Pippa World

The Hidden Labour of Getting Dressed

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Sun, 11 Oct 2026 19:49:07 +0000

This morning, my husband got dressed in about thirty seconds flat. T-shirt. Jeans. Socks. Pants.

Done.

If he wanted a jumper or hoodie, that might have added another five seconds.

And it's pretty much the same when he's getting ready for work. Even when he needs to wear a suit, the most complicated decision he has to make is which tie to wear.

And then there's me.

Can I wear jeans and a t-shirt to work? These days? Absolutely. And do I? Well, yes.

But the process takes considerably longer.

T-shirt, sure.

Jeans, sure.

Socks, sure.

Knickers. Big ones? Small ones? Matching the bra?

Oh yeah. Bra. Which one?

What colour is my top? What am I doing today? Do the girls need more support for some reason?

And then there's the top layer. Jumper? Hoodie? Cardigan? Which one will keep me warm without cooking me alive in the office?

And that's just a simple outfit.

What about the days I need tights? Skirts? Shoes?

Oh my gosh, the combinations are endless.

Most days I do pick a trousers-and-top combo. It’s simple, it’s easy, and it allows me to go for a walk without worrying that my thighs are going to rub together.

There are times though that I want to make an effort. Yes, even though nobody sees me in the office. Even though nobody can see me whilst I jabber away on the radio.

A skirt.

A dress.

So, then come the decisions. Is it cold? Yes, tights. No, can I get away with bare legs?

Am I walking today? Do I need to wear trainers or can I wear flats or my boots?

If I wear tights am I wearing trainers or boots with the outfit and if it’s the boots then I need socks as well as the tights!

Where are my chub rub shorts?

Where are my boots? They should be in the bottom of the wardrobe.

Why do I have so many pairs of shoes?

Oooh platform Docs, I could wear those…

Right, accessories. Cardigan? Shawl? Belt? Jewellery?

How am I wearing my hair, usual low-slung ponytail? A high ponytail? Bunches? Using a headband? Cutting it all off and going back to bed?

Tempting. And yet, I’ve not once done a Britney.

I guess the question is why do I bother?

Why, if nobody is going to see me, do I worry about what I’m wearing and if you can see my bra underneath my shirt?

Is it a voice in my head?

My Mum? Is it her in my head telling me that I need to look nice?

Pippa, you need to wear clean underwear just in case you get hit by a bus.

I can tell you now, Mother, that if I got hit by a bus my underwear would not be clean and it would also probably be the least of my worries.

It would all be so much easier if…

If it was as simple as it is for Mr PippaD. If my choices were plain and simple, this and this and this. Done.

But more is expected of women isn’t it? Especially if it is somewhere where people might *see* you. Going on a walk, going to the shops, going to work.

Which, quite frankly, is just ridiculous.

People aren’t going about their day looking at me.

I’m just a random woman in their way. A random woman going about her day.

But then of course there are the times that people *are* going to be looking at me.

My sister-in-law arranged a rather special bash for her birthday. Ballgowns were required.

BALLGOWNS!

The princess in me was very excited.

However, the reasonable (rational?) and sane part of me was worried.

It’s *easy* for men. Suit on.

Bish bash bosh. Job done.

It’s considerably harder for me because…

Well, because I’m fat.

There are no two ways about saying it.

I don’t have fat. I am fat.

I was going to need a dress that not only fitted the brief, but also fitted me.

That I was comfortable in.

That I was able to dance all night in.

I was going to need a dress that I was happy in.

That I was happy for people to see me.

There it is again.

Why am I concerned about what other people might think of me?

People weren’t going to be looking at me.

All eyes would be on my sister in law.

Everyone at the party would be more worried about what they were wearing and what other people were thinking about them than silently judging others.

And that’s where it gets complicated, isn’t it?

Do we all think that everyone is looking at us and judging us?

Judging us for what we're wearing, what we're not wearing, and how we look according to some arbitrary rules that we all instinctively know.

Are we dressing for how we want other people to view us?

Are we dressing for others instead of for ourselves?

And if you’d asked me this before I’d fallen down this rabbit hole, I would have said that I don’t think I am.

But now.

If I could wear what I wanted every day, I’d be dressed in bright colours, in statement patterns.

I’d wear my skirts with my full petticoats.

I’d wear my graphic dresses.

I’d wear the clothes that I wear to the Ren Faires.

I’d wear corsets.

I’d wear my Victorian and Edwardian skirts.

I’d wear jeans and printed t-shirts.

And so why don’t I wear those things?

I own them.

I have my skirts and petticoats.

I have my graphic dresses.

I have my jeans and t-shirts.

I have my corsets and skirts and plenty of other items that just scream whimsy.

But it’s not socially acceptable, is it?

The last Ren Faire that I went to, I had an amazing outfit.

I, if I do say so myself, looked amazing.

I loved what I was wearing.

We needed to get petrol, so we stopped at a petrol station and whilst my eldest filled the car, I went to grab a couple of drinks and snacks for the two journeys we’d take that day. As we got out of the car, some people in a car on the forecourt saw us, gave each other that nod that means, hey look at that and gave big grins.

I didn’t think twice about walking into the petrol station, and the first person I saw gave me a sneaky side glance.

Obviously they did. I mean, where is the last place you’d expect to see a middle-aged woman wearing a medieval lace-up overdress? If you ask me, 7am on a weekend in a petrol station is not the most obvious place.

You know those double takes that people do in cartoons?

That’s the closest thing I can use to explain what people were doing when they saw me.

And I didn’t care. I knew that I looked good.

So perhaps I was wrong earlier when I said people aren't looking at me.

Sometimes they absolutely are.

But being noticed isn't necessarily the same as being judged.

And even if somebody was judging me, why should their opinion matter more than mine?

Because I loved what I was wearing.

I had the best day at the faire, so many people complimented me on what I was wearing, so many people told me I looked good.

I was so happy.

Or at least, until the next day.

The next day I saw a photograph of me and I realised that the dress I was so pleased wearing the day before? It wasn’t as flattering on me as I had thought.

I could see the way that it gaped over my stomach.

I could see where the corset hadn’t quite cinched me in all the places I thought it had.

I could see the bulges.

These were the bits that I normally hid, made sure that my t-shirts didn’t show.

Made sure that my dresses skimmed over.

Did this change how I'd felt at the time?

Had I been happy in what I was wearing?

Which Pippa was right?

Pippa in the petrol station, at the Ren Faire, thinking that she was flawless?

Or Pippa looking at the photographs afterwards and noticing all the flaws?

Why is it that Pippa looking at the photographs and judging herself is the greater authority on whether I looked good or not?

The photograph hadn't changed anything about the day.

It hadn't changed the compliments I'd received.

It hadn't changed how comfortable I'd been, or how much I'd enjoyed myself.

It hadn't changed the fact that I'd walked into a petrol station at seven in the morning wearing a medieval dress and hadn't given a damn about the double takes.

The only thing that had changed was how I was looking at myself.

And yet I was allowing that later judgement to rewrite how I'd felt.

Which seems a bit ridiculous, doesn't it?

Because I can be self-conscious and still wear the ridiculous outfit.

I can worry about looking silly and still do the silly thing.

I can wonder what people think and still decide I'm having a bloody lovely time, thank you very much.

Let’s make a Venn diagram of clothing.

In the first section are the clothes I like and want to wear. Things like my prints and colours and costumes and things which are my version of funky and whimsy.

In the second section are the clothes that I believe look good on me. Things like the dresses that skim over the lumps and bumps. Things like jeans which flare so I think make my proportions look balanced. Things like my t-shirts with ¾ sleeves.

