Rebel Rebel – If this is what it takes.


I lay down on Waterloo Bridge. IMG_4428

And I was a rebel.

I sat down at Marble Arch

Pinned slogans to my clothes

Conscientious Protector!


Rebel for Life

I am.


I sat down beside a bright pink boat sailing the seas at Oxford Circus

“Tell the Truth” it said.IMG_4416



And beneath Waterloo Bridge the river flowed, past hazy views of London, while the rebels sat and sang and laughed and talked and danced amidst the pop-up garden and locked themselves beneath a lorry, and children chalked their drawings of bees and flowers and the Earth in an atmosphere of gentle, loving and peaceful civil disobedience.

IMG_4427 (1)

I lay down to stand up and be counted in a gesture of solidarity, of rebellion and love.                      I, one small drop in an ocean of global civil disobedience and peaceful protest to demand that decisive and effective action is taken to save and safeguard our home, Planet Earth. So that our children, our children’s children and all life may have a future.

Time is running out. This is an ecological emergency. Not enough is, or has been done to implement the necessary changes that will ensure that we do not walk ourselves into global extinction. As the saying goes: Extinction is Forever. There is NO Planet B.


This is our Home: Mother Earth, she provides us with all the resources that we need to survive, she loves us unconditionally, she keeps on giving no matter what we demand of her. Yet we have taken so much and given nothing in return. We have raped, destroyed, starved, neglected and poisoned her. Would we inflict this abuse on own mothers?

All human beings need to be part of the solution. It is our responsibility. There is no magic wand.

Extinction Rebellion is a global movement, a joining of hands with our brothers and sisters across the world to say enough is enough. It uses non-violent civil disobedience to achieve radical change. We need action and change and we need it NOW. This is an Emergency.

“If this is what it takes” one business man commented as he missed yet another meeting as his taxi became caught up in the rebellion. Yes, disruption is inconvenient. We have jobs to do, livings to be earned places to go and people to see. I commute to receive vital cancer treatment in central London every three weeks, treatment on which I depend, that has been keeping me alive these past ten months. The rebellion action may impact my ability to access this. I just don’t know. But like the man said: “If this is what it takes”.

And I’ve got to admit that rebelling ain’t so easy after four days of cancer treatment, I’m knackered, I ache, my breathing leaves a fair bit to be desired and  my top speed is tortoise. I’m having a break right now, but I’ll be back. And as they say on Bake Off – “If I can do it anyone can.

Finally, Sir David Attenborough is presenting a programme Climate Change:The Facts on BBC 1 tonight at 9pm. Do tune in if you want to learn more, its message?- that ecological catastrophe is already under way.

Alternatively check out for more information on how to become involved or simply go down to London and lend your support at any of the four locations: Parliament Square, Marble Arch, Oxford Circus and Waterloo Bridge.

Your planet needs YOU! 


with all my love x


Mother’s Day Meditation Prayer – Tonight

mother and child painting

Join me for a Mother’s Day Meditation


WHERE: Wherever you are.

Please join me this evening in a meditation prayer of thanksgiving, and gratitude honouring the mothers in our lives.

This is an opportunity to meditate and send love to those we call mother. A birth mother or one who has played that role in our lives. Our relationship with the mother is often a complex one so it is also a space to offer healing to those relationships that may need it, to offer acceptance, forgiveness and maybe even apologies. For those who are no longer by our side, it is a chance to offer a prayer that moves between the worlds, for I do not believe love restricts itself to the boundaries of this mortal reality, but can transcend time and space. As we give love so we still receive it, it never ends.

Also, in recognition of WWF’s global Earth Hour last night in solidarity for the planet, I invite you to offer your meditation prayer to the supreme mother, mother to us all: Mother Earth. For it is she who truly shows us unconditional love, who nourishes us and provides for us and teaches us, no matter how much we demand from her, exploit her, make her sick, and disrespect her. She keeps on giving. We owe her so much.

I really hope that you can join with me in this Mother’s Day meditation prayer (and by prayer I simply mean a dedication from the heart.) There are no right or wrong ways to participate, but as a suggestion do switch off your phone, lights etc and find a quiet space. Perhaps light a candle. If you have a photo of your loved one you may like to place this nearby, or simply write the mother’s name on a piece of paper. For the Earth offering you could also place something from nature with your other items, eg a flower, leaf, feather etc.

Get comfy. Lie down or sit in your chosen space, and allow yourself to relax, empty your mind, and feel the intention of your prayer alive in your heart. Call to mind the prayer or message you wish to send to Mother.

Alternatively, you may feel drawn to sing, pray out loud, rattle, dance, do some yoga. It really doesn’t matter, your intention is the key.

If you are busy at this time, you can simply tune in, and offer a quiet prayer without interrupting whatever it is you need to be doing.

Above all, know that although we are separate and strangers to each other, in this moment you are not alone, our prayers, our hearts, are joined in a beautiful spirit of shared intent, love, healing, grace, gratitude. A unique and beautiful act of unity dedicated to the Mother.

I look forward to weaving this invisible circle with you tonight between 8-9pm, as I dedicate a prayer to my own amazing mum.

Wishing you peace, health and love,

Leah xx

mother earth





Take Me Back to Normal

What is it they say? If you want to make God laugh tell her your plans? Well, I hope someone up there is laughing because I certainly am not. I am fed up. Actually that’s F.E.D. U.P. with a good half a dozen exclamation marks for emphasis. (!!!!!!!!) For fear of seeming to contradict more upbeat and positive blogs that I have written in the past, it would be disingenuous of me not to express the flip side. Living with stage four cancer is not black and white, we cannot always be the noble and exceptional patient nor are we always self-pitying and woe-is-me. Life on this path is far more nuanced see-sawing somewhere between the two; there are sunny days and there are days when dark clouds glower ominously and oppressively. To sum up, I am fed up of being fed up. And I’d like a break please.

Having a moan and a whinge does not come without a sizable chunk of guilt. I know there are people out there who are enduring much worse circumstances than I. I know that I have a great deal about which to be grateful. But that little part of me that is feeling sorry for myself just wants to be seen and heard. She wants to jump up and down shouting “It’s not fair” “I want my life back” “I want to feel normal again”.

