Stage 4 cancer: healing on two wheels

Keeping the wheels turning; freedom and delight; healing my body and soul

Me and Sarah in Villette, Switzerland: March 2025

My bike is rusty, the brakes, hazardous. I circle the pond in my local park four times. The park where my three children learnt to cycle. Where one sped so fast around the pond as a nursery child that people stopped and stared in disbelief at the tiny racer. That child is now a man who left London last June and has cycled through Europe, Central Asia, China, Malaysia. I, meanwhile, am beaming, laughing and whooping in North London. Ducks, dogs, children run to the left and right as I cycle ziggy zaggy. ‘Hello!’ I shout and, ‘excuse me, sorry!’ rather than dinging a bell. I want to tell everyone, ‘I have stage 4 lung cancer’. I feel free and silly and joyful. The world is full technicolour glory. I am high.

Sarah, my fiancé and co-pilot in cancerland, and I are cycling 37.5 miles in September and I am hilariously ‘in training’. Like an athlete. It will be five years since I was diagnosed with lung cancer. The ride feels long and I only have one and a half lungs. And I am more yoga and strolling than cardiovascular exercise and Lycra. But if I can survive surgery and chemotherapy covid style, I can do this.

When Sir Chris Hoy unveiled his cycling fundraiser event in Glasgow to shout from the rooftops that people with stage 4 cancer can do remarkable things, my brain and heart sparked. He and I don’t have an awful lot in common. He is knighted and a six-time Olympic gold medallist for cycling. But we do both have stage 4 cancer. He writes, ‘I am not trying to pretend that every day is amazing. But I have genuine moments of joy’. We both try to offer a window into what the world looks like from here, to carry on with the beautiful business of living. And to let anyone going through the unimaginable know, we see and hear you.

Give that man another gold medal. Promote him from Sir to Lord of Cancerland.

We decide I will use Sarah’s bike for now as mine is not passing health and safety standards. I am doing all I can to stay alive. I don’t need a disastrous cycling incident to knock me out of action. Three times a week I huff and puff and wheeze and cough my way around my patch of London. And I couldn’t be happier. I start small, five or six miles on the cycle paths, canal towpaths and cycle superhighways as they are fabulously known.

It is early spring. My senses are on overdrive. Magnolia trees in bud then bloom; cherry blossom trees; swans on vast nests with, sadly, crisp packets woven into the tapestry of their homes; the canal boat folk who live in the middle of Hackney, whose dining spaces are at the foot of trees amongst the cow parsley; fellow cyclists who nod knowingly at me. I’m in a gang. An actual community. They think I’m one of them. How blissful. I am sassy and Londony and strong. I feel proud and motivated. As each donation comes into our fundraiser, I feel all the people that love and support Sarah and me cheering and waving at me from their sofas. Go Mel!

When the going gets tough, I count silently one, two, three, four. When I feel like quitting, I count to eight. At my worst, during chemotherapy, I focused on each breath, each second. Now counting becomes a quiet mantra that I’m unaware I’m chanting. But mostly, I am full of enthusiasm and throw myself into this new activity with gusto. I can’t remember when I last felt this level of va-va-voom. I love strutting around the house in my padded cycling shorts. The side effects of my targeted therapy drug are bad enough; I don’t need a sore arse on top of it. I feel strong and sporty. My spaghetti legs, wasted from chemotherapy and months of confinement and dolly-sized food begin to grow muscles. Whose legs are these, I wonder?

After one particular ride my body drops a memory of riding a shiny red Raleigh bike as a five-year-old girl in the seventies. A little girl who could not have known that one day, a long time in the future, she would be very sick.

