I know hospitals have their protocols, but just now I felt like I was on a conveyor belt instead of being seen as a actual person. A young girl rattled off radiotherapy instructions at a million miles an hour, and I had to ask her twice to slow down. Then I’m asked to confirm I’m not pregnant — at 53, 7 years into the menopause, no fallopian tubes. I was then asked if I was happy to have treatment. Happy? No. This isn’t about happiness — it’s about survival. I’m not a number, I’m Becky.
This is supposed to be my personal healing journey, but sometimes it feels like I’m just a number in a cattle market. I’m overwhelmed, and I wish the system would remember that behind every tick‑box is a human being trying to hold it together