Normal – now what does that mean? I suppose to me, now, it means not having the state of your health on your mind, or at least lurking around the periphery 24/7. It means maintaining one’s independence, not having to rely on people in order to complete simple functions that you once took for granted. It means being able to make plans without first consulting the diary to see whether you are due to attend hospital appointments. Not wincing when others tell you of their plans for later in the year, and your mind finds itself begging the question, will I have the luxury of even being here later in the year? Simple stuff – driving, walking, breathing. It’d be nice to do those with ease again.

October was the last time I remember normal. I made a six hour journey by public transport to Devon to see my wonderful friends “the poncho fairies” where I was spoilt rotten, and we enjoyed mooching around Totnes, eating naughty cream teas (I’m told it’s the law in Devon!) and strolling on Dartmoor in search of cairns and ancient stones and piskies. Of the latter we did actually spy one.

That slice of heaven was followed by a spontaneous trip with my husband across the channel to Brittany in the van where we ended up at St Malo, an old corsair town. To walk around its ramparts, or explore inside the city walls feels like stepping back in time. However, the town itself was almost completely destroyed during the second world war but was painstakingly and lovingly rebuilt in its original style. We filled our bellies with mussels, chugged around the town on le petit train, marvelled at the beautiful light cast by the stained-glass window in the cathedral, and I even got to indulge my literary nerdiness and walk in the steps of Marie -Laure the young heroine of “All the Light We Cannot See” by Anthony Doerr, the best book I read all year.


From St Malo we headed south west towards Carnac, detouring briefly at Monteneuf where there are some truly spectacular huggable ancient stones, if that’s your thing. Carnac was impressive in a different way due to the sheer number of stones laid out, there are thousands. Like Stonehenge, the more sacred ones are cordoned off from the public, to the annoyance of many who believe that they belong to everyone, but most stones are quite happy to be photographed, kissed and hugged by anyone who has the urge.

We discovered a stone burial chamber – 5000 BC the Tumulus de Kercado incongruously tucked away behind a Franco-Indian restaurant in the middle of nowhere. It would be fair to say that both were interesting in their own way.

As I write about those times, I recall the joy, the delight of getting out and about, worries pushed to the back of my mind, and the sheer bliss of normality. On returning to England, and re-entering the routine of treatment in London, life took a little turn off course, and rather than being allowed to return home, I was admitted immediately via A and E to a ward where I was treated for an infection, (I had been hacking away in France but thought that I’d shake it off no problem, just like the good old days) and slightly more seriously to prevent sepsis, for which I was borderline.

About my stay, I will say that I had a great view of the London skyline for Guy Fawkes night. I also discovered the delights of Deliveroo for the very first time, who actually deliver to your ward. I was gobsmacked and impressed. Also hugely relieved that I didn’t have to endure anymore of the sinisterly glistening and unidentifiable substances served up to me on a plate embarrassingly described as “food”. Why, why is it, that the food served up to people when they are at their most physically vulnerable is of the lowest possible quality? They can attempt to fool and seduce you with glossy laminated menus, elaborately describing meals to tickle your palate and make your mouth water. But the reality is a huge and unhealthy disappointment. During a recent stay in hospital, I ordered fishfingers and chips. Please don’t have a go, my appetite was zero and I was losing weight so figured how can you go possibly go wrong with a childhood favourite? More fool me. When it arrived, in its tepid post-microwaved state, I was disturbed to discover that my meal was actually sweating.

Please can someone consider improving the food that we deliver to our sick, and remember that healthy nourishment is a priority.


I have digressed. Diverting my whinge into NHS meals. So, I was discharged from London, only to be readmitted a few days later nearer home. This time I barely bothered telling friends and family, I was getting bored of it, so I figured they would be too. It took longer than I would have liked to get my strength back, something which frustrates me like mad. Life is short and precious and I want to be up and running ASAP, not hobbling around all weak and feeble. At the end of November, I undertook my first major outing in a month and attended a charity function at the House of Commons. And following that my health seemed to find balance again and I enjoyed two whole weeks of near normal activity, slowly getting back to full strength. Walking in the woods, planning for Christmas and writing. And then my back went. I was under the bed at the time. On my belly waving my new sooper dooper, suck-up-everything-in sight- including-the-cats lightweight (Ha!) vacuum at some sinister and unidentifiable nasties that had been there since I don’t know when.

I had to wait until my husband was free to come and pull me out by my legs, at which point I discovered that I couldn’t stand, roll, sit, or really walk. I was completely buggered. Now I figured that this was an old war wound, one I’ve had almost thirty years since first becoming pregnant. Every now and then it flares up and I am reduced to crawling around, clinging to walls, and leaning on shopping trollies and umbrellas. Ordinarily I’d have dashed off to the nearest chiro/osteo practitioner and said “get me upright!” As I’d had to one panto recently with three shows to perform and no understudy (to give him his due, he succeeded.) But now, because the cancer has caused some fractures and weaknesses in my bones and spine, it is unlikely that many will touch me. Nor would I want them to. So it was a matter of fistfuls of paracetomol and waiting it out. When illness reduces you to being “cared for”, to being dependent, to being reliant, it fundamentally changes how you see yourself. What’s more it fundamentally changes how your partner or loved one sees you too. The nature of the relationship shifts, tilts out of balance. Your loss of power is reflected in the eyes of the one who is left to “care”; where I used to see partnership and mutuality I can now see worry, fear, exhaustion and helplessness. It is so important to hold onto memories of how it used to be and hold tight to the belief that it will be so again. This is one of my BIG fed ups. I am fed up of needing to be looked after, of not being able to fend for myself. I don’t want to lose myself to a new incarnation where I no longer have the strength or will to be who I want to be, to be who I am.

Sometimes it feels like you are trapped in a cage. If only you could find the door and step out to freedom and life as it was before. If only you could wake from the nightmare: dawn breaks and you realise that it was all just a bad dream. And life is wonderfully normal again. Yes, if only.

