Sitting by the pool in Dubrovnik last summer, I discreetly moved my sunglasses to wipe away the tears streaming down my face. The other holidaymakers probably thought I was mad, but if they’d seen the book I was reading they might have understood.
John Green’s novel The Fault In Our Stars is about two teenage cancer patients who meet at a support group and fall in love. And for me, like the fellow fans who’ve made the movie trailer of the book the most-watched YouTube video of all time, the story held extra resonance because it mirrored my own life.
In March 2010, when I was 14, I was finally diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma after months of going back and forth to the doctors with various symptoms. I’d lost 10kg in weight, was falling asleep on the sofa at 8pm every night and had a small, painful lump under my arm, so eventually I was referred to hospital for tests.
I remember watching the girl in the opposite bed having chemotherapy and telling my parents I felt sorry for her. Dad stared at me, incredulous. ‘You do realise that might be you, don’t you?’ he asked. Until then it hadn’t occurred to me they were testing for cancer.
I immediately decided to prepare for the worst. So I marched into my appointment with the consultant with just two questions to ask. ‘Am I going to die?’ and ‘Will I lose my hair?’ I could see my parents struggling to hold it together as the consultant answered that while my hair would fall out, he’d do everything he could to help me survive.
When some so-called friends accused me of attention-seeking because I had cancer, my confidence took a huge knock.
A week later, I was the girl having chemotherapy. It lasted five months, followed by seven weeks of radiotherapy, and the accompanying steroids left me feeling fat, spotty and unattractive. While my friends were starting to go out on their own and enjoy some much longed-for independence, all my energy was devoted to getting my GSCE revision done in my hospital bed.
The radiotherapy was claustrophobic and gave me excruciating stomach aches and I felt incredibly self-conscious without any hair. Then when some so-called friends accused me of attention-seeking because I had cancer, my confidence took a huge knock.
It was hard for friends to understand that they didn’t have to be all doom and gloom around me. That having cancer didn’t stop me wanting to have fun.
That’s when a social worker recommended a support group run by the charity Clic Sargent. I was reluctant at first, imagining lots of miserable teens sat in a circle discussing their ailments, but when I heard it involved trips away and nights spent bowling I reconsidered.
I went to a conference at Centerparcs and it was there I met Hayley. She was also 14 going through cancer and we instantly bonded. It was great to talk and laugh about normal things, without having to give my health a second thought. It was hard for friends to understand that they didn’t have to be all doom and gloom around me. That having cancer didn’t stop me wanting to have fun.
So although Hayley couldn’t make the conference the following year, I went back without her. It was there that I met Ryan, then 17, and Kim, 20. We spent our time in hysterics and Ryan and I bounced off one another with our sarcastic humour. Those who were old enough to drink were hungover one morning and Kim was offering round her anti-sickness cancer drugs to help them. She was outgoing, confident and open.
We all stayed in touch. I remember going to Blackpool for Kim’s 21st birthday (as it turns out, her last one). She hired a room at the Hilton and we laughed and danced the night away. Ryan drove us all there. In the morning, we discovered that he had a parking ticket because he’d forgotten to display his disability badge, and then I got us lost on the way home – an hour’s drive turned into three.
Sharing a mutual illness mean I didn’t put up any barriers. Ryan was my first love and I embraced it wholeheartedly.
Ryan was tall, handsome, bald and terminally ill with osteosarcoma. Yet he had a lust for life that I loved. Some friends berated me for getting involved with someone who was terminally ill, but I didn’t care. To me he wasn’t ‘the guy with cancer’, he was funny, sweet Ryan who teased me for getting lost all the time and hated my taste in music. Plus, as a cancer patient myself, how could I have given up on him just because he was ill?
Sharing a mutual illness mean I didn’t put up any barriers. Ryan was my first love and I embraced it wholeheartedly. With Ryan I could be myself. Of course, we talked about our illnesses, but most of our time was spent laughing.
Only once did Ryan give me any insight into how angry and afraid he must have felt inside. I made a flippant comment about naming my future kids and he said, ‘I’ll never get to have children.’ When he said it, I cried.
Then, in August 2012, Ryan and I decided to break up. He didn’t want the pressure of a girlfriend when it came to the end. It broke my heart, but it’s the sort of thing no-one really understands unless they’re in that situation. We remained best firends, texting each other constantly and visiting each other during the school holidays.
That’s when it really hit me for the first time – most people with cancer die. I could die.
And then, in the midst of grieving for the loss of my first relationship, I logged on to Facebook one day – and found something horrific. Kim’s page was full of messages of condolence. She had died. I was devastated. It wasn’t sudden – no-one had expected her to live beyond April, but she had defied all expectations and lasted until August, so it somehow made her death all the more shocking.
She was the first friend I’d had who had died and I couldn’t believe it – I just kept screaming, ‘It can’t be true, it can’t be true,’ over and over again. That’s when it really hit me for the first time – most people with cancer die. I could die.
Two months later, I was sitting on the living room floor revising for my A levels, when mum came in and said she had something to tell me. Ryan’s mum had called, and he’d died, too. Mum and I cried together in disbelief.
His death floored me and I couldn’t get out of bed for two days. The slightest thing, like a song on the radio, would make me miss him all over again and I questioned my own mortality at times. Although I’d prepared for Ryan’s death, he’d seemed so well that deep down I kidded myself he’d surprise us all.
I felt awful about the fact I was meant to be visiting him the week later and hadn’t made it in time. I couldn’t really believe that I’d never speak to him again, and kept re-reading our old text message conversations, trying to focus on the good memories I had of him.
I was devastated, but I finished my treatment, went into remission and even managed to pass my A levels. A year after Ryan’s death, I’d just started university and was coming out of a lecture when I realised I had loads of missed calls from my mum, followed by a text explaining that Hayley had died.
I couldn’t believe it – Hayley had beaten leukemia twice before, but she’d had a bone marrow transplant and complications meant she also needed a double lung transplant. She’d caught an infection after her operation and it was this that finally killed her.
I knew Hayley was ill, but this was the last thing I’d been expecting – it wasn’t even the cancer that killed her. I’d only just moved out of home, and hadn’t really made any close friends at uni yet; it was so hard. If I’d still been in treatment myself at that point, I’m not sure how I would have coped.
It dawned on me that if I hadn’t had cancer, I’d never have met my wonderful friends.
That’s when I hit a real low. Life felt so unfair and for the first time I questioned, ‘Why me, why my friends?’ But my psychologist encouraged me to see the positives in life and slowly I realised what she meant. It dawned on me that if I hadn’t had cancer, I’d never have met my wonderful friends.
Without me even noticing it, my brush with death had left me determined to work hard, seize every opportunity and get the most out of life. As a cancer survivor, I am so close to my parents and I never take a single day for granted. I’m open about my illness and proud to say I survived. I sometimes forget all the difficult times I’ve been through because people treat me so normal, but that’s a good thing.
It was mum and dad who lent me The Fault In Our Stars to read; it holds special memories for us all. My dad has booked us tickets to go and see the film on Sunday, which is the day after I come back from university and the day before I go sailing with the Ellen McArthur Cancer Trust.
It couldn't be a more perfect weekend to sum up my life now – outwardly I’m the same as everyone else, but I’m a cancer survivor inside.
Now I’m loving university and embracing my social life too. I’ve raised around £7,000 for Clic Sargent by organising everything from a flashmob to a sponsored zip-wire off the Imperial War Museum North. I’m determined to squeeze every drop out of life, not just for me but for Kim, Hayley and Ryan, too.
*For Clic Sargent please visit www.clicsargent.org.uk
Picture: Eylul Aslan
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.