Getting radiotherapy

Two weeks after I finished chemo I started my radiotherapy trial (see 'Week 15 of cancer treatment').

When I arrived at the hospital, I was feeling both nervous yet excited.  I'd never had radiotherapy before and despite many people telling me it would be a doddle compared to chemo, I still had my neighbours' comments from six months ago ringing in my ears ('Oh, radiotherapy is awfully hard. So-and-so had a TERRIBLE time with it'.  Cheers, dear neighbours).  It was also going to be another significant milestone on my cancer journey.

Photographs

After I arrived at the Cancer Centre, I met one of the clinical researchers who took me to get my bloods taken, asked me to fill in a questionnaire and then took me to get my boobs photographed.  I already knew that was going to happen as I had signed up to it as part of the trial.  By taking photographs years apart, the trial team can see how the treatment affects my boobs over the years.

Now, when the researcher said they wanted to take some photographs I expected a nurse with a camera phone in a hall cupboard somewhere. Er, no.  The researcher took me down a series of corridors and when she finally opened the door to the room, I nearly died.  It was a full photographers studio with a backdrop and two massive super trouper studio lights.  It felt like I was going to do some sort of glamour modelling shot (not that I know what that's like, honestly).

'Oh. My. God. I can't do THIS!!' I spluttered.

'Yes you can, Karen,' the female photographer said.  'Just drop your cape, stand there, put your hands on your hips, then above your head and work it!'

Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound I suppose.  That's all I'm sharing with you.

Once it was done, the photographer said she'd see me in two years and then both her and the researcher shared recipes with me about how to cook special Christmas gammons.  As I may have mentioned before, I've never been bored on this cancer journey.  I've learned a hell of a lot about all sorts of things, not least how to improve my culinary repertoire (sounds posh, dunnit?).

The radiotherapy treatment

The radiotherapy waiting area was packed with people.  There was an in-house guitarist playing gentle, soothing music.  I looked around and watched the faces of the people waiting and wondered what their stories were and how they were feeling right at that moment.  Were they scared?  Were they hopeful?  Were they resigned to their fate?  I realised it wasn't helpful to think about things like that so gave myself a sharp talking to.

The radiotherapy itself was actually pretty uneventful.  I had to lie absolutely still on a bed below the radiotherapy machine whilst they set me up to match the measurements and tattoos that had previously been done at my planning session. 

There were lots of green laser lights (to help with the targeting of the radiotherapy beam), much whirring and buzzing and 'radiation on' signs turning red.  The radiographers kept nipping in and out to check measurements, making adjustments and programming the machine for the next bit of zapping.  They kept me updated and then would disappear into their lead lined room whilst I got zapped.

It was totally painless and is incredibly precise.  The only tricky bit was having to stay absolutely still so that the beam wouldn't go off target.  I kept sensing all these itches on my face (some real and some no doubt a figment of my imagination) which I was desperate to scratch but I knew I couldn't move a muscle. 

The radiographer gave me some special cream to slather on myself twice a day to keep my skin moisturised.  'Put it on the back of your shoulders too as the beam has to come out somewhere,' she said. Gulp.

I went back for four more sessions and then, a week later, I was finished. On my final day, I rang the bell in reception three times which signalled the end of my treatment.  Everyone clapped.  It was a wonderful moment.  I walked out of the hospital with a spring in my step.

Ringing the bell

What next?

I was able to meet the head of the clinical trial who was a lovely, charming man.  He thanked me for taking part and told me that I would be invited to come back in about three months time to see how I was and also to take me off anti-coagulation medication.   Other than that, I would be called for a mammogram around 12 months after surgery but that if I had any concerns in the meantime I could get in touch with the hospital straight away.

It's not the end

This isn't the end of my blog by the way.  

I've just started hormone therapy - a daily drug called Anastrozole - which I will take for the next five years.  There are a number of side effects with this drug which won't be very enjoyable (the worst menopausal side effects you can possibly think of) but you know what? It's better than the alternative.

I still have to go back to work and the thought of cancer recurring will never leave me.  These will be subjects I shall be writing about at some point.

Thank you for reading my blog.  Your company and comments have been truly wonderful.

Onwards and upwards!

Much love.

Karen
x

Cancer treatment: week 16

This is a bit of a longer blog than usual as quite a few *interesting* things have been happening over the last week.

