strangely funny all at once.

Losing Friends & Losing Words

It’s hard losing friends —

not because they don’t love you,

but because they can’t stand to watch you decline.

And the truth is…

I fully get it.

Watching someone you care about fall apart piece by piece?

Watching the sparkle fade, the weight drop off, the pain take over, the hair fall out?

That’s brutal.

That’s traumatising.

That stays with people.

So yeah, I understand why some stay away.

But today, it hit me harder than usual.

Probably because my brain decided to go on holiday without warning.

Chemo brain — the delightful side effect where your thoughts scatter like confetti and your vocabulary packs its bags and fucks off to Spain.

Honestly, the English dictionary in my head?

Ripped up. Burned. Deleted.

Absolutely gone.

I’ve spent all day making up words like some deranged toddler who’s had too much sugar.

I’ll be mid-sentence and suddenly I’m saying:

“Pass me the… the… thingy-what’s-it… cup-plate?”

“My legs are… wobbulising?”

“I need to… re-sit-downify?”

Chemo turns you into a walking typo.

I lie there thinking of all the things I want to say — how scared I am, how tired, how fed up — and all that comes out is gobbledygook.

Sometimes I even stop halfway through a sentence because my brain just…

forgets the plot.

It’s frustrating, embarrassing, and sometimes funny as hell.

But the worst part?

Trying to explain to people why you’re pulling away, when you can’t even string a full sentence together.

So yeah… losing friends hurts.

But I won’t hate them for it.

I won’t beg anyone to stay.

I understand that some people can’t handle watching me fade — physically or mentally.

And on days like today, where my words fall apart faster than my hair,

I can’t blame them.