There is something very comforting about being in chemo club. You are looked after by incredible nurses with beady eyes and caring hearts, some of whom have worked in their field for over 20 years. There are numerous drug checks before anything enters your body, oxygen tanks sit waiting patiently in the corner, doctors and consultants are available at the touch of a button, and there is an A&E ward and intensive care unit five minutes away on a trolley. The smell of antiseptic and bleach fills the air, pastel pinks, greens and yellows adorn the room, nice old ladies bring you tea and biscuits and, most importantly, everyone around you has cancer, which makes you feel less like you have cancer and more like you are just part of a special, let’s-make-you-better club. Everything about the chemo ward is SAFE. From the moment you step into the room, a warm, protective bubble shelters you from the big, bad, nasty world – from reality. When you leave the chemo ward, suddenly that lovely security blanket is pulled from around your shoulders; your support network crumbles, the life you have known for the last nine months is over and you’re left not really knowing what to do with yourself. Once all the drugs have been pumped into me it's time to get my PICC line out. I’ve had the line in for six months and I absolutely hate it. It looks ridiculous, like I’m some sort of robot from 2050 that needs to be charged up every so often. It also acts as a constant reminder that I am having chemo, that I have cancer and that I am a prisoner of the NHS. Normally, to remove the PICC line, a nurse is able to pull it clean out of the vein, quickly, easily and without any pain to the patient. But oh no, not me. As one of the nurses commented, “You’ve always got to be different, haven’t you Ariane?” Yep, yep I bloody do. So there I am, laid on the La-Z-Boy while a nurse starts to pull at the line. It will not budge. She tugs harder. I yelp. About 5 centimetres come out; she tugs again. She is pulling pretty fucking hard now, this is really fucking hurting. “I’ve pulled out over 1,000 of these lines in my life, this has never happened before” she proclaims. Oh great, fucking great, fucking typical, fucking standard my fucking luck. After a good 40 minutes of various nurses tugging and pulling, it’s clear the pesky thing ain’t coming out. My vein has decided it loves my PICC line so much it’s going to cling onto it. The line has literally become a part of me. For fuck's sake! Couldn’t write it, couldn’t write it if I tried. So what was already feeling quite anticlimactic now seems even more anticlimactic. I’m back in hospital the very next day. Luckily I have it removed by a radiologist consultant under X-ray. It’s pain-free and over in about five minutes.