And in the third section are the clothes that I think are appropriate or acceptable in particular situations. For example, I wouldn’t wear a fancy dress costume to a funeral nor a ball gown to work or on the school run… oh wait! I did do both of those but you know what I mean. I wear black to funerals, I don’t wear jeans to church, I wear Ren Faire costumes to Ren Faires and I wear ball gowns to birthday parties where the invitation specifically requests it.

The thing is, where these three circles cross, the clothes that fit into all three?

It's a very small selection of clothes that I would be left with.

I could wear some of my Ren Faire costume pieces as part of my everyday clothing, but is that appropriate to wear to work? To church? To present? Not really. Even though when I’m on air nobody sees me… but let’s put a pin in that. We’ll come back to that, I think it needs expanding upon.

But now I'm wondering whether these circles are really as separate as I think they are.

Because the clothes I believe look good on me are often the clothes that hide the parts of me I've been taught shouldn't be seen.

And the clothes I think are socially acceptable? Well, who decided what was acceptable in the first place?

Perhaps the problem isn't that the intersection of my three circles is too small.

Perhaps the problem is that I've allowed other people to draw the circles.

Why is there a voice in my head saying, “You can’t wear that. It shows the parts of you that should be hidden”?

Where did I learn that?

Whose voice is that?

And perhaps more importantly, why am I still listening to it?

I think… I think that I’m scared of being judged for being different.

Or maybe for sticking out.

For not being part of the norm.

Which is weird, because I like to wear rainbow dresses and skirts with patterns of cats, and dresses covered in Christmas lights or dinosaurs or classic paintings.

You can’t blend in when you’re wearing those.

That’s the part of me deciding what other people are going to see when they look at me again. Me being me.

And is that the thing?

Do we dress for other people?

I’m not so sure that I do.

On most days, I put thought into what I’m wearing. I choose clothes that are comfortable and suitable for what I’m doing that day.

And… on most days people don’t see me.

So why do I care that I look nice when people won’t see me?

When I’m on the radio, can people see me dressed in my bright-coloured clothing?

Do they see when I’m in my costumes?

Do they see the effort I’ve made?

No.

So, why can’t I just throw on jeans and a t-shirt like Mr PippaD?

Is it because of what changes within me when I wear the funky whimsy clothing?

Do I feel different?

Do I feel more like me?

Do I feel more involved in life?

Do I feel happier?

Do I enjoy sticking out?

Is it because I want people to look at me and think, “There’s a woman who’s got it all together”?

To think, “There’s a woman confident in her body”?

To think, “I wish I could wear that”?

I think that maybe, just maybe, getting dressed isn't just putting on some clothes.

Of course, there are practical things to consider. The weather, what I'm doing, whether I'm going to be comfortable, whether I'm going to spend the entire day pulling my tights up.

But there's so much more going on than that.

There's the person I want to be.

The person I think I should be.

And the person I think everyone else expects me to be.

And somehow, every morning, I'm trying to find an outfit that makes all three happy.

Maybe I don't need to.

Maybe I could spend a little less time worrying about whether my clothes hide the bits of me I think need hiding, and a little more time wearing the things that make me feel like me.

Maybe I don't have to stop being self-conscious before I can start being confident.

Maybe I can be both.

Maybe there is some great deep meaning to all of this, as I've tried to get to the bottom of.

Or maybe, just maybe, I'm just jealous that it takes Mr PippaD under five minutes to get dressed.

The Apple Crumble That Could End My Marriage

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Sun, 04 Oct 2026 18:48:00 +0000

We're quite a traditional family and so on Sundays we have a roast. For some reason, despite everyone normally eating their lunch at some point between midday and 1:30pm during the week, on a Sunday, lunch is at 2pm.

It's tradition.

Sometimes Mr PippaD (for it is he who cooks the roast each week) will prepare a dessert for us to share too, and this week, using up the last of the apples from the apple tree, he prepared an apple crumble.

Now. Lunch was, as always, superb.

But there is always a niggle that you, as the cook, can see, right?

Mr PippaD wasn't happy that the potatoes hadn't browned or crisped up as much as he would have liked, but to the children and me? They were bloomin' delicious.

He'd put a crumble for us into the oven when he served the meal, and so after we'd finished eating, the crumble would be ready to eat.

Mr PippaD dove back into the house when the alarm on the oven went off, because for some reason it's still warm enough for us to eat in the garden at the start of October, and then he returned a minute or so later with two bowls of apple crumble, both with a healthy serving of squirty cream.

We both eagerly tucked into our apple crumble.

And...

And it tasted better than normal.

Now I'm no savage. I'm not in the habit of making Mr PippaD feel bad... but. Well, this one tasted gooooooood.

Not that it doesn't normally taste good. It was just that this one tasted...

Better?

Hang on. Better? Was it actually better?

Oh no, it was better.

I was trying to work out what was making it better.

What was it that made this different?

Same butter.

Same flour.

Same sugar.

Same apples.

Wait.

I could taste cinnamon.

Cinnamon?

Yes, that's it. It was the cinnamon.

There was more cinnamon than normal.

Wait.

Was there normally cinnamon?

I couldn't normally distinguish the taste.

There was a problem now. Of course there was. I'm involved.

How could I now tell Mr PippaD that something he'd made is especially delicious without making it seem that every crumble he had made before was... well, subpar.

I decided to poke gently.

“Did you do anything different when making this?” I asked.

I got a blank look.

“Did you... Did you add more cinnamon than normal?”

“Oh yeah, I added too much by accident and just went with it.”

Did I dare?

Did I now dare to tell him that this was the best crumble he'd ever made?

Wow. Talk about a dilemma.

This could be marriage-ending...

“Why?”

“Oh, it just tastes good...”

I decided to risk it.

“It's actually the best apple crumble I've tasted. It's, it's delicious.”

I'm not sure when the divorce proceedings will start, but I'm sure they are coming.

27 Pippas in a Trench Coat

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Tue, 29 Sep 2026 13:40:44 +0000

I've been thinking a lot recently, which as you know, for a person like me can be quite dangerous.

I've been thinking about what makes me, me.

I've been thinking about all the Pippas I used to be, and somehow all the Pippas I still am. I think there are about 27 of us masquerading as one Pippa in a trench coat.

I mean, there's:

The daughter.
The granddaughter.
The sister.
The school friend.
The newlywed.
The new mum.
The aunt.
The receptionist.
The radio presenter.

Today is my 25th wedding anniversary, which means that sitting in my home is a man who has lived life with me since I was 22, known me since I was 20.

And I think that... well, I think that's worrying if I'm honest.

He remembers the 22-year-old newlywed. He remembers the mother with small children. He remembers Mummy Blogger Pippa before she had awards on the shelf... He remembers versions of me that don't exist anywhere other than photographs and memories. His memories of me.

And that seems unfair.

Unfair, because I look back at all those mes and I don't recognise me.

But of course, he's not just been Mr PippaD whilst I've been collecting different aspects of myself. No, there are probably just as many versions of him in his trench coat... and I recognise all of them too.

I think this is what a long relationship gives you.

Someone who knows you.
Someone who knows every version of you.
Someone who loves every version of you... even if they didn't like that version of you.

Someone who can remind you that the Pippa you were then and the Pippa you are now are not so different.

They are just evolutions.

And I think that's what makes it feel unfair. I don't always recognise the evolutions of myself.

There's a photo that they use every so often at the gym when they are promoting a social, and I'm in that photo. I'll see the image on the screen and recognise my friends, recognise the bar, and then I see a woman and I think, who is that? She looks familiar, but I can't quite place her...