PICC the dick

The district nurse came out to flush and dress my PICC line on Monday but we hit a bit of a stumbling block.  She measured how long the external bit of the line was and it was just over 2 centimetres longer than when it was originally inserted.  Hmm, that apparently was beyond an acceptable increase.  

The nurse tried to flush the line and draw out my blood to test that it was working OK.  Nothing.  She couldn't get anything in or out no matter how hard she tried.  I even lay down on the bed, sat up, walked around.  Still nothing.  We rang the Oncology helpline for advice. 

To cut a long story short (probably not) I had to go into the Cancer Centre to get an X-ray and, if necessary, a 'drain buster' infusion which would help to dissolve any possible blockage.  The X-ray showed that the PICC line was still in the right place inside my chest so they weren't worried about the extra external length.  

The nurse then gave the line one more go before resorting to the drain buster and hey presto!  It worked.  There was no explanation.  Even moving around can help to make the line work again.

Assessment/chemo day

I've been making a few PICC line covers to keep myself occupied plus I know that many people with PICC lines have been keen to locate some. So on my way into my assessment appointment, I took a load of covers into the Friends of the Cancer Centre to see if they could sell them to raise money.  They were absolutely delighted.  

(Shameless plug alert: if you're interested in a PICC cover please leave a comment below.)

Some of my PICC line covers

I've lost a wee bit of weight this week, despite the amount of cake I ate at the Macmillan coffee morning.  Get in!  One of the nurses overheard my excitement and told me that they had reset the scales to be 14 pounds lighter before I arrived.  I told him to get lost (in a nice way).

I also got a new butter-free banana cake recipe from one of the nurses. 

It's amazing the *fun* one can have when getting bloods taken.

I then went to see my oncologist for my chat.  She examined my toe/fingernails and disappointingly she told me I would lose them but I would end up with lovely new ones.  Which is nice.

Chemo

When I went to get my chemo, my PICC line started playing up again. The nurse could get the liquid flush in but could not get any blood out.  It was absolutely imperative that the nurse got blood out before giving me chemo otherwise the chemo could accumulate in my arm and create a hole.  Bloody hell!

We tried all sorts of things to get blood out, for example coughing, waving my arm around, letting my arm hang loose, turning my head from side to side.  She kept putting in new syringes and trying to draw out the blood.  I started to get quite worried as it felt like my PICC line was being pulled out, although it was firmly locked in place.  I was also dreading the thought of having to get chemo through a cannula into my now tough veins.

Having got a second opinion, the nurse asked me to march up and down reception.  Everyone stared at me as if I wasn't right in the head.  And it STILL didn't work.  As a last resort, another nurse came over to see if she could do it.  She sat me more upright, raised my arm and - weyhey - out came blood.  

Chemo was then very uneventful in comparison.  I fell asleep.

Radiotherapy - trial or not to trial?

I mentioned in my last blog that I had been invited to take part in a trial where they would test if radiotherapy could be given over five days instead of 15.  I've been dithering about whether to do it or not.

Well, I had my radiotherapy planning appointment today where I met my oncologist and a number of trial clinicians.  I asked them loads of questions for nearly an hour about the pros and cons of the trial and the data they had from previous human/non-human tests.  My husband came with me to be devil's advocate and also in case he thought of things to ask that I hadn't.

I was still in two minds during the meeting but my intuition was gradually leaning towards taking part.  But what eventually swayed it for me was:

• when the oncologist said, totally unprompted, that she would have no hesitation in doing it herself or recommending it to any of her family members
• the fact that I will also be far more closely monitored than through the normal regime and if there is any delay in my oncologist seeing me, the trial team can get my appointments accelerated.   

I said yes.  Let's be a glass half full not half empty lass from now on.

Radiotherapy planning scan

Later in the morning I went for my planning scan.  This involved measuring me up using a CT scanner and then tattooing my chest in strategic places with small dots.  This will tell the radiographers exactly where to zap when I go for my radiotherapy.   

It was freezing in the scanning room and I had to lay there with my chest fully exposed.  I was so relieved there were no men in there.  I would have felt quite embarrassed but I suppose I should be over that by now.

The radiographers took great care in positioning me on the scanning bed and marking my chest with felt tip pens and wires.  I had to lie there with my arms over my head and stay perfectly still whilst the scanner went over me.  I kept imagining all sorts of itches on my face and had to try desperately to avoid scratching.

