'Having cancer's not all bad': The incredibly moving - and optimistic - blog by Scottish woman, 42, dying of bone disease

Louise Page has battled a rare bone cancer for 10 years but in December 2012 she was told it was terminal and that she had just weeks to live

Husband Alan suggested she record thoughts to help deal with prognosis

She started writing a blog, recording her emotions about her limited time left, and is now providing comfort for fellow sufferers across the world



The blog, called Lou's Story, is funny, heartwarming and remarkably candid



A woman battling terminal bone cancer has written an emotional account of her experience, insisting cancer 'is not all sad and bad'.



Louise Page, 42, from Edinburgh was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer in December 2012, just two weeks after her two-year wedding anniversary.



She has been fighting a rare form of bone cancer called Dedifferentiated Adamantinoma in her left leg since 2004.

The cancer behaved very oddly and returned each time doctors tried to remove it, so in 2008 they were forced to amputate part of her leg.



She underwent repeated cycles of chemotherapy and radiotherapy in conjunction with the surgery but doctors had to amputate a further three times to stem the growth of the cancer.

It was husband Alan Ainsley that suggested Louise Page start writing about her feelings about her terminal cancer diagnosis. She has had well-wishing messages from readers as far away New Zealand

But just weeks after her two-year wedding anniversary with husband Alan Ainsley, the couple were given the devastating news that she only had weeks to live. The cancer had spread to her lungs, next to her liver and where her ribs and shoulder blade meet.



'We both kind of knew it would happen eventually but for a couple of weeks were in a bit of shock,' said Mr Ainsley. 'Eventually, we pulled together and just decided to stay positive. Louise has been positive about her situation from the outset.'

Alan , 45, suggested she start writing about her experiences as a means to cope with the emotions she was experiencing.



Her musings and reflections on her life - past, present and future - culminated in her blog Lou's Story , which has a worldwide following. She has had well-wishing messages from readers as far away as Nepal, New Zealand and Russia.

'One person even got in touch to say they'd left their job after reading Louise's blog - they decided that life was too short not to do something that made them happy and changed career to be closer their family,' said Alan.



Here, with Louise's permission, MailOnline has featured one blog entry from every month following her diagnosis in later December last year.

JANUARY - BEING ME

It wasn’t until I started having bits of me cut off, that I truly understood what it meant to be a disabled person.



I remember one day, after one of my four amputations, that I said to my Dad, ‘You know, they can keep cutting bits of me away, but I’ll still be me’.



'You know, they can keep cutting bits of me away, but I’ll still be me’

And he instantly started to cry. That wasn’t my intention, to make my dad cry. But I think it was then that I genuinely understood physical disability.



When you first have an amputation, you have to wait eight weeks for the wound to heal and the swelling to go down before you can be fitted with a prosthetic.



And then of course, you need to learn to walk with it. And at first, you can’t wear it all the time as your body needs to adjust to weight bearing on something that wasn’t designed for bearing the weight of your full body.



So of course there are lots of times you have to go out in public with crutches and a missing leg.



And that means people staring, some people do a double take, some people try to look very subtly by just looking sideways, some properly stare for a while, I even once had a lady tap her friend on the shoulder and point at me.

Louise had a farewell party for her left leg (left) before it was amputated four years ago. She has documented much of her experience with photos, such as just before her leg was removed. The black arrow drawn on her leg indicates where surgeons should cut (right)



Louise, pictured after her first amputation and second year of chemotherapy, in 2008

My approach has always been to ignore the staring. My mum told me I should give everyone who looks a big smile, but maybe I’m not as nice as she is! I just tell myself that I would do the same thing.



If we see someone who looks different in any way – excessively thin or fat, or with crazily dyed hair or bad style (one I know I have to confess to…see, I am mean!), then we can’t help staring.



It’s just human nature. So I’ve decided I can handle it, though to be honest I wish it wouldn’t happen…



Anyway, the point I was making was that I’m still the same Louise.

Weirdly people treat you as a hero or as someone who is especially brave, when you have cancer and/or a disability, especially one that makes dramatic visible changes to your body.



