There may be a drug to help with pancreatic cancer. Look here.

And we may be able to use a blood test to see if breast cancer is coming round the mountain. Here.

I’m not expert enough to comment on these news stories, except to say, hooray. Hooray for clever scientists and curiosity and technology. Hooray for all of the people who support it. Hooray for a future where cancer is spot-able, switch-off-able, predictable, dealable-with. Hooray for the possibility that the next generation, or the one after that, will be less crushed by the disease, and the treatment for it.

Another cancer news story has caught my eye. As you know, I’m not a fan of all the fighting and battling language. As you may be able to guess, I’m not much of an Olympics fan either, although I predict I will be temporarily seduced by the madness when it comes. So, you wouldn’t think that a story about a woman with cancer carrying the Olympic torch for ‘everyone who is fighting cancer’ would be very high on my list of recommendations. But it is. Mandi Welsh, you are brave and strong and honest, and I have heartfelt admiration for what you are doing. You can read about Mandi here.

I remember thinking about that statistic as I walked to the hospital one day. I remember trying to work out how many women I knew, how many of those had had a breast cancer, what the likelihood was of more of my loved ones joining me on the dancefloor….. I soon stopped speculating, as I recognised it wasn’t a constructive way to think, but that ‘one in nine’ has stuck with me ever since.

Yesterday morning, as usual, I was listening to the radio as I got dressed. As usual, I was surveying my poor beleaguered breast and wondering how, between the scars and knots of scar tissue and gaps and lumpy bits left by surgery, I was ever supposed to work out if there was a new lump forming. (Thank goodness for the annual mammogram.) Then cool as you like, the Today programme presenter announced that the likelihood of a woman in the UK getting breast cancer had risen from one in nine to one in eight.

That’s a lot of us. I sat down.

The report went on to say that survival rates from breast cancer are improving. Almost two thirds of women now survive for more than twenty years after a breast cancer diagnosis. But as ever, more needs to be done.

We can put more money into research. We can check our breasts. (Even if they do have the texture of a papier-mache model of a pile of porridge.) We can eat healthily, exercise, and drink less. (Says the woman who sank half a bottle of champagne on Thursday evening. There were mitigating circumstances.)

And we can hope.

There’s always hope.

The news report is here.

Obviously this is an important, useful and reassuring piece of research. (I don’t think I’ve met a single cancer survivor whose reaction to the end of treatment hasn’t been ‘Right. Enough’s enough. I’m off somewhere sunny. See you in a week.’) But reading it, I realised it hasn’t occurred to me not to get on a plane. I fly short haul pretty much all the time – I’m just back from working in Germany, I’m working in Sweden next month, I’m often on a flight from London to Edinburgh or vice versa. (I may be off to Texas before long, but that’s another – exciting – story.) I really don’t think twice about flying. And, in fairness, although I was given guidance about what to do with my de-noded arm, no-one mentioned anything to do with air travel. (The advice, in a nutshell, was: 1. Make sure you move it. 2. Don’t let anyone give injections into it or take blood out of it, ever.)

Reading the article made me think about just how much I don’t think about breast cancer and how little the effects of surgery and treatment impinge on my life. In fact, I’m struggling to think of things I don’t do because of cancer. I don’t wear heels very much any more, because of the swollen feet. I retired a couple of low cut tops, but I’m nearly 40, so that probably wasn’t a bad thing. I don’t menstruate because of the medical menopause, something I don’t mind a bit.

But on a day-to-day, going-about-my-life basis I don’t think there are any limits, on what I can do, really. Flying included. That has to be a good thing, doesn’t it?

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-10944826

We are getting there. But there’s still a way to go.

*

-Why is Herceptin such a wonder drug?

Herceptin has proved to be a major advance as it helps to cure a certain type of aggressive breast cancer described as HER2 positive. This cancer is made of cells which contain HER2, a molecule involved in the rapid multiplication of cancer cells.

