They told me I wasn’t allowed to lift anything for 6 weeks. No exercise, no housework, no cooking and definitely no riding your bike. You might be able to walk but you’ll walk to the end of the garden and feel as if you’ve run a marathon. And don’t whatever you do use that right arm for anything.

Banished to the sofa I couldn’t really understand why I had to do physio. My right arm felt fine, I could raise it above my head instantly and only stopped when the nurse told me off. You’ve got lots of microplumbing in that armpit love, stop it. Oh. That told me.

I’m not very good at not doing anything. My husband likens me to a dog that needs taking outside every day. Within a couple of weeks I was able to walk into town, but I liked the excuse of not having to do any housework. My wonderful mother in law moved in – a calm and quietly loving presence in the house. She encouraged me gently to have afternoon naps and I surprised myself by sleeping until it was dark. I have regular appointments with the plastic surgery team who seem very pleased with my new boobs. I have dressings everywhere but take a look in the mirror whenever I change them. My abdomen is swollen and uncomfortable and I’m breathless walking up hills. I hear nothing from the cancer team. It’s easy to convince myself I’ve just paid thousands to have a Mummy Makeover and forget the reason why.

Friends rally, food is delivered every day. I can’t stand to feel a burden and this helps to lighten the load on those caring for me. I watch endless episodes of reality TV, read several novels, listen to all the podcasts. Slowly my body heals and I marvel at how clever it all is. Soon I understand why I had to be careful with that arm when I develop some cording. They say it feels like a guitar string and I can see it in my armpit. When I try to find out what it is and why it happens, nobody really knows, and I wonder how difficult it would be just to stick a woman in an MRI scanner to find out.

I am waiting for my results. Scans and biopsies only go so far – it’s not until they have the tumours out of you that you really understand what you’re dealing with. My body feels different and I am hopeful that all of the cancer is gone. I gear myself up for my appointment when I notice an answerphone message. I’m sorry but we have had to postpone your appointment. We’ll see you in another week. Another interminable week passes. I concentrate on trying to regain my fitness, walking 3, 4 and finally 6 miles. I prepare myself again when the hospital number flashes up on my phone and they cancel it. Six weeks now and I still don’t know whether the operation was a success. I try not to think of the cancer cells multiplying in my body.

Feeling helpless and furious at the Tory government, I complain about my wait – twice as long as it was supposed to be. Finally the day comes and we sit in the MacMillan centre waiting. The nurse appears bright and breezy, tells me that I’m walking really well considering the surgery, smiling broadly. It must be good news I think. Once inside the room, the surgeon is pleased with me, you’re looking great, more smiles. Now can we discuss your results?

We found many many cancers in your breast.

Is it in my lymph nodes?

Yes, it was in both lymph nodes we removed…

I start to get hot and my vision begins to fade. I think I’m going to faint, put my head between my legs. You can get on the couch if you like, they say, and then both the medical professionals leave the room. I break down.

You need to have an emergency CT scan to see whether it has spread anywhere else.

If it has, it’s not curable though is it, can I just check?

Yes, it’s not curable. It’s then living with cancer. But some women live for up to 5 years. If it is treatable, you will need chemotherapy and then possibly more surgery and definitely radiotherapy.

We are in early the next morning for the scan. The nurse asks me about my job and I burst into tears as I explain I work in the hospital but haven’t been at work since September. She confides in me that she had breast cancer too, it was in her lymph nodes and here she is now, helping others going through what she went through. I’m so grateful for her kindness, she makes me tea and hugs me. Proudly shows me her mastectomy tattoo. Another person in exactly the right job.

The next week passes in a blur of crying, catastrophising and valium. The day of my results appointment I don’t know what to do with myself. I sit on my mat and meditate as this seems to be the only way of calming myself down. I understand that I have to accept the uncertainty, the difficult reality that I simply don’t know. Hope feels too cruel, and fear a close relation.

We sit in the waiting room again, my head on Nick’s shoulder, my eyes closed. The interminable walk down the long hospital corridors felt like the Green Mile, the walk to the electric chair. I try to accept the uncertainty but even the valium doesn’t touch the sides.

It’s good news. The surgeon is beaming, probably relieved that I will not be fainting today.

It hasn’t spread so we are looking at a cure. Your case is unusual so I need to speak to the oncologist to decide what’s best…. I cry with relief.

A week on and I am still waiting. Cancer treatment in the UK has mostly been reduced to this. During the course of the week, the news about King Charles breaks and I start to see memes about how quickly he will be treated and my anger at the current government resurfaces. I am an avid supporter and employee of the NHS but it’s hard not to think that it’s broken.

Newly liberated from my 6 week exercise ban, I get out on my bike and spend the weekend with friends. Normal life in all its messiness descends and I make the most of every precious moment.