Early January and finally, after a Christmas where I did, by necessity absolutely nothing, my back was finally on the mend I was back to tentatively trotting about the woods and driving a little. Then came the incident of tripping over the washing. Apart from labour, I can honestly say that I have never felt pain like it. So once again, there I was, as helpless as a baby. X rays and MRIs mercifully showed that I hadn’t suffered a vertebral collapse which the team were concerned about what with everything else that is going on internally. Now some of you may be thinking that its great to be waited on hand and foot, I haven’t cooked a meal in months, or done the washing, or done any housework, or shopped. I’ve barely got off my backside to get myself a glass of water. But it isn’t. And if it wasn’t for Jez I’d have probably starved by now or been eaten by the cats.

I was back in hospital again for a few days the other week. Ridiculous temperature. 100 degrees, for about ten days. They never did really discover why. Me more fed up.

Jez has been making herbal compresses for my back out of the comfrey plant. He rubs it along my spine then trusses me up in clingfilm to marinade for a few hours. Amazingly it has been helping. So at last I had the temerity to think that a corner was being turned, a vision of normality was peeking over the horizon and I could banish the Me that was feeling sorry for herself; the Me that couldn’t see the point in anything; the Me that required “caring for”, the Me that was well and truly pi**ed off and fed up with it all. Oh but that would be far too rosy. How about a scenario where they discover a little abnormality concerning my heart and want to send me for further tests. Like it or not that is the hand dealt me this week. So treatment is on hold while the cause is determined. My poor beautiful tender heart. Where it all started back in 2016 when I had a cardiac tamponade. (Fluid in the pericardial lining prevents the heart from being able to work)

My heart, which has been broken both literally and metaphorically, how I send you love and healing. How well you are doing, and how grateful I am for each blessed beat. Thank you.

It is OK to feel fed I up. Though whether it is completely wise to express it quite so publically is another matter. But I maintain that this blog is about my musings, a desire to make sense of it all, and in many ways to reach out so that I am not alone on this journey, and maybe, I hope, neither are you. I look all around me to find inspiration: in nature, in books, TV, Film, other people, art, and one thing that always lifts me is you. If, by sharing a fragment of my story it helps just one person, it can completely transform my darkest mood. I see value and purpose and meaning all around. Although private by nature, I set myself the challenge of writing the blog to open myself to taking risks and living life a little differently than I previously had done. It is an unexpectedly cathartic process. But if there is one thing that it has taught me above all else is that we are not alone, and together we lift each other up.

Meanwhile, I do not accept this is my “new normal”. I look forward to better days, and looking Jez in the eye and seeing my husband, and seeing him looking back at his wife.

Nourish Your Soul

nourishThere is a hunger in my belly. A gnawing rumble. An emptiness. A hollow entreaty to be satiated. It is not food I crave. I am lucky there, food aplenty in my fridge, or delivered to my door. No, it is a deeper yearning, a desire to be fed, to suckle and be nurtured and be nourished by life itself.

I savour the sweet spots of my existence, like a nectar, a mystical elixir that sits precious in this challenging world. Those moments that are like gold. Framed in a timeless shadow of a memory, that I wear like diamonds around my neck. Time with my loved ones, sunrise over a frosty field, the hug of friends and community, a prayer shared around a fire, a good book under the duvet, lunch club, the weight of a purring cat on my chest, caravan adventures, ceremony, pilgrimage, cold healing springs, a buzzard overhead, an out-of-the-blue email from a friend, belly laughs; these gems are sustenance to my soul. I harvest these moments greedily and display them in the scrap book of my mind.

And what warms your heart and nourishes your spirit when the nights are long and dark and quiet? What brings a smile to your face, and lifts your spirits? Do you make time to feed that empty place within that makes you sad, or makes you ponder the meaning of it all? What makes your heart sing? What brings a smile to your face? Can you taste Joy? Life can become swallowed beneath a regime of duties and do’s, and don’ts, and oughts, and musts, and expectations, and habits, and lists, and distractions until we are so caught up in the wheel of it all, the relentless frenzy of the everyday, the white noise of our existence that we have forgotten why we are here at all. That life is more than merely something to be ‘got through’, it is a gift, even if it sometimes feels like a relentless pass-the-parcel with nothing but forfeits beneath every layer, there is a prize awaiting you at the centre. It is up to us to make a life a work of art. And it is not about the applause or the reward, but about the effort you put in, the journey you undertake, and the beauty you seek to manifest. Seeds sown reap their own reward. It is not about success or failure, it lies simply in the act of having a go. And of the keeping going – the keep on keepin’ on when the road gets tough. If you do not make the effort to prospect for gold then you are unlikely to find it. If you do not believe that it may lie hidden beneath the dirt, then for you it will never exist.

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It now comes as no surprise to me that against the backdrop of all that currently challenges me, life can taste sweeter than ever. And I don’t say this with any sense of irony. Not every day nor every moment, but here and there, like a shooting star that illuminates the night sky or the glory of a rainbow before it fades. Small nuggets of gold reveal themselves to me, glinting beneath the water on the muddy river bed. And in those moments I am rich. Where once life was something I took for granted, about which I was at times cavalier, not mindful of its divine preciousness, and even perhaps had an ambivalence towards. Now I have been taught the lesson of humility and gratitude. Illness has given me the eyes to see. I marvel at my prior capacity for blindness, where the spotlight of attention illuminated those things that aroused fear or lack, and the blessings in my life hid themselves in the shade.

And so I return to the question of nourishment. How do we nourish ourselves? Why do we need to nourish ourselves. As humans the first nourishment we receive originates from the mother, first from within the womb, and then for most of us at her breast, where all the nutrients we require to develop, grow and remain healthy in the physical sense are provided and tailored to our needs. But nourishment comes to us in more than just nutritional form, if we are lucky, our mother, our parents, our wider community nourish us on an emotional, psychological, intellectual, creative and  spiritual plane. And so we develop a robustness and resilience to help us negotiate whatever comes our way. But what if we are mal-nourished? Like a diet lacking in nutrients and overloading on sugar and processed foods leads to weakness to sickness, so too does a life poor in the things that feed the soul. So how do you nourish your soul? Do you remember to make time for those things that bring a smile to your face, a glow, a sense of joy and contentment, an appreciation of the here and now, when the mind is not caught up in the worries of yesterday or worrying about tomorrow and what is yet to come?

nourish 4

Have we mistaken distraction for relaxation, for quality time? A glass or two of wine, hours lost on social media: comparing,  competing and validating our existance, TV, magazines, games, drugs legal and illegal – junk food for the soul – all help us to forget and numb ourselves from what is hard to endure.