And then I realise. It's me.

Is it because I've changed dramatically in weight or shape?
Is it because I carry myself differently?

Is it because I am different?

But that can't be.

Over the last week or so I've picked up threads of the past me and given them a little bit of a tug.

I've pulled back the Pippa who blogs (hello!), the Pippa who has a podcast, the Pippa who writes, the Pippa who thinks about the most ridiculous of things.

And I think that perhaps the strangest thing about all of this is the more I've pulled, the more I've realised that none of these different versions of me were different Pippas.

I've been reading things that I wrote ten, fifteen, twenty years ago.

I thought that it would be like reading somebody else and it doesn't.

Sure, she's younger and her life is different. She's not married, then she is. She's a mother of young children. She worries about different things and she has absolutely no idea about what life is going to throw at her...

But she's me.

She's making the same stupid jokes and wondering about things that nobody asked her to wonder about.

She's scared, and she's excited. She's up and she's down.

She's thinking about tarmac at one point, and she goes on to explain all the details of macadam. Why on earth was she thinking about tarmac?

Then again, this morning I was thinking about removing moss from paving blocks.

Apparently I've always been like this.

It doesn't feel like I've been finding old versions of myself anymore.

I think that maybe, just maybe, I've been finding the evidence that they never really went away.

In this coat is a little girl who worried she'd never be quite like everyone else. There's teenage Pippa who thought she knew exactly what Future Pippa was going to do with her life. There's the 22-year-old Pippa who married her best friend. There's the mum, the blogger, the radio presenter, the runner. The woman who occasionally looks at photographs of herself and wonders who the heck she is looking at.

All of them.
All of us.

I've changed so much, and yet. I've not changed at all.

All of us, all the versions of me, past, present and future, we're here in this trench coat and always will be.

The one where I finally start talking about the surgery

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Tue, 07 Jul 2026 18:32:00 +0000

Well... it's only taken me nearly a year to write this. Not because I've forgotten what happened. Quite the opposite, so much went on, so much that even now I almost can’t believe and have to keep checking in my medical notes that it did really happen.

I think I've needed the time to work out how to tell the story. Not just because recovering from having three-quarters of your liver removed isn't exactly a quick job, but because I've had to process everything that happened that day. I'd built myself up for the surgery, I'd prepared for the surgery, I'd accepted the risks of the surgery and then, well... you'll see.

This is Part One. It's long. Grab a bottle of water, you’ll need the hydration, and as it is me, there are of course some giggles, there are some moments where, you'll all be shouting things like “SERIOUSLY?”, and “WHAT?” and as before, if you don’t want to read all this, then scroll to the bottom, I’ve got a TL;DR. Or, you could listen to it on my podcast…

Right. The 11th August 2025. The day before my surgery and I did what any normal person does the day before major surgery. I went to work.

Looking back, that seems a little odd. "Morning everyone! Just popping in for the day, somebody's removing most of my liver tomorrow, see you later!" But genuinely, it was just another Monday. Just like the day I accidentally found out I had cancer, I went to work and got on with things that needed to be done because that's what I do. I don't even remember if Lisa and I even had something nice for lunch!

Seriously, what else could I do? Sit at home and wait? There really wasn't anything else to be done. I wasn’t allowed to exercise. I didn’t want to watch any TV shows as I was saving those for after surgery and being bored wasn't going to make Tuesday arrive any quicker.

Tuesday morning came soon enough.

I was up very early as I needed to drink the hmm… vile is too strong a word but yucky too mild… well whatever the word is, I drank the Nutricia pre-op drink as I’d been assured it was very important and then Mr PippaD, Top Ender and I headed to The Churchill in Oxford.

Whilst I was checking in, there were a lot of people there for various surgeries, all accumulating in the room, and there were not enough chairs. Everywhere we went, people kept offering Tops a chair because she had her walking stick with her, and a few people said things like “you’ll need your strength for the surgery”.

It was really sweet. Everyone trying to look after her, whilst she kept politely explaining that yes, she was fine, thank you and that it was her Mum that was actually having major surgery and standing next to her looking all perfectly healthy.

Eventually, I had to go through to the surgical prep area, and I could only take one person with me. So Mr PippaD came with me and Tops headed off to the Costa with her laptop to wait for Mr PippaD to return after I went through to surgery, and then they could keep their vigil.

Mr PippaD and I were put into an examination room, and then came the people.

So many people.

Medical students.

Resident doctors.

Anaesthetists.

More doctors.

November 10th, World Neuroendocrine Cancer Day

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Mon, 10 Nov 2025 07:00:00 +0000

Today is World Neuroendocrine Cancer Day.

This cancer hides. It whispers. It waits. It doesn’t make itself obvious, or loud, or easy to find; it just changes everything before you even know it’s there.

Most people don’t know what neuroendocrine cancer is. I didn’t either. It’s not the kind of cancer that gets headlines or fills shop windows with ribbons.

Ours is the zebra ribbon.

A reminder that when you hear hoofbeats, it isn’t always a horse. Sometimes it’s something rarer. Harder to spot. But just as real.

I was lucky. Mine was found early. But too many people aren’t as lucky. For them, the diagnosis comes late, after years of “it’s probably nothing,” after pain dismissed, symptoms explained away, hope chipped down to fragments.

And this week, people will lose their lives to it.

This last week, someone who has been so unbelievably kind to me about my own diagnosis lost the love of her life to it.

That’s what this cancer does. It takes. Slowly, silently, cruelly.

So today, I’m thinking of everyone who’s still waiting for answers. Of the ones fighting. Of the ones who didn’t get the chance to.

Awareness doesn’t change the past, but it can change the future.

Not all cancers are visible.

Not all scars are seen.

But every story told makes it harder for this one to hide.

The one where I might admit I was wrong...

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Tue, 23 Sep 2025 06:00:00 +0000

TL;DR at the end. However, I actually admit I can be wrong in the following, so you know, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event. You’re probably better off reading the whole thing, because you’ll never see me admit it again.

If you're me, when one friend tells you that you’re overdoing it, you ignore them. When two tell you, you roll your eyes. When three, from three different friend groups, all tell you the same thing? Well, I sigh and continue ignoring them.

As you can probably tell, over the last week or so three different people from different friendship circles have accused me of trying to run before I could walk, have said that they have noticed that I'm more tired than I should be, that they are worried I'm not giving my body a chance to heal.

And as you can probably tell, I've ignored them...

Then, this morning, I couldn't find my hair scrunchie. It had been on my wrist, but now it was nowhere. Not on the floor. Not on my wrist. Not on my bed. I even checked under the cat.

Nothing.

It wasn't until I got to work and pulled at my tights (which had already bunched round my ankles like Nora Batty) that I realised how tired I apparently was.

Yup.

There, under my tights and around my left calf (looking nice and muscular) was my hair scrunchie. So I spoke with my boss and I'm stepping back from full-time work for a bit longer. I'll be napping more, I'll be back sitting under a blanket with a book or two, and I'll be letting myself rest.

Have I learnt my lesson? No. But I will listen to my friends and family because they know me as well as I know myself, but they also know how stubborn I am and see through that, and yes, I do have a word that starts with "a" and ends with "holes" for them.

Today is six weeks since my operation.

Just six weeks since they removed three-quarters of my liver, and yes, it was as massive as it sounds even though I've been playing it down. They cut through layers of muscle, removed the part of the liver with the most cancer, removed my gallbladder, and then stuck me back together with some rather large tubes sticking out. I’ll talk about that in the near future, when thinking about it doesn’t take me mentally back there.