' I've carried on with my Vogue subscription and my addiction to shoes (yes shoes! An amputee who loves shoes - how crazy is that?!)'

And we all seem to think cancer patients will discover the true meaning of what’s important in life.



And yes, I have (though I hope I knew that beforehand already). But we also don’t stop being ourselves.



I carried on with my Vogue subscription and my addiction to shoes (yes shoes! An amputee who loves shoes…how crazy is that?!) and of course…the handbags (some of you will be breathing a knowing sigh…).

But I also carried on being Louise. Wanting to see friends, get dressed up to go out for dinner, read books, go to the theatre, watch trashy TV.



FEBRUARY – CANCER: IT’S NOT ALL SAD AND BAD

You know, when everything’s hunky dory with your health and life and you hear about people, on Grey’s Anatomy or in the paper, or in your circle of friends who have been diagnosed with cancer, you imagine it must feel like the end of the world.



Outgoing: Louise is pictured having fun on a day out with a friend despite being diagnosed with terminal cancer

And you feel so grateful it’s not happening to you (admit it!).

And yes, when it does happen to you, it is a pile of crap.

You feel like you’re still part of the world but you’re looking at things through a glass screen, or from a distance.

Your sense of a future is taken away. You start to think how lucky other people are that this isn’t happening to them.



'Being diagnosed with cancer, you imagine it must feel like the end of the world. 'But, believe it or not, there are great days too.

You watch strangers passing in the street and think how amazing it must be to still be blissfully unaware of your mortality.

And then there’s obviously the surgery, the chemo, the radio and, in my case, the (repeated and gradual) removal of my leg. So yes there is loads of crap.

And there are bad days, sad days, awful days. Days when you wish you weren’t creating so much worry and concern for all the people around you, who love and care about you.

But, believe it or not, there are great days too.

I had loads of laughs on the cancer ward with the nurses and the other patients.

There was one incident, when I was getting my Hickman line removed (That’s a tube that goes into your jugular vein in your neck and comes out somewhere in your chest, enabling drugs to be pumped straight into that rather than needing to find a vein in your arm every time) and there was a doctor and a student nurse doing this procedure, where they pull it out and then do some stitches.



Louise tries to see the positive. Here she is pictured with the faulty Hickman Line, that caused her nurse to faint and Louise to laugh hysterically

But for some reason, there was loads of blood. And the nurse fainted. And my parents, who were outside the curtain, had to pick her up and put her in my wheelchair and suddenly everyone was fussing around her and I was lying there bleeding and needing stitches!

Hilarious (well, it is if you have a twisted sense of humour like I do!)

And I’ve had some great days in between the bad days, having fun with friends and family.

Or having a great day at work. I know I mention Diana a lot, but she and I were once talking about this very subject and she simply said to me, ‘Well, you’re just living with cancer”. And I’ve heard that phrase before. But suddenly it resonated with me.

And I thought, yes I am. I have cancer, but I am still living my life.

And it’s not that much different now I know I may only have weeks or months left on this earth.



Maybe that glass screen is just a little thicker or I need binoculars to connect with the rest of the world.

Yes there are things that have made me break down and cry, putting away the Christmas decorations and realising that would be the last time I do that, and thinking Al will never wrap the fragile ornaments up as carefully as I do.

And he won’t know that my seahorse bauble is my favourite, and that I bought it in a little shop in San Fran.

And when Homeland Series 2 finished and I realised I’d never know how Carrie was going to prove Brodie’s innocence.

But then there’s the plus side. I don’t have to worry about all the annoying DIY jobs about the house, because I’ll be gone before they need tackling.

I don’t need to worry about a pension, or getting old and sick.

Louise's health deteriorated but she tried to look on the bright side, saying she 'no longer needed to worry about a pension and now had more time to watch trashy daytime television'

I’m saved from seeing my friends and beloved die, because I’ll be leaving first.

And of course, perhaps most importantly I’m free to watch daytime TV and get addicted to The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Louise was keen to live as normally as possible despite her need for daily palliative treatment

And I and the people close to me now genuinely know that all the things we all worry about on a daily basis – working to pay the bills, buy the latest gadgets and fashions, saving for an extension or a new oven – don’t matter.