But don’t get lost in getting lost. Cherish the time you have. Give yourself permission to savour what is sweet and discard what doesn’t serve. To nourish and nurture yourself and what is precious to you is vital to your wellbeing. It reminds you that you are worth it. That you matter. That you are worthy. That you deserve life. It feeds your self-esteem, which feeds confidence, which fosters your sense of being loved. And when we feel loved, and worthy, and confident we can become proud of who we are, we bring ourselves back into balance and feel less inclined to compete, to compare, to judge, to exclude, to be in conflict – both with ourselves and others. To nourish oneself means that we are less likely to need to seek nourishment or approval or permission from elsewhere: from another person, a habit or society at large. Instead, perhaps discontent, anger, fear, boredom, helplessness, sadness, rage, guilt, resentment, blame, meaninglessness could be replaced by a meaningful sensation of contentment, purpose, satisfaction and inspiration.

I am hungry. My spirit is craving to be fed. A walk in nature is the meal I desire. Alone in the woods where the breeze blows new strength into my being, where the stream washes away my worries, where I sit upon the wet earth and feel her heartbeat, my back against a tree for support, my fingers buried in the damp, green mossy carpet. Plugging into the pulse of life. Interconnection. Inspiration. Belonging. Where before and after dissolve into here and now, where my heart calms, where beneath a rock or in the whisper of the leaves I find restoration and rejuvenation, and I look up not down, forward not back, and I breathe in the beauty of life. A true feast for the soul.

Trouble is, I tripped over some washing (I know, ridiculous, and painful!) and have been forced to slow down, to stop, confined to the static safety of the sofa out of harm’s way for a few weeks. Good in the sense that I have no alternative but to get on with writing my book, but oh the yearning for the sweet nourishment of my heart and soul. No matter, the memory and promise of nature’s caress inspire me daily, she is going nowhere. And neither am I.

Cherish the sweet spots. Nourish your soul. Bon Appetit! Oh and look out for the washing!






Cannabis and Me: Breaking the Law to Live


skynews-cannabis-cbd_4340071I have just celebrated the second anniversary of the day I almost died.

But I didn’t.

I have also just passed the two-year mark from the day on which I received a diagnosis of stage 4 lung cancer.

And last week, the long-awaited scan results from the first phase of the trial I am on, have come back with the encouraging news that, currently, the cancer is stable.

The celebration is muted, one of relief rather than champagne and fireworks. But it is without doubt the most positive news to come my way in almost a year.

So what does this mean? Quite simply it means Hope. It means that I can remain on the trial for now, until the next scan is performed in six weeks’ time, and the cycle of anxiety once again cranks into motion and I brace myself for the frightening possibility of the tug of the rug from beneath my feet.

The writing on the wall two years ago was very different given that the statistics, as out of date as they are for stage 4 lung cancer, predict a frighteningly brief median survival time of 8 months. When one’s mere existence, the taking of another breath and the walking of another step are such substantial achievements the sense of gratitude is overwhelming and I thank not only all of those who have played a part in my healing journey, but my very lucky stars on high.

As I stand here today upon shifting sands, looking back along the ribbon of time to the moment when the MacMillan nurse delivered her apology for my accelerated mortality,  I wonder, did I think two years ago that I would still be here? The first doctors I saw certainly didn’t have much faith. Did I?

How, I ask, am I still here?

How have I managed to surpass my expiry date? Am I a survivor? No, I am much more than that, I am a cancer thriver. Survival relates to statistics and time. Thriving is all about quality of life.

How have I exceeded expectation with the odds so stacked against me? In the two years since my almost fatal illness and diagnosis I have only been treated by orthodox medicines for less than half the time, none of which, unfortunately, have been very successful or long lasting. In the intervening weeks and months between treatments I was given nothing, with doctors adopting a “wait and see” approach.

So, I credit a trilogy of three things that I consider crucial to my self-designed healing protocol: Firstly, I approached my whole relationship with my cancer from a psychospiritual perspective. I believe the power of the mind is a much underrated ally along a healing journey and personally have found it to be the most potent of medicines. What is more you don’t need a prescription! This is coupled with exploring healing from a spiritual perspective which has brought, I believe, rewards both physical and emotional, and has created a stable and inspiring context for the challenges of living life with a stage 4 cancer.

The third arm of the healing triangle involved taking matters into my own hands, thinking out of the box, and taking a risk. But then, when you think you have nothing to lose and everything to gain one’s relationship with risk becomes considerably less cautious and, by necessity, more maverick.

ted kinsman

I decided to integrate a plant medicine into my healing programme, and I began to use cannabis oil high in THC medicinally from the day I left hospital two years ago. I have been committed and consistent in using it as a vital component of my journey to healing, both alongside regular treatments, and when non was offered, on its own. Only stopping in recent months when I embarked on the trial.

I do not believe that I would be here without it. Two weeks after leaving hospital in 2016, I experienced a recurrence of the pericardial effusion that had previously led to cardiac tamponade which without the emergency intervention would have been fatal. The expression on the face of my cardiologist said it all: shock and fear. Options were limited. So, he gave a me a drug normally prescribed to treat gout, in an experimental attempt to see if it would stem progression.

“If you experience side effects such as diarrhoea, desist immediately” he said. By the third day, I had to stop taking the medication, but I continued with the cannabis oil alone. At the next check-up the fluid seemed to be abating. And little by little over the next two months it slowly disappeared altogether, with no clinical explanation as to why this had happened.

I have also found the cannabis effective at moderating side-effects with orthodox drugs, in particular while I was undergoing chemotherapy. Side effects, especially in the case of chemotherapy can at times be as bad or worse than effects from the disease.