Surgery isn’t just scars you can see; my body works differently now.

My maximum heart rate is lower and if I push too far, it feels like I’m drowning in my own chest.

It’s not me being unfit (at least that’s what the professionals say), it’s just how recovery works.

All I’m allowed to do in the form of exercise is very light yoga and gentle walking.

I can’t lift a kettle that's more than half full without feeling like someone’s put an elbow where a rib used to be, so I’m officially removed from tea-making duty.

I have to sit whilst emptying the washing machine, whilst I'm doing the dishes, or whilst I'm preparing meals.

I have to sit in the shower, I have to rest after washing my hair.

I can’t lift shopping bags, I can’t push the trolley in the supermarket.

I can’t do the things I used to do in the way I used to do them.

This is my new normal.

I’m grieving my old normal.

Things like doing two gym sessions, going to work, a quick one-mile lunchtime walk, a three-mile evening walk or jog, doing my chores and then another gym session.

Now my mornings are spent walking round and round my garden. Sometimes, if I’m feeling up to it, I walk up and down the hill outside my house. Sometimes, if I'm feeling plucky, I'll walk a mile to a local shop, but then I have to sit down before heading home because I’ve done too much.

It kills me because I had worked so hard to be fit over the last four years.

And yet.

I can see I’m better than I was when I first came out of surgery.

I can see I'm better than when I first came home.

So what if chores get done sitting down?

So what if I have to nap?

So what if I have to sit on a bench pretending to be engrossed in my phone whilst I rest?

My progress may be tiny, but it is still progress, and I'll keep trying.

I'll keep trying, because the cancer will be back.

I know that there will be more tests, there may be more surgery or maybe chemo or radiotherapy or one of the other many treatments.

I can’t control what comes next. I can't control when it will happen. All I can control is how ready I am for whatever comes next and when it decides to happen.

So, Mr PippaD and I are doubling down. Doing everything the medical team and dietician ask, tracking food (not that it's hard, I've been doing that for the last four years!), hitting my macros, eating way more protein (a 50% increase!), taking supplements, drinking my water, sleeping, and of course walking.

One of my surgeons told me at my check-up that the operation went better because of the effort I put in beforehand. That miserable 600-calorie diet, the walks, the training.

It all mattered.

That’s the one thing I can hold on to. The one thing that pushes me on. I did that and it mattered. It will matter again.

I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get back to the gym, to running, to feeling like me. Optimistic me hopes it will be late November ready for Christmas (I have costumes to wear). Realistic me knows it might not be until the start of Lent, or later.

So, I’ll keep walking in circles in my garden, around the city, around the stadium, around the local streets. I’ll keep making little improvements because I am going to be READY.

TL;DR: Six weeks after losing three-quarters of my liver, I lost my scrunchie up my tights and found out three friends were right. I’m doing too much. So I’m back to napping, reading, and being a garden-lap Olympian. My max heart rate is lower, push me too far and I don’t achieve a PB, I just nearly pass out.

The last month aka the day before Tumour Eviction Day!

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Mon, 11 Aug 2025 06:00:00 +0000

800 calories a day.

That’s been my life for the last month. Sometimes a little over, sometimes a little under. Always... Well awful.

But this isn’t a fad diet. It’s to shrink my liver so the surgeon can actually get in there without needing a sat nav.

The bonus? I’ve lost so much weight my hips have relocated. I go to put my hands on them and just miss.

Flyfour says my butt has vanished. Lisa thinks if I turn sideways, I’ll disappear. The lads in the warehouse keep pointing out my trousers are now “emergency parachute” size.

The real victory has been getting creative with the tiny meals I’m allowed. Two tablespoons of rice, an egg, and veg became “Egg Fried Rice” without the frying. Ten pieces of pasta became a pasta salad so carefully curated it could be in the Tate. I’ve put Hull Chip Spice on so much that it now counts as a food group.

Friends see my meals and say, “That’s so small!” which is weird, because sometimes I can’t finish them.

And through it all, I’ve kept moving. Walking. Jogging. Turning up to Fitness Tribe. My body now lifts, squats, and runs on fewer calories than most people have in a mid-morning snack. It turns out I’m stronger than I thought, both physically and mentally.

When I met my surgeon last week, he said, “Think of the operation as a 10K race… you’ve already run the first 5K.” I nearly cried. Not because I like running, but because I’m halfway through the hardest race of my life.

Recovery will be… interesting. The first few days will involve tubes, drains, cannulas, and a catheter (🤮). I’ll have to eat, drink, and walk whether I want to or not. I’ve told the physio team to play the competitive card. If they tell me someone who had surgery after me is already walking, I’ll be doing laps around the car park before they finish the sentence.

The plan is six weeks of light walking, mid-September for swimming and cycling, and back to Fitness Tribe in mid-November, starting light and working up.

My liver will start regenerating within 30 minutes of surgery. It will not be liver-shaped anymore, just a squishy blob filling the gap. Basically, I’m a modern-day Prometheus without the fire theft or eagle drama.

It will not be pretty. It will not be easy. But I have my team, my family (who also send me beautiful sunflowers thank you Auntie Tracy), my friends and you. Yes you. You are all cheering me on.

That’s my fuel. With it, I’ll get back to my usual bouncy, slightly (😂) ridiculous self.

Let’s go finish this race.

A Picture is worth a thousand words aka The last 7 months

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Fri, 25 Jul 2025 06:00:00 +0000

I promise I own more than one purple shirt, but if you were to judge my wardrobe based solely on these photos, you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

These are snapshots taken on or around the same day each month. Glimpses into my life. My gym selfies have always been a way to show progress. Determination.

Today, when I looked back over the last seven months, I saw a story unfolding.

In December, I was told there was a lesion in my Liver.

Tests, scans, a biopsy, more tests & scans...

Then in May, I was told I had cancer.

Since December, I’ve been trying to hold myself together while being scared, angry, sad, hopeful, happy & everything in between.

The diet I’m on is brutal, but oh so essential. It’s not just about the 800 calories. It's not even just about the cancer. Or what was taken from me.

It’s what came with it.

I’ve lost weight, yes.

I’ve also lost certainty.

Sleep.

Appetite.

I’ve lost the ability to plan anything beyond the middle of August.

But!

I’ve gained perspective.

I’ve gained strength I didn’t know I had.

And I’ve had it confirmed, again and again, that my community, my Tribe, my family, refuse to let me fall.

Fitness Tribe has been my constant. The one place I still feel like me, even when I’m wobbling, weepy, or apparently wearing the same purple shirt for the sixth time that week. (I swear I own more!)

To the Joggy Jog girls,

To Amy-Charlotte & Lisa,

To those who send messages before & after every appointment,

To those who join in with my "She's trying to kill us!" moans,

To Hannah, who lets me rant in her DM's,

To everyone who cheers me on,

To Laura AKA Fitness Tribe who shouts things like “YOU’RE DOING AMAZING” when I’m doing the slowest bunny hops known to man...

Thank you.

You’ve carried me when I didn’t know how to carry myself.

In nearly every photo here, I’m smiling.

I smile because I’m still here.

I smile because I’m still fighting.

I smile because I’m surrounded by people who remind me every day that strength doesn’t always look like lifting heavy or running fast.

Sometimes it looks like showing up.

...Apparently always in a purple shirt!

Cancer isn't stopping me from working out!

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Sat, 12 Jul 2025 06:00:00 +0000

Today was a Very Special Fitness Tribe Day for me because… drum roll… I went back to the gym!

WHOOP WHOOP!