- In layman’s terms, what is the Persephone trial and how did it come about?

The PERSEPHONE trial is about finding the right dose of Herceptin for the patient. At the moment, Herceptin is given for a whole year based on evidence from an international trial comparing 12 months to nothing. A more recent trial has suggested that Herceptin might be just as effective if given for 6 months rather than 12.

- Why is the Persephone trial important?

PERSEPHONE is an important academic trial because it addresses the question of how long you need to take Herceptin for.

- Is it really a big issue if Herceptin is over-prescribed?

Yes, because Herceptin can cause damage to the heart. Some chemotherapy treatments can also do this. Patients who receive both treatments are therefore at a greater risk of experiencing some damage to their heart. Also, it means that patients may be experiencing the side-effects of treatment for longer than necessary instead of returning to normal life quicker without the inconvenience of prolonged treatment.

- When will the trial report?

The trial should report 2 years after it has recruited its 4000th patient. Obviously this depends on the speed of recruitment but we are currently on target to have reliable results reported in 2016.

- If it turns out that 12 months of Herceptin is better than 6 months of Herceptin, what will happen to everyone who only had 6 months of treatment?

This is very unlikely based on the results of previous trials. Duration trials throughout Europe have safety committees and trial steering committees who regularly monitor safety and efficacy.

There is only a very small risk that 12 months of Herceptin is better than 6 months. However, if it was the case, patients who received only 6 months will be follow-up more closely than the others.

If it is reported that 6 months is safer than 12 months then the patients randomised to the 12 month arm will be closely monitored in terms of cardiac toxicity.

- Where is the Persephone trial taking place?

PERSEPHONE is offered in 117 hospitals throughout the UK. Another 20 hospitals will be open soon.

- What’s involved with taking part in the trial, apart from the 6 or 12 months of Herceptin?

We’d also like you to complete a quality of life questionnaire at various stages of treatment. This will help to give us a clearer picture of the impact of Herceptin treatment on everyday life. Also, the research team will ask you if they can send a sample of your blood and some of your tissue taken at surgery to the Cambridge Research Institute where analysis will be conducted to get a better understanding of HER2 positive breast cancer and how Herceptin works.

- Can anyone join, or ask to join?

To join, you have to be HER2 positive and have received less than 6 months of Herceptin treatment.

- Are other, similar trials being conducted?

Similar trials are conducted all over Europe and in New Zealand. In total more than 13,000 patients are going to participate in Herceptin duration trials comparing 12 months with a lesser duration.

- Where can those affected by breast cancer find out about this and other trials?

If you are interested, please ask your oncologist or contact the clinical trials team at your hospital.

Also, a list of trials that operate in the UK is accessible here. and here.

The Persephone trial website provides more information and it’s here.

Except.

We haven’t sold our house.

Or rather, we have hypothetically sold our house twice, but the sale has fallen through both times, once because someone forgot to count their money before they decided to move, and once due to what I can only describe as general flightiness. Ho hum.

Because doing the same thing over and over and expecting to get a different result makes no sense, we are changing estate agent. (Our current agent is very nice but seems to spend more time thinking up excuses about why the house isn’t selling instead of, y’know, selling the house. Recently these excuses have included: tennis at Wimbledon; World Cup football; hot weather; school holidays approaching; and my phone not taking calls when I was in Dublin for the day – even though I had access to email and the agent had Alan’s number. Sheesh.) The new agent – recommended by the lovely @JessRuston on Twitter - is coming to take photos today and I have every confidence that the house will be sold by the end of the week. (Do you hear that? It’s the sound of Alan laughing and saying something along the lines of, ‘You’ve said that every week since March.’ He’ll see.)

Until last week, when I realised (a) how ineffective our agents have been, except at excuses and (b) how soon September is, I was quite laid back. Last week I got all un-laid back. I  cried in a restaurant, I was grumpy and snappy, I made schoolgirl errors in my knitting. I behaved, in short, like I did when I was first diagnosed with a breast cancer.

