The Day My Chest Decided to Give Up (A Trip to Pinderfields I Didn’t Plan For)

 

Well…

as if chemo wasn’t already doing the absolute most,

my body decided to throw in a little surprise side quest today.

 

I’ve been struggling to breathe for a couple of days —

properly struggling —

like someone had parked an elephant across my chest and forgotten to move it.

 

I couldn’t catch a full breath.

Couldn’t lie flat.

Couldn’t walk without feeling like I’d climbed Everest barefoot.

 

Mum took one look at me gasping tonight and said,

“Right. I’m ringing the doctor.”

 

Doctor came out, listened to my chest, frowned in that way that means trouble, and said:

 

“We need an ambulance.”

 

Brilliant.

Exactly how I wanted to spend my evening.

 

Paramedics arrived and did their checks.

I heard them say:

 

“49-year-old, stage 3 cancer, possible chest infection.”

 

CHEERS LADS, JUST ANNOUNCE IT TO THE WHOLE STREET WHY DON’T YOU.

 

Then boom — straight to Pinderfields.

Blue-light taxi.

 

I was wheeled round to Majors, triaged, cannula in, saline running, oxygen levels monitored, the usual chaos.

 

Had bloods done.

Chest X-ray.

Observations.

More questions.

More waiting.

 

Mum sat next to me the whole time looking more stressed than me and she wasn’t even the one dying for breath.

 

Finally, after poking and prodding me for what felt like forever, they came back with:

 

Chest infection.

Borderline pneumonia.

Actually… walking pneumonia.

 

Walking pneumonia.

????

 

Mate — I can barely walk to the toilet without assistance, but sure, call it walking pneumonia.

Makes me sound athletic at least.

 

Apparently it cracks and rattles so loudly in my chest that the staff didn’t even need a stethoscope.

 

They said it can get worse very fast —

love that for me —

but they caught it early enough to hit me with antibiotics, fluids, and monitoring.

 

And then, just like that:

 

“You’re okay to go home.”

 

Three and a half hours.

In.

Diagnosed.

Hooked up.

Treated.

Discharged.

 

A personal record for the NHS.

 

Mum drove us home, both of us exhausted.

She looked like she’d aged ten years.

I probably looked like a damp corpse in a wig.

 

Now I’m finally back home,

curled up in my bed,

antibiotics beside me,

still wheezing like an accordion someone sat on.

 

But I’m safe.

I’m home.

I’m breathing.

Kind of.

 

Tonight was scary.

Terrifying, actually.

Breath is something you don’t appreciate until your body suddenly forgets how to do it.

 

But I’m here.

Still here.

Still fighting with the lung capacity of a depressed hamster,

but fighting all the same.

 

The Uber Ride Home (And the Lock Screen Conversation I Wasn’t Ready For)

 

So there we were —

me and Mum in the back of an Uber,

me wheezing like a broken accordion,

Mum watching me like I might stop breathing again at any second.

 

The car was warm, quiet,

and for the first time in hours I wasn’t being poked, scanned, or asked to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10 (which is always a solid 12).

 

I thought I’d get home in peace.

 

HAHA.

Bless me.

 

Because halfway down the road, Mum turned to me gently and said:

 

“So… I noticed your lock screen.”

 

My stomach dropped.

 

Of course she noticed.

The woman misses NOTHING.

She reads every emotion like subtitles on a screen.

 

Then she added:

 

“Who’s that?

Because I know it’s not that Stefan — I’ve finally met him.”

 

I just stared at her.

Still breathless.

Still fragile.

Still feeling like my bones were vibrating from pain.

 

And all I could manage was:

 

“I’ll tell you one day, Mum.

But I’m not ready to.”

 

It was the truth.

I’m not ready to unwrap that mess yet.

Not ready to talk about him.

Not ready to hear what she thinks.

Not ready to explain the feelings, the heartbreak, the chaos, the connection, the fallout.

 

Then I added, quietly:

 

“I do need to delete the picture…

but my heart isn’t ready.”

 

She looked at me for a second —

really looked —

and then gently put her hand on my knee.

 

“Oh…

that bad?”

 

I shook my head a little.