And overall, I believe that it has slowed down the progression of my late stage cancer. Untreated, as mine has been for half the time, lung cancer is typically considered to be an aggressive form of cancer, and the expectation would be of rapid progression and death. It may not have been enough on its own to completely halt it, but the next best thing for me is slowing down the disease. And for people in my position time is a very precious thing.

ted kinsman 5

Debate around medicinal cannabis has thankfully reached a tipping point. The confiscation of Billy Caldwell’s medicine in the UK being the catalyst for a long overdue informed, intelligent and transparent discussion. The government’s  hand, in the form of Sajid Javid, was well and truly forced – they had to be seen to intervene. And, as Billy’s mother predicted, his conditioned improved as soon as the cannabis was administered. Imagine the consequences if they had rigidly focused on the question of legality while a young boy’s life hung in the balance; or stuck to their guns and held fast to the party line which denounces cannabis as being of no therapeutic value, when everyone now knows that the UK licenses the world’s biggest government-approved medical cannabis production and export market. Was this an act of compassion or a cynical avoidance of culpability?

Because of recent stories such as Billy’s and Alfie Dingley’s, more people have now seen with their own eyes the positive medicinal effects of cannabis. We’re not talking about just relieving symptoms, cannabis is, for thousands of people, a matter of life or death.

However, I am concerned. We are teetering on the brink of immense change: there is the very real opportunity to implement a radical and revolutionary reform in policy that could see the end of physical and emotional suffering for tens of thousands, possibly millions of people in this country alone. That merely by legalising cannabis in all its forms for medicinal use could potentially save millions of lives and vastly improve quality of life. A change in the law that puts the basic human  rights of all citizens to enjoy good health and health care above that of paternalistic, governmental control, and pursuit of commercial gain. But the early signs are not looking good.

Why? Firstly, many families are already finding the new system unfit for purpose, it is discretionary, applications have to be made to “special” panels, yet how informed are they? And who are they? Whose interest do they serve? GPs, the people who are on the front-line treating patients face-to-face and who may have long-standing relationships with patients are edged out of the equation. Then the applications must be placed before the Home Office or the Department of Health, and that’s only if you are lucky.

The level of criteria that has to be fulfilled to prove eligibility is virtually impossible. Ilmarie Braun whose young son has 120 seizures a day, reduced from 500 after using over-the-counter cannabis, has had her application refused, and feels that the government is merely paying “lip-service” to families’ needs. She says that the system is “difficult and restrictive”. Is it surprising that as yet, few applications have been tendered?

It is a lottery as to whether a patient’s application will be approved, our human right to health and relief from suffering is effectively being denied.

Secondly, the debate is concerned only with pharmaceutically made drugs containing cannabis and cannabis oil. Many thousands of people prefer to medicate using the plant itself, smoking it for quick pain relief, or like myself making it into an oil in order to ingest the large quantities required for maximum healing. But as we all know, pharmaceuticals means big money. You cannot patent a plant in its natural form.

Thirdly, the spotlight of attention has focused sharply on epilepsy, in children in particular. But the MS community has long been self-medicating with cannabis and recent years have shown a growing movement within the cancer community utilising cannabis not only for symptom relief but as a means to potentially killing the cancer cells. There are many in vitro and in vivo (mice) studies showing how cannabis has been successful in causing apoptosis or programmed cell death which causes the cancer cells to effectively commit suicide. And anecdotally, this does appear to be happening in people.  Watch Joy Smith’s amazing story on This Morning, she cured her terminal cancer with cannabis oil

There is a climate of historical fear and misunderstanding that is threatening to turn the medicinal cannabis question into an expensive and unworkable excuse for a solution. There needs to be the political will to match the very real need of peoples’ debilitating, painful and life-threatening diseases, for whom conventional medicines are no longer having the desired impact. Clearly, there needs to be more research and more studies. But this can only work when cannabis as a medicine is no longer illegal. And, were one to be cynical, the will won’t exist while big pharma companies continue to block research and investment in something from which they cannot profit.

The government consistently sites the psychoactive side effects which can cause the sensation of being high or that it is addictive as a reason to exercise control and caution. Once again this is an inconsistent and hypocritical basis for an argument. When alcohol, nicotine and caffeine are considered psychoactive, ie they affect the function of the central nervous system, altering perception, mood or consciousness, yet are legal, freely accessible and socially acceptable. Add sugar to the list and you have 4 very addictive substances. Three of which are known to have a detrimental even potentially fatal impact on our health, and are a huge drain on national resources. Are they not “drugs” too?

The government’s persistent labelling of cannabis as a “drug” serves to confuse and alarm the general public, and demonise something that for many is a medicine. Yet public perception is changing as they see more and more evidence of cannabis being successfully used to bring healing. Many MPs, have been calling for reform, yet Theresa May holds fast to a timid, conservative, out of date and uninformed view:

“There’s a very good reason why we’ve got laws around drugs, because of the impact they have on people’s lives, and we must never forget that.”

We are all very good at turning a cultural blind eye to the bleeding obvious, and that is, that many of the completely legal prescription drugs dished up every day, are potentially addictive,  many contain opiates, anti-depressants are prescribed despite carrying a potential warning against suicidal thoughts or behaviour. Recent studies have shown that addiction to prescription drugs is increasing at a worrying rate, with many brands available to buy from the internet. Chemotherapy, the standard cancer fighting agent for the last fifty years is known to be extremely toxic to the body. It seems to be a double standard that is inconsistent at best when we are discussing “drugs”.

It makes no common sense. This line of argument can no longer be validated.

I also fail to understand why the people who really matter, ie the patients themselves are not being consulted. While special panels of experts and politicians gather around to make decisions on our behalf, where is our voice being heard? The voice of those who experience daily the worry over life and death, who have had no choice other than to risk breaking the law to save a life, and who have been working with cannabis as a medicine for years.

Why have we not been consulted? Why do we not matter?

Until you walk in another person’s shoes – you cannot truly appreciate what they have to endure.

andy macdonaldLabour MP Andy McDonald, the Shadow Transport Secretary has made a heartfelt plea to the government to change the law on cannabis oil. He lost his own son to epilepsy in 2006, and wondered if things might have turned out very differently had he the benefit of cannabis. I hope the the law is changed in time to be of real benefit to his second son who also has severe epilepsy.

I envy Theresa May. And I never thought that I would say that; I envy the fact that the naughtiest thing that she has ever done is run through a field of wheat. How might she have fared had she had to break the law in order to buy cannabis to give herself or a loved one the chance of life? To buy a “drug” off the street, not knowing its strength, (street cannabis I have learned is likely to be a super skunk several times the potency of regular cannabis), its provenance, what chemicals have been used in growing it, how it will affect you, how it will interact with other medicines, if you can even afford it, how much is safe to take, whether you will get caught?

