And then the day of my scan came. There’s not much to say about it, really. I knew the drill; I knew what to expect. Secretly, I was feeling confident – very confident, in fact – that all would be okay. Most of the initial anxiety I’d had about my scan results had disappeared into the ether. I was pretty sure that all was well in my body and that I’d definitely kicked cancer’s ass. I kept these thoughts to myself; I didn’t want to jinx it by screaming at the top of my lungs that I felt fucking MINT! But surely the cancer had gone, right? I had done everything in my power to kick this godawful disease. I had given up my life as a young, fun-loving woman living the dream in London in order to combat this darn thing. I’d sacrificed a lot. I’d given up my career, which I’d spent years working on, my beautiful, newly decorated flat; I’d given up London, my freedom, my independence; I’d given up smoking, drinking alcohol, partying; I’d given up anything causing me stress; I’d given up visiting people, travelling, my hair, my eyelashes, my eyebrows; I’d given up my healthy, fit body, days of my time to hospital visits, chemo club and my bed; I’d given up a sense of who I was, I’d given away a chunk of my mind to anxiety and worry, I’d given up part of my soul to this disease. I used everything in my power to get better. I exercised as much as I could, I did yoga almost daily, I ate and ate and ate to rebuild strength. I started writing to make sense of what was happening. On occasions, I even prayed to a higher being (I’m an atheist FYI), and I trusted my nurses and doctors 100% that I would get better. Every-fucking-thing I could do or not do, I did, in order to say goodbye to cancer. It was up to the cosmos now, for my stars to align and for everything to be put right in the world of Ariane. It was a new year, the start of 2017 and people were banging on about new moons or some shit – surely I was going to be given the all-clear?