 

“Not bad, Mum.

Just… complicated.

And I can’t go into detail.”

 

She nodded slowly, squeezing my knee.

 

“Okay.

When you’re ready,

I’m here.

I won’t judge.”

 

I smiled, but inside my head I was thinking:

 

“Yeah, Mum.

You will.”

 

Not because she’s cruel.

Not because she doesn’t love me.

But because mums are mums —

they judge because they care,

because they want the best for us,

because they want us safe,

because they don’t want anyone hurting their child.

 

And honestly?

I don’t think she’s ready for that story either.

 

So I just stared out the Uber window,

feeling the cold air on the glass

and the ache settling back into my bones,

and thought:

 

One day…

but not today.

 

There are battles I’m fighting right now

that she can see.

The ones inside —

that’s a war for another time.

 

My Conscience, My Chaos, and My Completely Fucked-Up Love Life

 

So here I am,

sitting in bed like a half-dead Victorian orphan,

wheezing with pneumonia

and honestly wondering if my lungs are planning a dramatic exit.

 

I can barely walk without feeling like I’ve run a marathon,

my chest feels like someone’s parked a Ford Fiesta on it,

and every step sounds like I’ve swallowed a packet of Rice Krispies.

 

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

My whole damn chest.

 

So yeah… I quit my job at Evri.

I only work 2 days a week 

And now I can’t breathe, can’t sleep, and can’t even put socks on without nearly collapsing.

 

I decided:

it’s time to focus on me.

My health.

My treatment.

My sanity (the tiny bit that’s still hanging on).

 

But of course, the moment I try to focus on myself,

my emotional life pipes up like,

“Hey girl, remember your LIST of problems?

We’re still here!”

 

The Stefan Situation

 

Oh, the joy.

 

I’ve been on the phone to Kelly,

explaining the same thing I’ve been telling myself for months:

 

I am not in love with Stefan.

 

Not the way he wants.

Not the way he deserves.

Not the way he THINKS I feel.

 

I love him —

but as a friend.

As someone who was there once.

As someone I shared chemistry and history with.

 

But romance?

No.

Not anymore.

 

He keeps telling me he’ll wait for me.

That he wants to be with me.

That he loves me.

That he’ll be patient.

 

And I’m sat here like:

 

“Mate… I can’t even breathe.

I can’t be someone’s future when I can’t even make it through the night without wheezing like a haunted harmonica.”

 

And then the irony hits me in the face

 

Because the way he feels about me?

 

Is EXACTLY how I felt about Ryan.

 

That same hope.

That same heartbreak.

That same “maybe one day” feeling

that just leaves you bleeding at the end.

 

Ryan never felt it like I did.

Never loved me the way I loved him.

And that’s why I stopped chasing.

Stopped messaging.

Stopped torturing myself.

 

And now here I am —

on the OTHER SIDE of the story.

 

Life’s a comedian.

A dark one.

 

So what do I do now?

 

I think I’m going to have to do the thing I hate most:

 

Break someone’s heart

to protect my own.

 

Stefan deserves someone who loves him properly.

Not someone who’s half here, half broken, half dying, half surviving.

 

He deserves someone who lights up when he walks in.

Not someone who’s trying to force a feeling back that died years ago.

 

And the only way I can think to end it —

because he won’t let go —

is to make him hate me.

 

Tell him I’m seeing someone else.

Tell him I’ve moved on.

Tell him something that will snap the attachment completely.

 

Rip the plaster off.

Fast and brutal.

 

Because if I try to be gentle,

he’ll wait forever.

And I can’t carry that.

Not now.

Not with this illness.

Not with the chemo.

Not with the pneumonia.

Not with the heartbreak that’s already ripped me apart once.

 

I’m at my lowest. But I’m trying.

 

I’m tired.

I’m hurting.

I’m breathless.

I’m emotionally raw.

 

But I’m trying to make decisions

that protect my peace

instead of destroying it.

 

Even if it means people hating me.

Even if it means being the villain.

Even if it means ending things brutally.

 

Sometimes survival looks selfish.

But it’s still survival.

 

And right now?

That’s all I’ve got the strength for.