People all around me have chins. Nice, defined chins and necklines and they have mouths which are normal sized. Oh, and a lot of them have hair. On steroids to help my breathing, my face is swollen like a balloon. I receive a copy of a letter from my consultant to my GP in which she says my face looks ‘Cushingoid’. I look it up and it’s not a pretty description. Steroids choose which bits to inflate and they include my torso and feet which resemble 2 little pig’s trotters. I appear to have lost my ankle bones. So I envy those with neat chins, hair and ankles. This represents an awful lot of the population.

Following the horrendous events of September, I feel much better. I am weak – going up and down stairs is still difficult and getting in and out of the car and the shower requires a lot of concentration – but I actually feel in a really good place emotionally. I have my trusty wheelchair which Mr Mason is in charge of pushing. He is a little on the kamikaze side and I have scars on my shins to prove this. In shops we are a little like Lou and Andy. I still can’t speak loudly and Mr Mason pushes me around while I wave my hands and try to make him stop. I am getting quite adept at moving myself around so when he leaves me in one aisle while he goes off to source something, he returns he finds me gone. What a little minx I am. The chemotherapy, although stopped, is still making itself felt. My skin is starting to detach itself as though I have bad sunburn. My legs are actually sore and I can only wear soft clothing. A few of my nails are also making a break for it, deciding they would like to detach themselves and start a new life elsewhere. They bleed and are sore, needing constant moisturisation. The soles of my feet are numb which makes putting shoes and boots on a bit of a challenge. The palms of my hands are also a little on the numb side but I am assured all these effects will decrease and cease altogether in time. This I look forward to.

On getting home from hospital, I find I have broken a tooth. Dentistry is not compatible with chemotherapy so I am in a hurry to get a crown or something to seal the tooth off. Suddenly, there are lots of things I have to do. My eyes are worse so I think I need a new prescription for glasses. Chemotherapy stiffens the lens which will never recover. When I am tired, I can’t read and even the tv looks blurry. But I have lots of visitors which is lovely. Suddenly I feel more sociable and people turn up for coffee and entertain me for an hour or so. My diary is full of appointments and work which I intend to try and continue with. The ENT consultant is still keen to put a little widget in my neck which will help with my vocal chord paralysis and give me my voice back so I have a pre-op appointment to see if I am fit enough. It is a general anaesthetic so it’s touch and go whether I can have that or not.

I have been very excited about having a henna crown. A friend who is organising the fabulous woobs exhibition says she knows someone who is looking for a model and I am put forward. On Friday I hear they already have someone but ask me to send a photo and a phone number and they will see if they have time to do another on the same day. After I send the photo, I am told they don’t have enough time. Hmmm. Could this be the curse of the steroid Holbein face? I try to persuade myself this is not the case and they do say I am top of the list for the next one they will do for their charity work. I am officially disappointed, though. They are beautiful and I am wondering if I could get one done before the wedding as an alternative to a ‘mother of the bride’ hat (which I am not going to wear anyway). I will have to investigate although the amount of work involved probably means it will be an expensive acquisition. But it might be an antidote to the Holbein Henry VIII look – I can’t imagine Henry ever indulging in such a radical look.