Bliss

There it was, the Mediterranean Sea. Glittering far below me, the salt in the air unmistakable.

Legs shaking, I stepped off my bicycle. I couldn’t breathe, and my head spun. Not from the effort it took to get to the top of the hill, but from the effort it took to get here.

Two years before, I didn’t even know whether I would live and here I was, thousands of kilometres from where the story started.

Fit and well.

Alive

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In 2019, aged 42, I was diagnosed with stage 3 womb cancer. One of my doctors said I had about a 1 in 10 chance of surviving. Apparently, my cancer was the aggressive type.

I had a hysterectomy (they took out my womb and a lot of other things, including something the doctor called a fat pad) to remove the bastard that had invaded my body. The surgery was followed by six rounds of chemotherapy and 25 sessions of radiotherapy. To top it all off, I had two courses of brachytherapy (internal radiotherapy).

It’s a head fuck to have to confront your own mortality when you are barely in your forties. It's probably a mental minefield later in life, too, but more so when you are younger and the thought of dying belongs somewhere in the distant future.

When you come face to face with the idea of death, you suddenly realise how many of your dreams are yet to be fulfilled. You realise how much time you have wasted chasing unimportant things. The moments you just drifted rather than lived.

There’s nothing like the thought “I’m going to die” to realise how much you want to live. And live I did, despite Dr Gloom’s less-than-encouraging words.

Finding myself still on this planet seven months after the diagnosis and having been given the all clear, left me with a desperate desire to do more. I didn’t want to drift anymore. I wanted to experience everything and live life as it was meant to be lived. To the fullest.

But I had barely finished my treatments when word about another C reached our shores: COVID.

And suddenly life was on hold again. Not just for me this time. For everyone.

During these COVID days, my partner and I talked. Drank some beer. Talked some more and drank some more beer (put your hand up if you drank way more than normal during COVID). Somewhere in the middle of talking and beer, probably, or more likely definitely, fuelled by the beer, a thought formed.

A crazy thought. One that we laughed off at first. But it stuck. Should we do it? Could we do it? Us, with no prior experience of bicycle touring? Would it be possible to cycle across Europe?

The thought stuck, and the more we talked, the more possible it became until not doing it was no longer an option.

We spent the following months preparing and hoping that COVID restrictions (the bastard kept coming back) would lift by the time we wanted to start. We spent hours watching bike touring videos on YouTube, planning our route, getting fitter.

Like so often happens when you step outside your comfort zone and decide to follow your heart, the stars align for you. And so it was that the restrictions lifted in time for our ride.

Our journey began from Nuorgam, the northernmost point in Finland, on 8.8.2021. It took us 72 days and 5,560 kilometres to reach Torrevieja, Spain, where we finished our ride.

I would be lying if I said I enjoyed every moment of the journey. Yet, I can honestly say I loved every moment. Each night we put up our tent somewhere different (including the corner of a hotel car park) and each morning we woke up to a different view. It was freedom like I had never tasted before.

But through it all, among a plethora of amazing, life-affirming moments, the one that stands out the most is the first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea.

A moment of pure bliss.

I often write about cancer and life after diagnosis. It is cathartic, and it might help someone to read about my experiences. I know it helped me when I got diagnosed to hear from others. How they were coping with life with and "after" cancer. I say "after" because it never fully goes away. The thought of it is always there. Some days it whispers, some days it shouts.

I am so very lucky and blessed to be alive. Not everyone gets to hear their cancer is in remission.

Remember, early diagnosis saves lives. So if you think something is not right, speak to your doctor.