Yes, the gym. After everything. Me. There. In my lycra. Doing the thing I've really missed the most.

Laura (legendary owner/trainer/boss lady) clocked me walking in and her immediate reaction was: “NO. NO. NO!”

Tops and I were straight in with the explanations:

“It’s fine! I’m allowed! I’ll behave! Look! I’m practically wrapped in bubble wrap!”

She was not convinced but I think I won her over with my promise not to lift anything heavier than my own sarcasm.

Then, for me the real highlight of the day. Amy-Charlotte walked in.

Now, for those who don’t know, Amy is my gym bestie. She’s the one who’ll push me to do ten more reps and then give me the tea, and she got the best photo of me ever at her wedding. I was so delighted for her and Lee and it showed!

Anyway.

She didn’t see me straight away because I was lurking behind a door, the other side of the table and chatting with people whilst leaning against the wall.

Everyone knew I was waiting for *the* Moment.

So the conversation in my little group stopped. We all just… waited.

Amy’s there, chatting away to Laura, scanning the room.

She clocked the group I was standing with… eyes slid right over me… then, you know that cartoon double-take where the character’s eyes practically pop out on stalks?

✨ THAT. ✨

She shrieked, ran round the table and gave me the biggest hug ever. 10/10 would hide and surprise again and I just wished I thought to film it!

The session itself was so good. I stuck to the plan.

No heavy lifting, took all my breaks, didn’t let my ego or Tumourthy or Tumourlene take over.

Came home, showered, now feeling like an absolute champion.

Moral of the story: never underestimate the power of gym family, cartoon double takes, or the sheer joy of being exactly where you want to be, one squat at a time. 🫶🏼✨

A Confession. The first trio of operations, my discharge from the hospital and my very sexy compression stockings

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Sun, 06 Jul 2025 06:00:00 +0000

Okay, a confession.

Oh, wait!

I’m a storyteller. You *want* this story. I know it and you know it. There is a TL;DR at the end for all you monsters who hate storytelling.

Right, confession time.

All the previous updates about my cancer have been, well, a few weeks later than when I got the news. This wasn’t because I don’t love you all, or trust you, but because my family and I need the time to process before we share with you.

We decided right at the start that we’d tell this story. The weird, rare, messy reality because if even one person ever goes through this and remembers me waffling on, maybe they won’t feel so alone. And because, let’s face it, I collect your support, your thoughts, your prayers, and your memes like all the surfaces in my house collect dust.

However!

Now, it is time to bring you right up to date and provide real-time updates from now on.

How real-time? I was discharged from the hospital on Friday.

Right, time machine time!

Let’s wibbly wobbly scene dissolve back to Friday the 20th of June.

Wait? Are you doing the wobbly movement thing? It's not going to work if you don't!

One more go. Wibbly wobbly scene dissolve!

Friday the 20th June.

It was a follow-up appointment with my team at Churchill. They were running over an hour late, and Flyfour and I sat waiting to find out what the Gallium test had shown.

Eventually, we went into the appointment closer to two hours after my appointment time, and well, Dan Jon was the only one right about where the tumours are.

They can’t find my primary tumour, but Tumourthy who has been hanging out in my liver? Well, he has a little sister hanging out with him.

Introducing Tumourlene!

Yes, I collect rare tumours the way other people collect fridge magnets. Two little troublemakers.

Dan Jon was the only one to say that my tumours were confined to my liver. Little psychic.

Am I upset that they can’t find the original culprit? Actually no. Seeing as it could be one cell big and one cell is 125 times SMALLER THAN A GRAIN OF SAND, are you surprised?! I don't know if you know this, but there are around 30 trillion human cells in the human body. Finding one? Blooming heck, I have enough trouble finding my glasses.

Right, anyway. The problem with a second tumour having been found (and not having been found before) is that now either we get them out or they’ll take me out.

Yeah, that’s sobering, isn’t it.

My tumours are greedy. Normal tumours sit in one side of the liver or the other. Not mine. Oh no, Tumourthy is sitting right in the middle stretching into both sides, and Tumourlene is sitting on the right. So they can’t just snip out a polite slice like cake. They’ll have to take ¾ of my liver.

Fun fact: normally, surgeons like to leave at least a third of your liver so it can regenerate more easily. Me? They’ll leave me a quarter. I’m not great at maths, but I know that’s… smaller.

Then the list of risks: liver failure, damage to other organs, bile leaks, infections, pneumonia, blood clots, bleeding, ascites, re-operations, tumour regrowth. Oh, and yeah, a big one. Death.

But the reality was clear: no surgery means no me.
Surgery means a chance. So I said yes.

To make this work, they’d need to do two procedures first:
*Portal Vein Embolisation (PVE):* This basically blocks blood flow to the bad bit, so the good bit can grow.
*Hepatic Vein Embolisation (HVE):* This plugs certain veins to force the liver to get stronger where they want to keep it.

Oh, and an 800-calorie diet to shrink my liver fat. Delightful. (It was going to be 600. So, you know, yay, bonus calories!)

Meanwhile: keep running, keep walking, keep going to HIIT, keep my lungs strong so I don’t get pneumonia after surgery. Simple!

They said it’d probably happen at the end of August. Good. Enough time to win the Fitness Tribe competition. (I’m not competitive or anything. *Cough.*)

The Wednesday after the appointment, I got an NHS app notification:

“We’ve booked your PVE for Monday. And your HVE for Tuesday.”

Oh.
Okay then!

I fasted from Sunday night. Monday, I was prepped, I met an actual sunshine nurse, and before I knew it, I was on the table with a surgeon spending two hours rummaging inside me, and then the surgeon says, “Your veins are tiny. We can't complete the procedure. We’ll have another team try again tomorrow.”

Cool. So, back to the ward. More fasting.

Tuesday: second try. Same table, same rummaging, more blood, more pain — but they did it! It took ages and a lot of pain relief, which meant the comedown was… violent.

Fentanyl and hydromorphone do not play.

I was out of it. I was dehydrated. I was coming down off drugs, and at one point during the night, the other women in the ward pressed their call buttons because they were so worried about me. I remember nothing of this, the nurses told me the next day when I ever so slightly resembled a human.

What I do remember, and you may want to skip this part if you’re of a delicate disposition, was that the last, erm, "expulsion" was at 3am when what came out was so dark green… well it looked like Shrek and I had an intimate moment where we were very “good” friends... Wait, I'm probably the only one who gets that reference. You know those wheatgrass smoothies? Yeah, never, ever, ever have one of those.

Wednesday morning I was... Well, I looked like I’d been through two surgeries and not eaten since the Sunday. I managed a slice of toast and the very lovely housekeeper who brought breakfast to us all each day had already discovered I didn’t drink tea or coffee and so offered me a Hot Chocolate.

OH MY GOSH, do you know how good a hot chocolate is when you haven’t eaten anything for around 60 hours? I could have kissed that man.

Well, until about ten minutes later when it came back out.

I spent the day, trying to sleep off the pain. Paracetamol was all I really needed, I did a few little walks, I tried to drink as much water as I could manage, I peed, I made jokes with the nurses who came to check my temperature and blood pressure and pulse, the plebotomist who got very good at getting blood from my tiny veins, the housekeeping staff who changed my bed sheets, the nurses who kept popping by for a quick chat (My Sunshine powers were activated!), the Doctor’s who came to see me, the other women on the ward, the porters who stopped by… it was busy.

And then Flyfour arrived and took me with a porter to my pre-op appointments. More Blood tests, more history, more why are you here questions (I’ve got it down to a fine art now. It was discovered that I have NET Tumours in my liver, I need to have them removed or I’ll die) and then we met with the anesthesiologist.