What matters is finding your own happiness, being with friends and family and not chasing money. It’s so simple. And if one person can realise that thanks to what’s happening with me, I’ll be a happy girl for ever.



MARCH: CRAZY HOPE



I bought something the other day, from John Lewis’ website of course and Al drove me to pick it up.



So of course I got the 'What on earth have you bought this time?!' question. If only I had £1 for every time I’ve been asked that…

So instead of saying what it was and then spending an hour justifying myself, I said, 'a

Actually you’ll be pleased with me because it ‘s a very optimistic purchase.'



Guess what it was: A pair of (on trend, of course) summer sandals.



This no doubt seems mad to most people. I only have one leg so the poor left sandal will never be worn. And I have terminal cancer. And I live in Edinburgh where summer sandals only get to appear for about two hours per 'summer'.

But I bought them because I wanted to, and I liked them – they’ll look fab with fake tan and some imaginary dresses I don’t even own (yet!).



But most importantly, they are a symbol of my crazy hope.

' Buying summer sandals is a symbol of my crazy hope. It's three months after my diagnosis when I was given only weeks to live'

It’s 3 months since my diagnosis, which initially was only weeks to live. So if I get another few weeks or months, that’s fantastic. More time with my beloved Alberto, my treasured parents, my wonderful friends, and best of all (sorry guys but he tops you all) Xavier (my cat). All I need is just a little more time.

I’m living in a weird kind of limbo, not exactly waiting for death, but aware it could happen at any moment.



But every day I wake up, and feel OK, is a gift.



Louise said that by getting on with daily life - such as going out for lunch - she was able to forget about her bleak prognosis

And weirdly I manage to forget the whole thing and enjoy just being me and doing what I want to do.



It’s not always great, there are times when I look at someone I love and imagine me gone, and I start to cry because I can’t take the inescapable future grief away from them.



But mostly I hold things together and have beautiful happy days, precisely because despite everything I do have hope.

And hope has to be one of the things that make us all singularly human. So yeah summer sandals in Edinburgh may be crazy. But I need their hope. And what a fab excuse for buying more stuff…



APRIL – REALITY BITES



Al’s said he’s noticed some changes in me this last week or so.



Apparently I look a little bit paler, which I find hard to compute, as I’m pretty damn pale already. I must be like one of those trendy paint colours – “whiter than white”.



He also thinks I look tired, which I’m happy to go along with, as it means I can stay in bed longer and fall asleep on the sofa whenever I like. And to be truthful he’s right, I just don’t want to admit it when I look in the mirror. Instead I just keep adding more blusher.

Louise has taken many pictures throughout her cancer experience. She is hoping that by sharing her story she will raise awareness and money for the disease she is suffering with

Honest: 'When reality bites I start to panic and remember I will die soon. And that's a certainty. I have cried and I have broken down this last week. Because I don't want to die.'

So it’s a scary thing to hear out loud that I look worse. In a way I’ve been going along day by day since December 21st, and weirdly thinking maybe I might see summer (though I’ll need to leave the country for that) or even autumn… So when reality bites I start to panic and remember I will die soon.

And that’s a certainty. And so I have cried and I have broken down this last week. Because I don’t want to die.

But then I pull myself together again and I keep treasuring hours, days, weeks.



And I have wonderful happy moments.



And it makes me realize there are still things I need to do that I’ve been putting off, because they’re hard to do – letters for my parents, for Al.



Notes to go with gifts (mostly handbags and jewellery, so bad luck boys!) I’d like to give some of my friends.

Tender moment: Louise and Alan hold hands. She said her disease made her treasure those close to her

And they’re hard to write because I want people to know why I love them and why I’ve treasured having them in my life.



So I need to do it now, before it’s too late. And I’ve dedicated tomorrow to do that (insert a knowing ironic laugh here).

And all this got me thinking, why do we wait till a disaster occurs before we say those heartfelt words to our loved ones?



Why can’t we tell them all along not just that we love them but why we love them? And why can’t we all just appreciate we are alive and how lucky we all are?

I know I’m lucky. Seems like a weird thing to say given my reality.

