COMMUNITY

This was the first time I cried when I came around from anaesthetic. Hot, uncontrollable tears swelled over my cheeks as I began to grasp at my surroundings and figure out where I was and the theatre recovery room came into focus. I felt groggy and sick and scared and tired. But mostly I felt […]

I’m Amanda Hayes and this is my story of vaginal cancer. In life, I like to think I’m unique. I’ve always had a quirky style, sarcastic sense of humour and a-tell-it-you-as-it-is kind of attitude. Not mouthy and unruly just straight as it is. This has followed through into my cancer. I’m unique in my cancer.

How the hell do you tell your six year old you’ve got cancer? What’s the right way? Is there a right way? So many bloody questions. Not so many clear answers. I prepared for it by going online, obviously. Clumsily Googled ‘how do you tell your child you’ve got cancer’ and up popped a book

Ah, brain tumours. In my experience, the words alone possess the power to induce sharp intakes of breath and apologetic faces. I’m so sorry they say… Gosh, that’s terrible. Brain tumours are tricky things. The morning of my diagnosis, I had a regular waxing appointment booked for a couple of hours later. Brain tumours hadn’t

“Doctor…Is age on my side?” “No, you are a statistic now.” Bit harsh, but those words are so true. Cancer is ageless, faceless, it doesnt care who you are – I bloody have it aged 29. Most importantly cancer is raceless. This is a taboo/unspoken subject like most illnesses or ailments in the South Asian