This week started like no other.

There was so much at stake as I sat in my uber on Monday morning, as I made my way to the hospital for my scan results.

Somehow the familiar environment of both oncology and Queen Square felt different. 

There was still the usual tension in the air, the quiet hum of people waiting, the odd shuffle of papers, but something within me had shifted. 

The nerves were there, of course they always are, but there was also a sense of calm, an almost strange acceptance of whatever would come next. 

I muttered the words "what will be will be".

The morning began in oncology, where the seats are lined up neatly, filled with people at various stages of their journeys.

Some held books, others scrolled their phones, and a few sat silently, eyes fixed on the small space of ground between their feet. 

The staff moved with quiet efficiency, their voices soft but purposeful. 

It’s a space where time seems to stretch, where moments are weighted with both fear and hope. 

Sitting there, I felt deeply connected to everyone around me, strangers bound by the shared experience of uncertainty.

When my name was finally called, I stepped into the consultation room. 

It was there, for the first time in 14 years, that I heard words I hadn’t dared to imagine: The tumor has shrunk. 

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In that moment, time seemed to stand still. A wave of emotions washed over me, relief, joy, disbelief. I smiled, then cried, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of those words.

It wasn’t just the news; it was the realisation that after all these years, all the surgeries, the radiation, the endless waiting, something had finally shifted in my favour. 

I felt as though I’d been given more time, and in that, a new lease on life, as I struggled to not fall to the floor I reached out and rested my hand on my oncologists shoulder saying thank you.

As I was leaving two peoples lives would cross, I will never now her name but as I got into the lift a lady asked ‘what floor?’. 

I softly said ‘ground floor please’, she smiled and said ‘lucky you, you get to go home now, she was going to the basement’.

I have been there and I knew she was going through a tough time, but she smiled and said to me.
‘it is what it is’ - she was very positive and I could see even in the darkness could find light. 

Later, I made my way to Queen Square for my appointment in neuroscience. 

This place holds a different kind of weight for me. Walking through those halls is like stepping into a memory, one that’s deeply etched in my mind. 

As I passed the ward where I had my seventh surgery last year, I stopped. 

Only a wall separated me from the room where I’d spent some of the most difficult days of my life. 

On the other side of that wall were memories of pain, fear, and the overwhelming uncertainty that comes with major surgery. 

But this time, I wasn’t crossing through those doors. I wasn’t walking into that ward. I was leaving instead, carrying with me the gift of good news.

Standing there, I let myself feel the weight of the moment. 

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A year ago, I was lying in a hospital bed, facing the unknown, wondering if I’d ever stand on my own again. 

Now, here I was, on the other side of that wall, reflecting on how far I’ve come. 

It’s strange how a single wall can hold so much, on one side, the suffering and fear of the past; on the other, the promise of a future I hadn’t dared to believe in.

The outpatient areas in both oncology and neuroscience are spaces of contrast. 

They’re where life-altering news is delivered, where hope and despair coexist in the quiet hum of conversations and the shuffle of medical notes. 

But they’re also spaces of resilience, of people choosing to show up, to fight, to wait for answers no matter how daunting the questions. 

As I left Queen Square that day, I felt grateful, not just for the good news, but for the journey that had brought me here. 

The waiting, the fear, the setbacks, they’ve all shaped who I am today.

This week’s scan was a turning point, a moment where I was reminded of the gift of time. 

It’s a fragile gift, one that can’t be taken for granted. But for now, I’m holding onto it, savoring the sweetness of this moment, and feeling deeply grateful for the people who’ve supported me along the way. 

As I walked out of the hospital, the autumn sun was shining, and for the first time in a long time, the world felt just a little bit lighter.

What did I do to celebrate this news? Well, I headed to the driving range to work on my golf.