I envy that she has never had to hear the words “I’m sorry it’s terminal, no there’s nothing we can do. You have maybe ……..a few months. Go home, put your affairs in order, say your goodbyes”   To have to break the news to your children, to live with the fear and threat everyday of looking down the barrel of a gun.

I’d like to ask her: If you were walking in my shoes, how far would you be prepared to go?

I throw down the gauntlet, actually no, I beg the current government to be brave in the decisions they make around legislating medicinal cannabis. To embrace an enlightened and compassionate attitude towards the administration and use of medicinal cannabis. To legalise it in ALL its forms for medical use. That way it can benefit millions of people. Not just the lucky chosen few.

Look around the world at our neighbours who have legalised or are considering legalising medicinal cannabis. Look at the research and studies both scientific and anecdotal. Have faith that the majority of people are quite capable of making wise and informed choices. We don’t need or want more rules, more restrictions, more hoops. When you are ill you have quite enough to worry about, physically, emotionally and financially, believe me. (Especially when, like myself you condition has been diagnosed as “terminal”) Our health and well -being is our business, our choice and not for someone else to parent and control. Let us have agency over our health and our lives.

Let’s put patients first!

Let’s all be a part of a global movement to shift attitudes towards one of the worlds oldest medicines. Let’s invest energy, time and money in discovering its potential. Cannabis is being seen, in some cases, to make possible the impossible and cure the incurable. This cannot be ignored.

Put an end to people like myself, Billy Caldwell’s mother, Alfie Dingley’s family and thousands more who have had to break the law in order to try to save our lives.

For heaven’s sake, have a heart. How can any government justify this from any kind of moral perspective?

I pray for seismic change.  But my fear is that the government are too entrenched in outmoded thinking and possess neither the vision nor the balls to deliver an overall lifting of the ban on cannabis for medical use. And that the new policies will prove so restrictive that ultimately almost no one will benefit. And people will die.

Finally, I was so happy to read last week that young Alfie Dingley is doing really well. His mother said: “He hasn’t set foot in a hospital since June and he’s had no time off school. He has been seizure-free since then and is even learning to ride a bike. My son is proof medicinal cannabis works.”

alfie 6

(Microscopic cannabis photos : Ted Kinsman)


Life is Like a Box of Chocolates

“Life is a box of chocolates, Forrest said, “you never know what you are going to get.”

life is like

I couldn’t agree more. These words have been dancing around my head for some weeks now. A reflection of just how life has been these last few months. Many describe the experience of cancer as a roller coaster. I’ve always said that I’ve never been a fan at the best of times: gut-wrenching-stomach-turning fear at 60 mph on a bone-rattling metal serpent is not my idea of a good time. A screaming out-of-control hair-lashing hand-flailing adrenalin rush, no thank you – pass the chocolates please. Though one good thing about the roller coaster. It does eventually grind to a teeth-clenching halt and you can disembark. Not so with cancer, stage 4. No getting off. No candy floss. No hook-a-duck.

So back to the chocolates – cancer is like a box of chocolates – you never know what you’re going to get. Rewinding a few months, some bugger had snaffled all the good ones, and all I was left with was a few stale, half chewed nut clusters that nobody wants and sad empty wrappers. In other words, life was proving a wee bit challenging to say the least both physically and emotionally. Actually, who am I trying to kid? It was a dark time. A difficult time. It seemed as if the way forward was closing. My wonderful, supportive, highly experienced and eminent NHS oncology team for whom I have the greatest respect and gratitude, and who have been with me every step of this journey for the last 18 months advised me to go home, spend time with my loved ones, set my affairs in order and make contact with Macmillan home support ASAP. There was no more treatment they could find to offer at the moment. Maybe I would find a trial. Maybe. Regrettably though, from their perspective, and more crucially mine, our journey together looked like it could be drawing to an end soon.

It took a while for the significance of the situation to truly sink in.


Do I just go home and WAIT …? To DIE …….?

When hope is snatched from you, it is so, so hard to know how to continue, how to be, who to be, how to live. What’s the point? Fear seeps in through the cracks and eats away at the spirit. Despair becomes your bedfellow. Waking is a nightmare, yet sleep never comes. Guilt walks in your footsteps, every time you witness the pain and sadness in the eyes of your loved ones having to endure this terror with you. Injustice justifies your anger and your grief. Why fight when you have been told there is nothing left to fight for? You cannot undo the inevitable. You have been told there is nothing more that can be done. I’m so so sorry. Now, where have I heard that before? Oh, yes, on diagnosis. I do WISH people would stop apologising to me. It’s not your fault. And believe me, you ain’t as sorry as I am! The medical establishment, and I mean this with no disrespect, have decreed that NOTHING MORE CAN BE DONE within the pathways and protocols currently available via the NHS. (Well more palliative chemo could potentially be on offer, but they know my feelings on that.) In the lung cancer vs science battle, there’s only one winner. And it isn’t going to be me.

With each day that passed, physical distress and discomfort was matched by escalating mental and emotional distress. For the first time since I was diagnosed the insidious canine of depression was curling up in my heart.

And then, one day, out of the blue I had a realisation: I had bought into “the fear”. Cancer adorns itself in fear, and dealing with fear and its impact on one’s mental, spiritual, physical and emotional wellbeing is one of the biggest hurdles that a person diagnosed with cancer has to overcome. Cancer breeds fear. And fear is contagious. Fear disempowers. Fear renders us helpless. Fear makes us question our own mind, beliefs and instincts. Fear is heavy – it crushes us and restrains us. Fear builds a prison around us. Fear is like a thief in the night, it steals hope. No one is immune to fear.  Not even the medical experts. They are human after all.  I saw fear on their faces, a fear that they couldn’t do more to help; I felt it, I smelled it on their breath, I saw it in their eyes, and I swallowed it and gave it permission to swallow me.

Until I saw it standing there in the shadows. And I chose to reject it.