I think he had been the most open of all the people we’ve met so far. He went through every single risk again, he asked questions, he explained how long it would take (6-8 hours) and I told him I was a little worried that some of the team didn’t like my sunshine attitude. He said sometimes they worry you don’t understand the risk if you’re so cheerful.

That hit me a bit. I thought just for a second before responding.

I have two options. Have the operation and possibly die, or not have the operation and die. I have faith in the NHS, in this centre of excellence, in the team that would be looking after me before, during and after the surgery. Every single person who would be involved in my care works at one of the best places in the country. That means they are the best. That every single one of them chose this profession. That every single one of them is actually paid to do the one thing I needed them to do to save my life.

I couldn't do their job, just like they wouldn't be able to sit and jabber away on the radio! They know how to do their jobs and I know that.

I trust them.

Thursday: third procedure. I cried. A lot.

Flyfour listened to me. Comforted me. I sent Scott a Pep Talk request and he delivered.

The porters tried to make me laugh. The sunshine nurse from Monday was there again and said she’d make sure I got extra anti-sickness meds as she'd heard how sick I'd been. The tears didn’t stop, but the music they were playing helped. It was almost as if they'd got my playlist from The Point!

The op was meant to be 45 minutes. It was two and a half hours.

But they did it. The surgeon showed me the CT scan afterwards he was so proud. I loved that for him, and for me, actually. It went well!

I went back up to the ward and there was only one Shrek moment (thank you extra anti-sickness meds) and I was moved into a private room before I could even really properly regain my senses.

That night I honestly did feel like the ward was my home.

I had so many visitors from the staff on the ward. They came in for little chats about Dr Pepper, which radio shows and presenters they liked (not one of them said me! Rude!), window cleaning, The Rock holding three watermelons sitting on my hips (if you know you know), the book I was listening to (Thank you Ross Greenwood), why on earth I was working on my laptop just hours after my surgery (Shut it, I was bored!), comparing how many steps we take each day... You know me. I make friends everywhere.

Friday morning I was more alert.

I had breakfast, despite not really wanting any (I’m guessing my stomach had shrunk? Plus I still needed to poop. I hadn't pooped since Tuesday!) I waited for Flyfour to arrive, and I had what was possibly the best shower (I finally got to wash off the blood, contrast and David Dickerson tan) before it was confirmed I was being discharged!

Nurses and porters shouted “Bye Pippa!” down the corridor like I was a weird local celeb. I told them I’d see them in six weeks, whilst waving and grinning like an idiot.

So. Why am I sharing this now?

I want you to know that behind the selfies and memes and fundraising runs, there’s a whole lot of raw, messy, terrifying reality.

It’s not just “Oh look, Pippa’s got a tumour and she’s making jokes!”

It’s my husband watching me fight for my life and making those sad puppy dog eyes at me when he thinks I'm not looking (Spoiler: I'm always looking).
It’s my children being scared and making me tiny amounts of pasta to eat, because I can't manage anything else.
It's my sister, trying to believe me when I say that it's not all bad but knowing that I'm lying.
It's my friends who are making me laugh, giving me costume suggestions and making sure they know I can be vulnerable to them.

It’s me, choosing to believe that my stubborn, sarcastic, beautiful body will do what it needs to do.

I’m choosing to believe that my stubborn, sarcastic, beautiful body will do what it needs to do.

But I can’t do it alone.

I need you. I need the memes, the prayers, the texts, the check-ins, the “How are you *really*?” messages.

The reminders that it’s okay to say, “I’m not okay today.”

This is just the messy middle bit. The BIG one, the hepatectomy, is coming in August. And I’m gonna need you more than ever.

TL;DR:

✅ Sorry, the updates weren’t real-time. They are now.
✅ Two tumours: Tumourthy & Tumourlene.
✅ Liver resection or… cake. I mean death.
✅ Had three ops this past week.
✅ The first operation didn’t work, the second attempt did, and the third operation went well.
✅ I was sick. I cried. I didn’t poop.
✅ I’m on an 800-calorie diet.
✅ The BIG operation is in August.
✅ I need you. Memes. Prayers. Texts. WhatsApps. Selfies. Things that make me laugh or remind me I’m not alone.

Lastly. I am absolutely not going down without a fight.

**PS:** I’ve finally pooped. You’re welcome.

Why haven't you updated us?!

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Wed, 18 Jun 2025 06:00:00 +0000

TL;DR at the end — but trust me, you’ll want the full saga. As I’ve been told, I tell a good story.

Erin grabbed me at HIIT this morning and went, “Hey… I keep meaning to grab you to check how you are and how everything’s going.” (I'm paraphrasing!)

Which is fair, because I haven't given you an update in a while, and you’ve all been letting me post gym selfies and memes and use rather dark humour to get you to sponsor me to run a couple of 5K's and all as if I haven’t got a whole tumour situation going on.

So, here’s what I haven't told you.

A couple of weeks ago, I had plans. A full week of Fitness Tribe sessions, not telling anyone bar the inner circle that my Gallium scan was on Friday, and spending the week eating my favourite snacks, reading, and doing the things that make me me.

I’d been told not to do strenuous exercise for 24 hours before the scan, so Thursday morning was meant to be my final session. But someone in the inner circle must’ve had a quiet word with my left LAT muscle, because it stepped in and said, “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make sure that she avoids strenuous exercise this week.” and then it pulled itself.

That injury meant I skipped all my sessions. In hindsight, it was perfect timing, so I’m calling it a win. A painful, awkward-when-putting-on-a-bra win. But a win.

Friday morning, Mr PippaD (aka Flyfour) and I headed to London for my scan at St Thomas'. Because I’m me and he’s him, we arrived early.

Too early.

So we wandered along the South Bank, explored the book market under Waterloo Bridge, popped down to Thames Beach (couldn’t see it — high tide), took cheesy tourist photos, and finally headed to the hospital. Flyfour kissed me goodbye and gave me the “don’t adopt anything radioactive” look before I headed into the Hot Zone, as he wasn't allowed to follow.

Inside, I did the usual routine — explain why I’m here again, because every medical professional wants to know “what’s your story?” Regaled the nurses with tales of my sister, my children, my friends, and reassured them at least twenty times that I wasn’t pregnant.

They inserted the cannula (right arm, as requested — legends), and told me I’d be safe to see my pregnant sister about three hours after the scan. I’d read “three days,” so I told them I’d wait until I was definitely not glowing.

Then came the warning: once I entered the Hot Zone, they couldn’t come near me.

Because I’d be RADIOACTIVE.

I knew I'd be radioactive, but people will avoid me radioactive? Yeah, that's a bit different!

I sat reading a book on my phone. The nurse came in, gave me the gallium tracer, and left me to marinate in my own future superpowers. Then, via intercom, I was told to remove all metal/jewellery. I had nothing to remove — I’d come prepared in a zip-free dress and non-metal sports bra. This wasn’t my first rodeo. It was my first radioactive rodeo, but still.

Into the scanner I went, lying down like a radioactive princess, and got scanned from head to toe to see if Tumourthy has any friends and where they might be hiding. (I'm taking bets, if you want in on the pool let me know!) I counted ten minutes in my head (ask Erin, if we’re ever on The Traitors, I’m your MVP for time challenges), and it was done.

I messaged Flyfour to say I was finished — just waiting for confirmation my scans were clear enough to read — and two minutes later, I was striding across Westminster Bridge toward Whitehall.

I waved at Parliament.

I waved at Downing Street.