Once the scan was done, the radiographer got the little tattooing needle and quickly jabbed it into three places.  It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.  The jab in the middle of my chest was the sorest one probably 'cos there was a little less flesh there.

The scan took less than half an hour and I was free to go.  My first proper radiotherapy session will be next month, all being well.

To finish, here's a picture of Cancer Centre garden which I thought was delightful.

The Cancer Centre garden

PS

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Week 15 of cancer treatment

I've been feeling very emotional today.  I've no idea why.  I've been close to tears and could cry at the drop of a hat.  On the other hand, I feel quite anxious and aggressive, like I want to fight someone.  I reckon it's the drugs but I haven't felt like this before on chemo so perhaps it's nothing to do with them.

I've had my second dose of Paclitaxel this week.  The side effects (except possibly those described above) have not been that noticeable. I've almost felt human.  I still have some effects from the previous drug, for example I've had sheets of skin peeling off from the soles of my feet, gained a few black toenails, and many of my fingernails are now either badly ridged or are lifting off the nail bed.  At least I won't need make up for Halloween.

I've also been able to inject the white blood cell stimulant over two consecutive days by myself.  I've had a few aches and pains as a result (quite common apparently) but generally I've not felt too bad.  It's such a relief to not feel crap all the time.

Radiotherapy - clinical trial dilemma

When I went to see my oncologist, she invited me to take part in a clinical trial for radiotherapy called FAST-Forward.  I meet the criteria apparently.  

The current regime for breast cancer is daily radiotherapy for three weeks (except weekends).  The trial is to test whether this can be reduced to five days.  I've been given a patient sheet about the trial, which includes information about known pros and cons, and have access to a researcher to ask questions before taking a decision.  

When I started off on my cancer journey I secretly wanted the opportunity to take part in a trial.  However I was led to believe by someone I met that if you took part in a trial it was because nothing else had worked.  Not so, apparently!

I really think trials are important but my son doesn't want me to do it.  He wants to be sure that I get the best chance of success and that would be through sticking to the current protocol.  I have no idea what to do.  If women hadn't volunteered for trials in the past I probably wouldn't be lucky enough to get my current treatment regime.  

I have my radiotherapy planning appointment this week (on my bloody birthday too!) and I'm going to grill the research team about what taking part might mean for me.

Macmillan Coffee Morning

The Move More group I belong to held a coffee morning last week as part of Macmillan's 'World's Biggest Coffee Morning' to raise funds.  I even made a simple banana cake for it and helped out as a volunteer. 

The amount of goodies on offer that were made/donated/bought was incredible.  I couldn't resist some of the cakes myself, particularly the rainbow cake in the picture below.  I reckon if cancer doesn't kill me, diabetes might.

We did brilliantly and raised over £800 in the space of an hour and a half.   We also had great fun doing it as well.

Some of the yummy cakes

Me (right) and my friend Sharon (aka the 'Kaz n Shaz comedy duo' 😄)

Onwards and upwards!

PS

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Appointments, appointments, appointments

I said in my last blog that I was going to write about, amongst other things, angels and prayers.  I'm going to do that next time as I'm in danger of making this one too long.  But your blogs ARE too long, I hear you cry.  You ain't seen nothing yet.  In the words of Mrs Doyle (I told you I was a Father Ted fan), I can go on and on and on and...

Shut up and get on with it, Karen.

Getting wiggy with it

I went to see the hairdresser at the Macmillan Centre to get ahead (*cough*) of the game and get a wig before my hair fell out.  Ooh, my inner child emerged - so many lovely styles and colours!  I was like a kid in a sweet shop. 

I told the hairdresser I wanted a sassy wig.  I certainly didn't want one that made me look 'mumsy' but I wanted it to be different enough to my own hair so that I could wear it when I fancied a whole new look.  

I tried on all sorts of colours and styles, some of which made me look like my granny (and she's been dead for 50 years).  I narrowed it down to two wigs: a short platinum blonde one and a funkier, slightly longer honey blonde one with *natural* roots.   Ok, so the platinum blonde one was very similar to my own hair but it was gorgeous.

Both myself and the hairdresser were struggling to choose which one to go for as we thought they both looked equally great.  We dithered and ummmed and aaahhhed for ages and simply couldn't decide. 

