What a day, sarcoma and bagels. Retroperitoneal sarcoma to be exact…

An average day of the week really, just your bog standard normal Tuesday. It started off in the usual manner, myself, coffee and a pair of tweezers plucking the old menopause beard out to a point where I felt safe to go out without fear of being mistaken for Clarence as opposed to claire.

Teaching is a weird old job with no continuity, you can walk into one lesson and come out feeling like the best teacher alive, whilst in others you succumb to the little voice in your head telling you that you aren't worthy. But as all teachers know it's a case of fight the good fight then go home and drink more coffee.

Today was somewhat normal, I went to work assertively and unusually clutching lunch, because today was the day I wasn't going to eat flapjacks, today was the day for an element of nutrition in the diet.

As days go it was normal, I am a plodder, kind of quietly yet dramatically getting through the day. I managed to be sensible and normal for several hours only breaking into dramatic effect claire when surrounded by my audience which included learning support and my work bestie.

However we cannot escape a bite sized sarcoma moment in any day, there is never a day where it doesn't rear it's bloody ugly head in some way or another. You know the score, living with someone living with a hideous disease whilst also creating the im coping persona. Sometimes I excel like a grade A, other times I'm back in the lower set maths group trying to work out where exactly the x and ys fit into a subject that involves numbers. Yes maths, I hate it to the point where I almost keeled over with rishi sunaks suggestion of all young people achieving this subject.

That was where I was at at 1.30pm, eating my healthy unhealthy bagel, creating a lesson pan, due to have an observation when the phone rings and it's my husband, desperate to talk to me about how this wretched disease has yet again made him feel inferior as a human.

The bagel could do one at that point, the flapjack had more appeal, you see this type of disease is akin to an imposter eating into your soul, eating away at the core of every ounce of emotional strength and pride that one has. I looked at my Cheetos whilst pranging for the oaty fuelled flapjack which was 80pence and 100 steps away.

There in that moment I made a choice, the bagel and flapjacks can do one, sarcoma has to die. Unfortunately the realisation that I alone cannot do what a million scientists have tried to do so instead I comforted my husband, whilst secretly wondering about the allure of the flapjack.

The bagel is in the bin, the husband feels more settled now and I'm drinking coffee still thinking of flapjacks.