I smiled at a man about to do a TV interview who stared at me like I was some kind of glowing goddess and honestly, I might have been — rainbow dress, radioactive innards.

Best comment was from Lisa, who quipped, "You took NUCLEAR ARMS to Downing Street?" ☢️💪

Flyfour met me on Whitehall with a mysterious gift bag. He said it was for me… but I couldn’t open it yet.

He’d been to the National Gallery, so I assumed he’d bought me a print of The Fighting Temeraire, which we always joke about and quote from Skyfall:

“It always makes me feel a little melancholy. A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap…”

“What do you see?”

“A bloody big ship.”

We got to where we'd parked our car, and as we passed Pho, one of our favourite restaurants, we stopped to order wings. It was about 4pm and I'd not eaten since 6am! While we waited, he handed me the gift.

It was a poem.

A man in Trafalgar Square had written it. Flyfour told him, “My wife’s just been diagnosed with cancer. I’d like something to lift her.” The man asked if it was serious, and Flyfour explained it had been caught early, he said, “Like my mum.” Then he typed out the poem, using my name: Pippa.

I started to read it and I cried. “I can’t read this,” I said.

Flyfour thought it was because I didn’t have my glasses, so he started to read it for me… and I cried harder.

Because I knew exactly what it was: a moment someone else had written for me, and I wasn’t ready for how seen it made me feel.

And every time I’ve tried to read it since? I still cry.

Back at the car, I pulled out my Geiger counter (obviously — who doesn’t travel with one after being injected with gallium?). MK’s background radiation is 0.08–0.1.

I was way above that.

Beeping. Flashing. Glowing with glory. There's a video below because I know that you all want to see it too!

We ate wings, drove home, and I updated Flyfour on my diminishing radioactivity. Then I tried to discover my new superpowers.

I offered to bite people to see if they’d get abilities. No takers.

I tried predicting lottery numbers. (Still poor.)

I tried laser eyes. Time travel. Hulk rage. Nothing.

Even my pee didn’t glow. (I was this close to cracking a glow stick into the loo for a prank, but decided it was probably a joke too far.)

The next day, we drove four hours to the Yorkshire Dales.

Why? Because Flyfour thinks I’m dying and is trying to speed things up.

(Kidding. Mostly.)

We did a 7-mile circular walk from Muker to Keld and back IN THE RAIN. It's a walk I’ve titled “Because Flyfour Thinks I’m Dying.”

Halfway up a hill, I cried.

Not because I was weak, but because I was tired. Because I’m strong and still get wiped out by hills. Because I miss my mum, and I want her here… but I’m also glad she’s not. Because she’d hate that I have cancer.

Because sometimes, it’s just a lot.

Halfway up, I reminded Flyfour that I loved him.

Then called him every terrible name I could think of, because obviously it was his fault we were climbing a hill in the rain while I processed mortality.

Now, and this is the fun bit. I’m not saying I unlocked superpowers, but…

I’m normally a blister magnet. I can’t walk 4 miles without getting at least 3.

That day? Seven miles. Not a single blister.

Okay, I'm saying it. SUPERPOWER UNLOCKED.

Amy-Charlotte says it's regenerative healing like Wolverine and Deadpool, but it only works on blisters.

I'm still hopeful that my other powers will develop soon.

Oh, and somewhere in the middle of all this, I took up running.

Flyfour says it’s a bit weird, like, most people get a cancer diagnosis and cry. I got one and downloaded a training app. I’m not sure what's wrong with me either. I keep running 5Ks as if I actually like running them!

TL;DR:

• I had my Gallium PET scan.
• I took Nuclear Arms to Downing Street.
• I walked 7 miles in the Dales. No blisters. Possible superpower.
• I cried. I laughed. I glowed.
• I’m still here. Still loved. Still sarcastic.
• Bets on where the tumour started are still open. Place yours in the comments.
• I took up running. Well, joggy jogging.

I've got cancer and I ran a 5K two days in a row

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Thu, 05 Jun 2025 06:00:00 +0000

Last weekend, I ran a practice 5K.

If you’d told me a few months ago that I’d be happily running a 5K as a practice, I wouldn’t have believed you. I don't think even Laura at Fitness Tribe would have believed you.

Back then, the finish line I saw was darker, scarier and the kind that comes with hospital gowns, biopsy scars, and uncertainty.

Then I was diagnosed with cancer.

There was no fanfare. No warning. Just a conversation that split my life into two halves: before and after.

But cancer picked the wrong girl.

Running has become more than just a thing I do to try not to embarrass myself; it's because there’s a difference between giving up and giving everything you have left.

It’s a messy, beautiful metaphor for what life feels like right now:

I don’t have to sprint.

I don’t have to look perfect.

I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Even when it hurts, even when it’s slow, even when I don’t think I can.

This weekend, I’ll be running with my friends.

I'll be running for every appointment I sat through, trying not to cry.

For every scan where I held my breath and hoped for better news.

I'll be running for every day that I still wake up, still move forward, still fight.

I'll be running for me.

I’d love it if you could sponsor me (and my amazing friends) because what we’re running for matters.

Every donation supports the people still fighting, the families still hoping, and the research that might one day make these stories different.

Sponsor us if you can.

Cheer us on if you can’t.

But mostly, like me, keep putting one foot in front of the other. Always.

It's Cancer

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Sat, 10 May 2025 06:00:00 +0000

There’s a TL;DR at the end — but the story’s worth it. Promise.

So… it’s cancer.

Proper, official, capital-C Cancer.

Which is a wild thing to type. But here we are.

I didn’t tell most people when the appointment was — not because I was being mysterious, but because I didn’t want nervous texts, concerned face emojis, or anyone else panicking. The inner circle knew. The rest of you got to keep seeing the memes, the gym selfies, and the chaos.

And then the hospital cancelled it.

I was… calm. Polite. (I know!) I emailed the department, all very proper and British:

“Dear Team, I do understand these things happen, but I was really hoping for answers and was wondering if someone could possibly update me?”

Translation: I’ve had a tumour in my liver since December and my entire personality is currently being held together with sarcasm and sugar — please respond before I unspool completely.

An hour or so later, I was heading out for a walk when I got a message about an appointment for a separate issue they’d found on one of my earlier scans, but we’ll talk about that another day (sometime in 2026 which is when my appointment is).

When I checked the app after my walk, so I could add it to my calendar, there it was:

A new appointment.

Sooner than the cancelled one.

At Churchill Hospital. With the surgery team.

I was… honestly, I don’t even know what I was.

I figured that the tumour was being removed, but someone had just forgotten to tell me.

About an hour after that, I got a call.

I took the call in the conference room at work. A nurse introduced herself and asked if I was okay to talk — I assumed it was to confirm the appointment and said I was, and that I knew about the appointment on Friday.

I wasn’t supposed to know about the appointment.

Someone was meant to have called me.

And speaking of which… how did I have their team email address if nobody had spoken to me?

Let’s just say I’m... resourceful with a computer.

She asked what every medical professional has asked me at the start of our meetings:

“So, what do you know so far?”

Well, they found a lesion, which became a tumour, I was referred to you guys and had a biopsy and now we’re awaiting the results… but I assume you have them, seeing as my appointment was cancelled and now I have another one booked.

She listened and then very gently explained that the results had come back — and that I had cancer.

She said long words and explained so much.

More tests. More waiting.

But I didn’t take it in.

She’d said: Cancer.

Two days later, I went to Churchill Hospital for my appointment. I met a new team.

They used more big words, but they explained them too.

I have what’s called a neuroendocrine tumour, or NET.

It’s rare. Of course it is. I’m an overachiever in every sense.