Then another hairdresser walked into the room.  We both asked her which one she thought looked best.  

'The platinum one makes you look younger,' she said. 

'I'll take it'.  

Flip, how shallow can I be.

You put your left boob in, your left boob out

I was called back for a mammogram on my left boob.  The hospital's Multi Disciplinary Team had wondered if there was thickening in my left breast and I'd also noticed some occasional pain in my left armpit too.  

They took x-rays of slices of my left boob (honestly, it's not as bad as I've made it sound) which when put together would form a better picture.  I've said before that mammograms aren't exactly the nicest experience but nevertheless they are incredibly important.  At least this one was better than my last one where they stuck a wire in my boob.  

Later that day I was given the all clear on that side which was a relief. Phew.  

Every little piece of good news is one step nearer to survival.

50/50

I met the doctor who was going to look after my cancer treatment.  She explained to me that the cancer had been cut out and had now gone. YES!  I mentally punched the air.

The next bit of the conversation with her was quite eye opening.  She recommended that I had chemotherapy and radiotherapy because in my case the benefits (however small) would most likely outweigh the side effects.  

All along I was under the impression that I was going to get treatment come what may.  It was clear that I had a choice though.  If I didn't want treatment then that was fine.  What made my mind up was when the Doctor explained that out of say 100 people (I think that was the number she used), if I decided against treatment I could be in the 50% who got cancer again.  With treatment, the percentage would be much lower.

It was a no brainer.  I was going to become Chemo Karen.

Heart echo, echo, echo, echo...

I had to have an echocardiogram to check that my heart would be able to cope with chemotherapy.  It was a painless ultrasound examination and lasted about 10-15 minutes.  

I lay on the bed next to the screen whilst the cardiologist used the probe to look at my heart from the top, bottom and side.  I was watching on the monitor and then all of a sudden I could clearly see the little valves actually opening and closing.  It was jaw dropping.  

This piece of muscle - the size of my fist - was keeping me alive and if one of those valves suddenly stopped I would be in deep trouble.  I was praying that it didn't do anything funny on screen whilst I was watching.  I really would have had a heart attack.

Watching my heart pumping away was quite sobering.  At that moment, I decided that I would do all I could to look after my heart properly.  All the crap that I've eaten over the years and the lack of exercise made me realise in those 10 minutes that I needed to do more to look after my precious heart.  

There aren't many people who can actually get to 'see' their heart beating in front of them, in black and white.  I found it an incredibly humbling and quite emotional experience.  

Love your heart, people!  💖

PS

Let me know below if there's anything specific about my breast cancer journey you'd like me to blog about.

If you've enjoyed my blog, feel free to follow me on Twitter: @luvvacurry

The first cut is the deepest: part 2

I heard my name being called through a fog of anaesthesia.   The surgery was over and I hadn't died.  

The best bit after coming round was the post surgery tea and toast.  It was honestly the best tea and toast I've ever had in my life.  If I end up on death row, I'm going to ask for that as my last meal.

I was wheeled up to the ward about 7pm and they put me in a side room (ooh, thank goodness, there would be no snoring to keep me awake).  My husband and son were waiting for me.  I was so happy to see them.  I spent the next hour talking gibberish as, bizarrely, I was both groggy from the anaesthetic and on a high from the other drugs.  I was also still peckish so my husband went off to the shop and got biscuits, a croissant and two bars of Galaxy chocolate for me.  Heaven.

All night long

I had a wonderful nurse called Maxine look after me throughout the night.  She popped in every couple of hours to check my vitals.  We chatted about all sorts of things but whenever she came in and she had to wake me up, I kept asking her what the time was.  I can't for the life of me think why I was fixated on the time!  I mean, I wasn't exactly going anywhere was I.  

Breathing legs

I had a couple of special contraptions wrapped around my legs which inflated and deflated throughout the night.  The idea was that they were meant to help circulation and prevent me from getting a blood clot.  

In the depths of the night, I can't help thinking that it sounded like Darth Vader was at the end of my bed.

Morning has broken

At 5am, I woke with a start and couldn't get back to sleep - I was wired to the moon.  I cracked open a bar of Galaxy.  Maxine, bless her, came in and made me a cup of tea, gave me a wash, helped me get into my pyjamas and changed my bed clothes.  I saw the sunrise over the car park.  