I’ve talked to my Mum, my best friend, a couple of colleagues, a woman in a coffee shop, and a florist about it all. (I was buying armfuls of lilies and sunflowers in Operation Tart The House Up. I also have aspirational tea towels and over glove from Cath Kidston that only come out for viewings, orchids, and ankle deep bath mats. No-one can accuse me of not trying.)  Everyone I have spoken to has been sympathetic and empathetic. They’ve said things like, “I know two people who have sold their houses in the last three weeks. Yours won’t take long,” or “Poor you, how awful. Still, you only need one person to fall in love with your house,” and “Don’t worry. It will all come right. It happened to us too but it does work out in the end.”

It struck me that people can easily sympathise and empathise with my unsold house in a way that many struggle to with cancer. OK, cancer is a different category of bad news. But not that different. Moving house disrupts your life, and, if you’re as much of a homebody as I am, disrupts your heart and soul too. It means you have to make all sorts of adjustments. You have to work out what really matters to you and what you are prepared to compromise on. You have to put things away because you don’t have time and space for them right now. You have to do a lot of stuff that you would really rather not be doing. You get tired and cross.

Obviously (unless you’re really unlucky with a bookcase or a piano) moving house is unlikely to kill you. But, according to new research conducted by Cancer Research UK, cancer is not as likely to kill you as it used to be, either. So maybe the next time someone tells you they have a cancer, and you’re not sure what to say, remember how you felt last time you bought or sold a house and talk to them from that mix of hope, despair, stress and annoyment.

This might sound flippant or silly, but it isn’t. If you haven’t experienced cancer but you have experienced a house move you are likely to have gone through a lot of the same emotions, ups and downs, and disruptions. It might not be the same, but it’s similar. And if you can draw on that in your reaction, you’ll be able to be more supportive and helpful than you know.

(Oh, and if you’re thinking annoyment isn’t a word, read this post.)

But today is your last chance to score a great book for you or someone you think would appreciate it from the May 2010 BBBB.

Head over here. You know you want to.

I’ll post a list of who got what at the end of the week.

(Are you still here?)

Happy reading! x

You can now buy your very own copy of the Race for Life single, ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’, sung by celebrities, women up and down the UK, and yours truly.

Details and the video are here. You’ll find it in Tesco stores throughout the land, or at iTunes here.

Go on. You know you want to.

And you may also want to sponsor us for Race for Life, which Team Bah! is doing on 22 May in Regent’s Park. Click here.

I know I’m always asking you for money/help/money, but it’s for an important cause. There’s not a single person reading this who can say with any certainty that they will not be touched by cancer. And in saying that I’m not scaremongering: I’m just, as William Brown would say, stating a fact.

Please help. Please sponsor us. Please buy the single. Please dance around the living room singing along. (That last one isn’t mandatory, but you might enjoy it.)

Anyway. What with the TV ads and the posters everywhere and me endlessly banging on about Cancer Research UK and modelling and being a pop star, I’m sure you know that Race for Life is starting soon. And Team Bah! is assembled and ready to go. On 22 May in Regent’s Park, Joy, Emma, Hannah, Jude, Nathalie, Gerri, Sandi, Sandi (yes there are two), Karen, Fiona, Vicky and I will be doing our 5k. And we would very much like you to sponsor us. We’ve set a target of £2000 which we hope you will help us to raise.

As a ‘thank you’, I’ve scored some Cancer Research UK rubber ducks – which you can’t buy – to give away.

Cute, no?

If you’d like one, all you have to do is sponsor us before 30 April and include the word ‘Quack!’ in your comment. It doesn’t matter how much you sponsor us for, if you quack I will enter your name into a draw on 1 May, and I will send out ducks to the winners.

Thank you in advance, and happy quacking! Click here to sponsor us.