It’s the kind of cancer that starts in hormone-producing cells — and then one day decides to throw out a little cluster of cells to see what else is out there. It’s like us with our satellites into space.

Those little cells quietly set up camp somewhere they shouldn’t.

In my case, the liver.

But we still don’t know where it started.

Or how many more might be hiding.

So the next steps are blood tests, urine samples, and a gallium PET scan in London — because I’ve now officially graduated from the GP to local hospital to specialist hospital to "National Centre of Excellence."

I feel like I’m playing a weird game of Monopoly and trying to collect the whole set of hospitals.

The gallium scan works by tagging a tracer to anything that looks a bit suspicious.

It’ll light up any NET cells hiding in my body and (hopefully) show where the original tumour started.

At this point, I’m considering starting a sweepstake.

Pancreas? Lung? Small intestine? Who knows.

Place your bets in the comments!

I told the people closest to me.

One friend said, “Of course you'd get something rare. It's You. Wouldn't be ducking* run of the mill, would it!”

Another told me, “You absolutely do not have permission to die.”

Which felt right.

Since then I’ve read everything, joined every forum, and tested out the phrase “I have cancer” in a few sentences. It still sounds ridiculous.

I even tried it on at the gym.

Told my trainer I couldn’t possibly do burpees — I have cancer.

She nodded. And told me to do ten more.

So yeah. That’s where we are.

Still walking. Still working. Still laughing.

And absolutely still writing my way through it.

TL;DR:

I have cancer. It’s rare, it’s weird, and it’s not done introducing plot twists.

My liver tumour is a neuroendocrine tumour (NET).

We don’t know where it started yet. But we will.

I’m still standing. Still joking. Still doing burpees (rude).

And I’ll face whatever’s next with memes, snacks, and very strong people beside me (that’s you — obviously).

*They may not have said ducking. It may have rhymed and begun with an F. It's very hard to remember these things.

I've Had A Biopsy

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Sun, 20 Apr 2025 06:00:00 +0000

Easter Sunday hits a little different this year. I’m grateful for a story that says darkness isn’t the end, love shows up, and hope rises.

In other news, my biopsy is all done — and I had some brilliant medical staff taking care of me.

Now I need to take it easy for a few days!

I know. I find myself funny too.

Huge thanks to everyone who’s checked in/prayed/messaged/sent a kind thought.

So… I’ve got a tumour.

noreply@blogger.com (PippaD) — Sat, 12 Apr 2025 06:00:00 +0000

So… I’ve got a tumour.

(Not clickbait. Unfortunately. There is, however, a TL;DR at the end!)

Last year, I started a new medication for a Proper Medical Thing™.

Nothing scandalous, but serious enough to need treatment. The meds come with side effects, so they check your liver and kidneys monthly to make sure you don’t suddenly... explode or something.

One week in, I had my first routine blood test.

Far too soon for the medication to have caused any damage, but my liver results came back flagged. Hard.

So they ordered an ultrasound.

I had it on New Year’s Eve, because of course I did. Nothing says festive like “lie down and lift your top.”

After the scan, one of the team said:

“There’s a lesion in your liver.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking about how fast I could get back to the office.

“There’s a lesion in your liver…”

“Okay…”

I didn’t ask what it meant. I was just trying to work out if I was going to have enough time in the office before we went home for New Year’s Eve to finish my tasks. (Spoiler: I did.)

Then the GP called, as soon as the surgery reopened.

He was ordering a CT scan.

“There’s a lesion in your liver,” he said again.

This time, I heard it.

The pause.

The weight.

The something.

So I Googled it.

Pro tip: never Google it.

Apparently, “lesion” is the medical word for “we’ve found a thing and we don’t know what it is, but we’re all going to be very calm and order more scans.”

So I waited.

I joked with some of the Fitness Tribe gang that if they had to take out part of my liver, I’d at long last lose some weight.

Eventually, I had the CT scan.

If you haven’t had one with contrast, let me inform you: when they say “You’ll feel like you’ve peed yourself,” it really does feel like you’ve peed yourself.

Weirdly, I rather enjoyed it.

At some point, the radiologist took a look and apparently decided my liver was far too interesting to ignore.

“Needs further investigation,” they said.

So my GP, who is calm, steady, and not one to escalate unnecessarily, booked me in for an MRI.

And referred me to Milton Keynes Hospital. I was now on the two-week urgent referral pathway.

Oh yes. This was serious now.

The team saw me within two weeks.

Not in a “let’s get cracking” sort of way. More of a:

“Hi, we just wanted to confirm you are indeed still a person. Yes? Fab. Okay, have your MRI and then go wait again.”

So I had the MRI with contrast.

(Which, by the way, is not as delightful as the CT. 2/10. Do not recommend. It wasn’t the noise, or the fact I was in the machine for about two hours, holding my breath, then not holding my breath, then holding my breath again, and repeat ad nauseam. It was that I didn’t get the nice warm feeling I’d been looking forward to, and there was no pretty picture on the ceiling this time either.)

And then?

We waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

I gave myself a mental deadline. Surely I’ll know by then.

I didn’t.

You think this post is dragging? Yeah.

Welcome to my world.

We waited.

I got bored. I messaged a few friends. Help me name this cyst or tumour.

Suggestions included:

Tumourthy
Tumour Thurman
Lumpelstiltskin
Blob Marley
Liverace
Onion (as in liver and...)
Cystopher Walkin
Cysten Chapel

I went with Tumourthy.

We waited.

Then I got a call.

I was driving back from yet another blood test.

“Are you driving?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, but legally and hands-free, and I’m just about to pull up at my destination.”

“Do you have children in the car?”

“No. It’s just me.”

A pause.

Then:

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you with the MRI results.

It’s just… well, after our team met and discussed everything, we felt it was best to refer you to Churchill in Oxford.”

Another pause.

“Your tumour…

Basically, we need a specialist’s opinion on it.”

Yeah.

It’s no longer a lesion.

He said the word: tumour.

It’s a tumour now.

When Churchill Hospital in Oxford, the actual specialist centre, agrees to take your case, it becomes real.

It becomes serious.

It becomes something that even your best jokes can’t quite protect you from.

But here we are.

The biopsy is booked.

And after that, it’s in the hands of the pathologists.

The specialists.

The people with microscopes and white coats and bits of my liver.

While I wait, again, I want to say thank you:

* To the one who’s teased me exactly the way I’ve needed. Helping me laugh when I couldn’t quite do it on my own and has reminded me every time "Right Place, Right People, Right Time."
*To the one who reminded me, “We can’t both be ill. That is not the agreement.”
*To the one who’s checked in quietly, kindly, and without expecting anything back.
*To the one who’s pushed me at the gym while I’ve said, “Don’t make me do Russian twists, I might die” and then they made me do them anyway.
*To the one who shared their story, their honesty, their recovery, and gave me real hope.

And to you, reading this. Thank you.

You didn’t know what was going on, but your chaos, kindness, memes, and unsolicited pictures of cats, dogs, Dr Pepper, gym challenges, and your children have helped more than you know.

And a very special shout-out to my husband.

Who has sat beside me through silences and spirals.

Who has never once rolled his eyes when I’ve said:

“But I could die, so I should get to choose what we eat / what we watch on telly / what we listen to on the radio…”

TL;DR:

There’s a tumour in my liver. It’s probably not cancer. But it might be.

It’s serious enough that Churchill Hospital in Oxford, the proper experts, have taken over.

The biopsy is booked.

I’m okay. I’m still here. Still joking.

Still refusing to go quietly... or without at least a bit of drama first.