The lovely Maxine went off duty at 8am and when I thanked her for looking after me, she replied that it had been an absolute pleasure.  She was a truly fabulous nurse and a real credit to the NHS.  

What a relief

That morning I was visited by the breast care nurse, various doctors and the Registrar who was in theatre with me.  I felt like a specimen in a jar.  To my great relief, the registrar said the CT and bone scans were clear apart from wear and tear in various areas.  You cannot believe how relieved I was when he told me that.  I had been so, so, worried that the cancer had spread and thankfully it hadn't.  Phew.  Things were looking up after all.

Life is a minestrone

You may have guessed by now that I love my food, so I have to tell you about my lunch.  It was delicious: potato and leek soup, roast turkey, peas, corn, turnip (I used to call it 'swede' until I moved to Northern Ireland), mashed potato and then jelly and ice cream for afters.  I felt like a kid again.  

I'm not a fan of Jamie Oliver but if any of the hospital food was inspired by him I'd go and give him a great big kiss.  Well, OK, that's probably a big fat lie.

Homeward bound

I was allowed to go home at lunchtime, accompanied by painkillers and a drain in my side, which the nurse told me how to empty and reconnect.  Eugh. 

Before I left the hospital I was also reminded about the risk of lymphodoema.  'What's THAT?' I hear you ask.  Something to avoid, you hear me say!  Because all the lymph nodes in my armpit had been removed, there was (and still is) a risk that an insect bite, a cut, sunburn, cracked skin, a hangnail and such like could cause my right arm to irretrievably swell up and never drain properly ever again.  

I now protect my right arm with my life and care for it like a newborn baby.

Next time...

I'll blog about being at home - feeling bored, sore and terrified of pulling out my drain - and my surgery results.

PS: 

You can follow me on twitter: @luvvacurry

Please feel free to leave a comment below.

My breast cancer diagnosis

I must confess it sounds weird to write the words 'breast cancer'.  Breast Cancer.  Eurgh.  I have a 'bad boob' -  that sounds better!

Firstly a bit about me.  My name is Karen, I'm almost 55 years old, married, with a teenage son.  I'm English but I've lived near Belfast, Northern Ireland for nearly 20 years.  I've always been a bit work obsessed, I can't sit still for very long and get easily bored.

I always thought I was invincible.  I've never had much sick leave in the 36 years I've been working, nor I have I ever had any serious illnesses or incidents (touch wood, unless you count the time I nearly went head first into the Ennistymon Falls, Co Clare, Ireland but that's another story) and I probably rather naively never ever thought I would.  Ha!  How wrong could I be.

Before you start reading on, here's a bit of a heads up. I might use the occasional bad word.  Sorry about that but I want to write as a I speak and be true to the person I am.  I've also tried to be positive and avoid lighthearted as far as possible, despite the serious nature of the subject.

Finding a lump

How and when did I know I first had breast cancer?  I found a firm swelling in my right armpit.  I don't even know how I found it.  It wasn't through my regular mammograms, nor any self checking as, much to my shame, I was always pretty bad at that.  

I found the lump by accident and could only feel it when I was lying down or when I raised my arm above my head.  I thought maybe I had, rather laughingly, built up a super strong armpit muscle due to regular physiotherapy exercises I had been doing for impingement in my right shoulder.

I left it for a couple of weeks to see if the lump would disappear.  But it didn't.

The GP appointment

I went to see the GP, who looked like a 12 year old. She asked me if I had lost any weight to which I replied 'No, I wish I flaming well could'. She asked me about my appetite, to which I replied 'I eat like a horse'.  The GP examined me, did a blood test and then said she would refer me to the hospital for a possible ultrasound.  Alarm bells started to ring.  

When I left the surgery I read her referral in which she described me as a 'pleasant 54 year old lady'.  Blimey!  That made me feel like a dead old fuddy-duddy.  She also mentioned that the lump was 'tethered'.   Back home looking at Google (yes I know, it's the wrong thing to do when you're worried about something), I discovered that a lump that stays in a fixed place isn't usually a good sign.  Oh heck.

I decided not to wait for an NHS appointment which I was told could take a while to come through (wrongly as it turned out), so with the help of the wonderful Benenden Healthcare Society I got an appointment the following week to see a consultant privately.  I was told I would definitely find out at the consultation if I had breast cancer or not.  Bitter sweet, eh?

