That fucking file

We attended the oncology clinic at The Christie hospital in Manchester throughout the four-and-a-half years of Allyson's illness.

Before every appointment we would visit the reception desk to tell the team that Allyson was in the clinic. Once she'd been signed in, the receptionist would fetch Allyson's medical records to send through to the consultants.

She hated seeing them lift her file from the storage trolley on to the desk. The size of that fucking file, the weight of it, was a clear and constant reminder of the size of the problem.

And it never got any lighter.