If I feel fear, let it be my own. Then I can seek to understand it, and develop my own relationship with it. Fear does not merely diminish, on some level it serves to protect us. It can motivate and help us to dig deep into our resources. The Fight or flight response of the sympathetic nervous system demonstrates that. But, let me not be bowed and broken by the burden of other people’s projection of fear at my situation, not family, not friend, not practitioner. Allow me to take ownership. To steer this in the direction I need to travel. Let me break free from the bonds of personal and collective limiting beliefs that are unable to acknowledge that the incurable could be curable, the impossible achievable, and deny us the fierce grace of our untapped human potential.

Unintentionally, the manner in which I was seemingly being released from the care of a team whom I trust and respect and of whom I have become fond and who have become fond of me, caused incredible distress and panic, and depression set in. As well as having to deal with a real physical illness, I was now combatting mental dis-ease. How delicate news is passed from practitioner to patient is undoubtedly no easy task. We are all different, we will all respond differently. Some may prefer a sympathetic approach, others a more pragmatic stance. But, having been the recipient of devastating news on several occasions, I recall the words from the Hippocratic Oath: first do no harm. I suspect that this oath is interpreted primarily in physical and physiological terms. However, I would strongly argue that health practitioners cannot underestimate or neglect the psychological impact that their words and demeanour have on a patient. Us patients are not merely slabs of meat. A more holistic, inclusive approach is required, we cannot continue to separate body from mind from spirit. I strongly believe that our physical wellness is entwined and interacts with our mental and emotional wellbeing. I would go so far as to say that physical dis-ease can originate in the psycho-spiritual realms. Personally, I have no doubt that certain distressing and devastating life events in my own experience subsequently translated themselves into the cancer I experience today.

If I cast my mind back to the day of my diagnosis, the young woman tasked with passing on the news came armed with pity. And pity, is something else which I find at best futile and at worst offensive. Pity from others is another disempowering sentiment. It casts one in the role of victim. It breeds self-pity, which now and again serves as a necessary release, but as an on-going state encourages passivity and helplessness. News delivered, she left me alone in an empty room with an appointment to see the oncologist, my future in shreds, all hope extinguished, trying to digest the undigestable.

Five minutes later, a Sister came in.

“I’m going to say three things, she told me,

  1. You are young (nice try I was 52 – BUT young for a lung cancer diagnosis)
  2. You are healthy  (Seriously? I just got diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer – but OK, apart from that she was right, I am strong, fit and have hardly ever been ill.)

And 3. You have your yoga. (Bingo, a rich spiritual life that inspires me, nourishes me and teaches me to look at life from a different perspective)

And, just like that, she gave me something so precious, so profound, so wise – she gave me back hope. And hope gave me back my power, just a little bit, but enough.

The second century doctor Galen held that “confidence and hope do more good than physic”. I couldn’t agree more. And if the medical professionals can’t see, or more crucially are afraid to trust in the positive power of hope, so fearful these days are they of proffering ‘false’ hope then I shall go searching for it myself. I shall create it myself. The first and last thing a patient holds on to is, Hope. And it is a person’s confidence, their belief in whatever healing is offered which can influence the positive outcome of their treatment. How else would placebo be so efficacious?

I have maintained right from the beginning of this journey, that we are the alchemists of our own healing. And I will only heal, if I chose to heal. And believe I can heal. Time to step up. Take command. Time to think outside the box, expand my consciousness of possibility to beyond the scientifically proven and statistical. Time to concoct my own Medicine. And believe that it is possible that by being open to different ways of healing you can influence the outcome and make a difference. That you can defy expectation. That you can achieve what is deemed impossible. Why not? What is there to lose? What is there to fear? To fail is not to try. To try is to succeed. Be here Now.

So I had the dog put down. Churchill’s black dog, that is. And, breathless as I was, unable to walk far as I was, recovering from operations as I was, I made a vow. NOT to buy into other people’s fear, no matter who or how expert they are. I vowed to participate as much as possible in the things that I love and that inspire me. I vowed to believe that something good is coming, however crazy that sounds. To believe in miracles. To never give up hope. To expand beyond my own limiting beliefs and the limiting beliefs held by the collective. I chose to believe in the power and potential of what Hippocrates describes as “the natural healing force within”.

I opened myself to the possibility of the impossible, and then, something amazing happened, the universe began to listen and respond. After two failed attempts to get on a trial (talk about being given false hope!) – third time lucky – I was accepted. Early stage trial, I feel I am of marginally higher status than a rodent, but it welcomes hope back into the room. And, yes please, I’ll take that.


st winifredCommencing the trial has coincided with a whole new chapter, a summer of adventure, joy and healing, woven together by a daily pilgrimage in celebration and gratitude for life. The journey first took me to Wales, where I chose to celebrate and give thanks for my birthday and my life at the sacred healing waters of St Winifred’s Well in Holywell. The Lourdes of Wales. Where, so they say, miracles happen. It was an opportunity to immerse in prayer and focus strong intention for the year ahead. And immerse ourselves we did – literally! three times, in the freezing mountain waters! Wow Wow Wow!


Did it work? Am I cured? I don’t know, but all I can say is that each day, little by little I feel better and better. I feel blessed.

As the days and weeks have progressed my strength and vitality have improved daily on a diet of spiritual nourishment, all night out-door ceremony, community, friendships old, friendships new, family, magical Mexican healings, hot sweaty camping, prayers of gratitude, prayers for the Earth, gathering around the fire with indigenous elders, dancing with the deer, feeding the soul, feeding the spirit, teaching in circle, learning in circle, introducing Marakames (indigenous Mexican shaman) to the delights of kebabs and fish and chips, feeding my belly with the womb food of my childhood days spent on the streets of Singapore, late night hammock star gazing, and trip upon trip to London to participate in the trial, and a huge thank you to everyone on the ward who make the process so easy to bear.        All mixed together in my cauldron of healing, bound together with a strong vision of the future I desire for myself and conspire to manifest.


411px-The_magic_circle,_by_John_William_Waterhouse (1)

All of this is medicine: My medicine. I believe in the power of spirit, plant, mind and medical.

Next week a scan will tell me the status of the cancer: same, better or worse? The result will determine whether or not I am allowed to continue on the trial. So, now I must consciously chose not to succumb to what we like to call scanxiety – the creeping terror of what ifs.

