7 a.m. flight.
The insomniac’s favorite kind—because at that point, there’s really no reason to even go to bed.

But I had to be at the hospital by 11, so there wasn’t much choice.

Chelsea, baby, here we come.

In the end, I decided not to do this alone. After last year’s spectacular disappointment—when “holiday” turned into a full-blown breast cancer circus—the kids didn’t really get much of me. And honestly… what was I supposed to do here on my own anyway?

I like sharing “experiences.” Even these ones. (I’ve surrendered.)

So I split the three weeks between them. Everyone gets their turn being my “carer.”

The flight was smooth. I think.
After a completely sleepless night, my memory is… patchy at best. But the plane didn’t stay up there, so I assume all went well.

The train, as usual, was doing its chaotic thing—“due to a personal incident.”
At least that’s what they said this time. When we used to live here, I always got a chill hearing: “person under the train.” Creepily specific.

Then a bus. And by the time I got to the hospital, it was almost 11.

Royal Marsden Hospital

Here we are again. Oncology galore.

That automatic knot in my stomach that shows up every time I walk into a place like this—I still don’t know how to undo it. And with 5+ years ahead of me (assuming all goes well and I make it), that’s… a lot of knots.

Patients everywhere. The full spectrum of society—poverty and privilege side by side. Foreign speaking immigrants visibly worn down by life, impeccably dressed women who wouldn’t lower themselves to eye contact, over-maintained faces stretched tight with Botox and lifts, women already marked by illness, and men who still found the energy to adjust their posture when a woman passed, as if this were any other setting.

Doctors rush past—no white coats needed. Suits, papers, glasses. Buried in notes, avoiding eye contact like minor celebrities trying not to be recognized.

Suit. Papers. Glasses. Sprint.

Everyone else moves slowly, eyes down, resigned. Some with a hand resting gently on their back.

Before my appointment, I grabbed a drink from the little hospital shop. They sell headscarves, snacks, drinks. Surprisingly reasonable prices—a half-liter ice tea for £1.25, coffee for £1. The nurse standing nearby explains, “the £1 is donation, and only if you can afford…”

A small drop of humanity in a place where many are living through hell.

For a brief, highly unnecessary moment I also thought—do I look that broke? But then I let it go. Flipping vanity.

It took me two attempts to find the right reception. When I finally did, I had to wait—but at least there was Wi-Fi. I needed it.

I tried to talk to a couple who, oddly enough, were also Hungarian. Out of all the people there. But they just snapped back at me.
I’d forgotten—big city rules apply. We don’t bond over nationality. Especially not in a cancer hospital.

Oh well. I’ve made peace with not always getting it right.
I retreated behind the internet.

The radiographer team that called me in was young, but clearly knew what they were doing—everything ran smoothly.

After changing into the usual backless, polka-dot X-ray gown, they took me into a room with a machine that looked like a CT scanner. I lay down, top off, while they inspected the tiny tattoo dots from before.

One of them said one was “a bit low.”
I hate comments like that. My brain immediately starts spinning—what does that mean, is that bad, is something wrong…
But I shut it down with a firm: whatever, let’s just get through this.

Thankfully, the inspection didn’t take long this time. A few marker lines here and there, a mysterious little box placed on my stomach (no idea what for), and then they set up a monitor where I could watch my breathing.

Then they left the room.

At that point, I didn’t really understand what “watching my breathing” meant—but it turned out to be both very useful and oddly satisfying.

While the radiation was happening (which, by the way, you feel absolutely nothing from—it’s like an X-ray), I had to control my breathing based on the screen. There was a green bar at the top and a little dot moving up and down with my breath.

The goal: inhale enough so the dot reaches the green zone—and hold it there. No exhaling until they say so.

And honestly? I loved it.

Instead of spiraling about whether I was accidentally frying my heart or lungs, my inner perfectionist took over. I spent the whole time trying to keep that dot perfectly centered in the green.

I’d take this over scrolling Facebook any day.

They praised me a lot—like they probably do with everyone—but I didn’t care. I was genuinely happy.
Also very happy it only took about 20 minutes.

Amina was pleased too. So pleased, in fact, that she insisted we go to a nearby mall.

And I caved. Again.

By the time we got there, I was completely exhausted.
Also—do all 10-year-olds ask this many questions?

That’s the only real mystery I’m left with.

At least it killed time. We couldn’t check into the accommodation until 3 anyway.

It’s actually really cute.

Somehow… these three weeks will pass

P.S. A lovely lady has now explained that the small box on my stomach was part of the equipment monitoring my breathing. So that has now been cleared up too. 💖