Another image floats up from the internal photo library. A photo that I know exists, that makes regular appearances. A shy little Melanie in a blue polyester dress with smocking across the chest. Her hair is short and flyaway, fluffy; it refuses to grow into a long ponytail like the other girls have. She sits in the back garden holding a doll. She is alone although clearly not, as someone took the photo. She looks like she feels alone. I am sad that she will have to face the horror story of cancer treatment when she grows. I want to say sorry to her, tell her she is safe and hold her hand. Tell her she will not always feel so lonely. That one day, she will be chatty and confident and tell her story.

There is a precious, beautiful day in Switzerland whilst visiting my friend Beatrice. Sarah and I borrow bikes and cycle 20 miles together with a view on one side of Lake Geneva, and on the other of the Alps and vineyards. It is hillyish. Sunny. We stop for coffee and croissants and then a picnic in the perfect toytown of Vevey. We feel such pleasure and gratitude. A routine scan might reveal changes that mean this isn’t possible for me anymore. I grab hold of the day tightly.

As I cycle further and with more confidence, I begin to realise that my arms, legs, lungs and heart are working in synchronicity. That my body is mine, a miracle of nerves, muscle, blood and oxygen. It doesn’t belong to hospital. It is not just here to be scanned, tested and medicated. My cells are waking up. My nervous system is reconnecting to the hidden places where the trauma hides. I abandoned my body during chemotherapy and partly it has been sulking, licking its wounds ever since. Confused as an abandoned child. I flew away, dissociated to survive. My body and I are making friends. Beginning to trust one another. It has been a long time. I have cried many tears. But my soul is moving back home.

I am taking care of my body as I would care for one of my children. Accepting, paying attention, taking it for days out. It is poignant how the simple act of cycling feels like love for this vessel of mine. My soul is lifted, my body emboldened.

At a recent therapy session, I ramble on about the delight of cycling. How, most of the time, I live for each day. How it is relatively effortless to not think about the future and the what-might-bes. And then, I relate the latest hospital fiasco with repeated attempts to inject me and the anguish released. The memories I had tucked away in the deep creases of my body. It feels as if a deflated balloon sits quietly at the bottom of my stomach. When the trauma memory is poked, the balloon quickly inflates. It is huge, red, angry, terrifying and fills the whole of my chest and stomach. I let the balloon hover there a while. I know it’s temporary. Balloons are fragile and it will deflate. I ask my therapist whether it will just be part of my life now. I don’t know how to burst it.

I have shut the first hospital down and exiled myself from it. It has become a no-go area of London. The building and its surroundings, any road on the route to the hospital are danger zones for me. Zones where the red balloon inflates. And I realise I need a pilgrimage back there. I imagine Sarah and I together on two trusty bikes. Two Boudiceas on metal horses. We will reclaim the ghost-filled route. Together, we will quietly cycle there. Perhaps we’ll bring flowers. Maybe a poem.

We’ll gather up the distraught Mel I used to leave outside the building when I entered; the solo pandemic Mel who woke from surgery with no Sarah; the Mel who was constantly at the cancer emergency ward, sick and frightened with no family or friends; the Sarah who stood endlessly outside the hospital, fretful and freezing. We will find lonely little girl Mel too. She can be the flower girl.

We’ll scoop them all up and seat them in a carriage. We’ll proceed to the little chapel at the hospital. We’ll forgive the hospital building. It has silently, stoically witnessed wars, too many deaths and too much suffering. It is beautiful and strong and to be honoured. We’ll pray for the staff who were on their knees, troubled, exhausted during 2020 and 2021. We’ll forgive, too, the sometimes lack of kindness and care. After all, nobody was caring for them. Sarah and I will be together at the hospital. We’ll give thanks for the fact I’m alive. For the fact we can cycle on two wheels together. For everyone who has shown us love in this ordeal. An act of love and acceptance. And maybe we’ll leave some of the loneliness and suffering at the sanctuary of the chapel.

And we’ll keep the wheels turning.

Find out about Sir Chris Hoy’s Tour de 4 cycling fundraiser for stage 4 cancer here.

Read more about our fundraiser for the Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation. here.

Small donation; mighty difference.

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