Because, judging solely on how I am feeling right now, on my quality of life, my physical robustness, my reserves of energy, my optimism, all of which improve every day and have transformed me from the person I was less than two months ago who was struggling to breathe or walk– I feel AMAZING. And I’ll take that. Some magical alchemy is at play, something is working. For all I know the trial could be giving me a placebo. Who knows, who cares? I believe it is going to work, just as I believe that the ancient traditional healing methods of the Wixarika marakames (indigenous Mexican shaman) will work, just as I believe that my mind is a powerful medicine, just as I believe in the power of plants to heal, or the power of the prayers people have been saying for me. I believe that there are ways to healing that we in modern western society as yet do not fully understand. Or perhaps we have forgotten. The light of hope still shines when I look at the horizon, long after the sun has set on the conventional medical establishment’s options.

All I know is that right here, right now,         IMG_3323

this moment is beautiful and life is sweet.

I pray life is sweet wherever you are.

Pass the chocolates please.

3 Ways of Healing – #Medical

butterfly 2

Perhaps if I had been born in another time, another country, another town, in another family, with another name and the planets had aligned in the heavens in a different configuration, then maybe none if this would have happened. I would not be the person I believe myself to be. When I look in the mirror who would I see? Perhaps I am him, or her. Perhaps I am you. My life would have followed another path with another story,  a different set of characters, setting and plot.  A different beginning, middle and end. Not better nor worse, who’s to say. Just different.

Perhaps in the thread of time, one decision made differently, a glance in an alternate direction, a no instead of yes. A hello and not good bye. And  perhaps I wouldn’t now be perching on the side of the bed, and not for the first time this month, head resting on a pile of pillows, with a needle and catheter inserted into my back between my 3rd and  4th ribs draining what will be a litre of fluid from the pleural lining of my lung. Another litre of fluid. That’s three litres  in the last six weeks so far. There’s more yet to come, but that is in the future, a life not yet lived and breathed.


I am awash with fluid. Water water everywhere so the saying goes. I am like Canute raging  against an incessant and unremitting tide. Impotent and futile against the power of nature and the elements. The lungs, according to Chinese medicine represent grief, and as the sea of sickness seeps from my body drop by drop I feel the release of decades of grief held vice-close, of sadness, of fear, of shame, of guilt, of secrets, of abuse, of self blame, wrong choices, missed opportunities, isolation and silence.                                                                                             Oh the silence is deafening now,  drowning out the white noise that butts and rasps and rattles in my head like a hornet trapped and angered. A pestilent and painful reminder that I too am trapped, that I too am pestilent. Looking out upon the life I want to have that lies beyond my reach. Out of my grasp. On the other side of the glass. Slipping through my fingers. Nothing to do but surrender, be here now, allow the grief to subside like a receding tide, when all is revealed and I can breathe again.

Forty minutes and three coughs later and I am done. The cause of this, my latest incapacitation, the breathlessness, the palpitations, the discomfort, pain and physical restriction when life is reduced to a corner of the sofa and dependency on others, lies malignantly in a plastic bag upon a metal trolley, not yet for discarding, but for analysis, searching for more clues in the crime of my disease.

Beside me, Dr H. wraps things up with a manner at once professional, friendly and endlessly reassuring. We have  met several times over the last year,  despite  my best intentions not to, and  he maintains  an easy dialogue throughout the  procedures that both distracts and normalises this most un-normal of circumstances. As bedside manners go, he rates a 10/10. As I think it, I hear the words fly clean out of my mouth and into his ears.

Drain removed, plaster applied, all swabbed clean and tidy a thank you to the team and I am wheeled from day theatre down the corridor to recovery before the next victim, sorry, patient is wheeled in. Recovery consists of spaces for four patients and Eric* the nurse in charge.

“Hello again” I say

“Hello again you” he replies. “Back again? How are we today? Can I get to a drink of water?”

His accent places him in the region of the Philippines. Like so many of his NHS colleagues I have had the good fortune to meet, who come from South East Asia, Thailand,  Africa, the West Indies,  eastern Europe,  Spain, Greece, India,  China, Hong Kong,  I am grateful he made the journey to work here, healing the sick of Great Britain. Clearly we cannot sustain this great and wonderful institution alone. Our global friends are a intrinsic to its health. And for all our sakes the NHS, needs saving, before the disease of neglect and lack of funding and secretive selling off kills it off once and for all. Where would we be, where would I be without it? Not here and now, that’s for sure.

Eric turns the monitor so I can monitor myself. My oxygen sats read 92, I know they won’t want to let me go until they each around 98. Eric remembers I like a challenge! Tentatively I begin to deepen my breath, lung slowly re-inflating for the first time in weeks, like a butterfly unfurling from cocoon, spreading my wings, come on, come on, I will myself,  that’s it, 93, 94, you can do it. Heart rate is starting to come down from over 100 bpm, it has felt like a runaway train the last few weeks, even when stationary. Is this what it’s like to feel human again? I’m  almost scared to remember.

Eric bustles back with a poly cup of water, de- licious.  He sings quietly under his breath to the retro tunes whispering forth from the radio, to my amusement,  he really does seem to know every song.

“You missed your true calling” I joke, humour returning in equal measure to breath.

“I think  you’re right” he laughs

Dr H. Pops by to check up on me just as my sats reach 98. Job done we both agree.

“No offense,”  I say, “but I hope we don’t meet again for  very long time,”

He smiles, as I have said this very sentence on several occasions over the last year. What I really mean, is thank you thank you thank you. Thank you for making me feel so much better. Thank you for the gift of modern technology, science  and medicine that found its way from you to me and means I am not drowning in my own water, but alive and kicking. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. He departs taking my gratitude with him, radiating 10 out of 10

“OK young lady, you’re looking good, home I think.” Says Eric

“Yes please,” I say to no one but myself.

A new song starts up on the radio, Eric sings along,

“At first I was afraid I was petrified,

La la la Laa  la la la Laa la la la lala laaa….”

HEY! Wait for me Gloria, I’m just putting my skates on,

You sing it girl, you sing it loud. And she does ,

“I will survive! Hey Heeeeey!”

And with that I pirouette into the corridor and back into my life.


(c) Leah Bracknell

*name changed

Butterfly photographs: Seb Janiak