The consultation

On the evening of the consultation, I sat in the waiting room with other women, many of whom were wearing headscarves.  Please god, I don't want to end up like that, I said to myself.  One overly chatty woman with a headscarf sat right next to me and started to talk to me about breast cancer, how great the consultant I was seeing was and the treatment she was going through etc.  All I could think of was 'Shut the f*ck up!  I don't know that I have cancer and you're not bloody helping!'.

To cut a long story short, following an immediate mammogram, an ultrasound and a core biopsy (during which I yelped in surprise and went 'oh shit!') the consultant told me that as well as the lump in my armpit she had also found a small lump in my right breast which, as she put it, was rather 'worrying'.  I looked right into her eyes and I asked her outright if was cancer.  She said 'Yes, I'm afraid it is'.  I cried, she held my hand and she was lovely.

The breast care nurse then joined us and they called my husband in.  He gripped my hand so tightly as he listened to the words…'there are signs of cancer cells in Karen's breast…have spread to her lymph nodes'.  I felt like I was in a fog of despair and disbelief as they told him.  I felt completely well and healthy - how could I have cancer?  It was like a bad dream.  Surreal, almost. 

The date was 3 April 2017.  I'll never forget that date as long as I live.  There were many tears in our house over the next few days.

Waiting for the biopsy results

A week later, I had to go back to get the biopsy results.

Allow me to digress a little here.  It was a strange time between the biopsy and getting the results, almost like a state of limbo and suspended animation.  We all cried quite a lot during that week.  My mind was working overtime and I still couldn't believe that I had breast cancer and how it was all a terrible mistake as I felt so well and healthy.

Telling people

I was dreading breaking the news to my son.  My husband and I had already agreed that we wouldn't tell him until we knew what the results were and had a positive plan of action to tackle the cancer.  I'd got advice from various cancer support groups about how to break the news to teenagers but it was still unbelievably hard.  The look on my son's face will stay with me forever.

I sent a simultaneous Facebook message to my brothers and sister as I knew if I told one of them first the others would quite possibly get the hump.  My sister later rang me and her first words were, 'Where the f*ck did you get that from?!'.  She always makes me laugh.

My work colleagues were amazing too.  I had to email them because they're based all over the UK.  My phone never stopped ringing and emails kept popping into my inbox with people wishing me well, offering support, sharing their own personal experiences and generally being fantastic.

It's a times like this you realise how wonderful and supportive people can be.

A woman with cancer

I often looked at myself in the mirror and would see my usual face staring back. That's what a woman with cancer looks like, I thought. I looked normal, not ill.  But over the next few days, I somehow slowly started to get my head together a bit more.  I even managed to sort out a load of old personal documents which I'd put off doing for years.  Yet my mind could only focus on one thing.  Even fish and chips and Ben and Jerry's ice cream on the seafront that Friday night didn't help, and that's saying something.

Aches and pains: did that mean…?

I also couldn't help but worry myself sick about every ache and pain I had as I thought that meant the cancer had spread and that I would die. It's amazing how your mind goes into overdrive.  I kept imagining that I wouldn't be around to see my son go to university, to see him get married and then become a father to my first grandchild.  I had to know for sure what I was facing and I was desperate to know as quickly as possible.  I now know that I didn't know enough to know that it was too soon to know all of that!

The results

I waited nervously to be called in to find out what I thought would be my fate.  When I went in, the consultant explained that my breast cancer was the most common type: invasive ductal carcinoma.  It was grade II, oestrogen positive and was treatable, she said.  Phew!  I would however need what's called a wide local excision, lymph node clearance, possibly supplemented by chemotherapy and/or radiotherapy, hormone therapy to fight the oestrogen and CT/bone scans for completeness.  Oh god I thought, what if the scans tell me it's spread?

Ah well, if it turns out the b****rd has spread, I told myself, I would handle it and would enjoy every moment of my life from now on.

Next time...

I'll tell you more about having my CT and bone scans. Now they were very interesting!

PS:

If you've enjoyed this blog, please feel free to follow me on Twitter: @luvvacurry.

Please also consider donating money to my step-daughter, Fiona Dougan, who is running a half marathon in September 2017 to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Support.

Sponsor Fiona Dougan to help raise money for Macmillan