Jane Mallan’s Journey Through the Storm of Throat Cancer
In December 2023, just before Christmas, I felt the first tickle. A sore throat. Nothing major — it’s winter, after all. Everyone gets that scratchy feeling. I shrugged it off.
But by January, nothing had changed. No improvement. My GP said it was a viral infection, gave me antibiotics, and told me to come back if it didn’t shift. I went back. Again. And again. Two rounds of antibiotics later, and still no better.
Something wasn’t right.
I was referred to ENT at A&E to rule out a “quinsy” — a deep throat abscess. What followed were weeks of what I can only describe as torture: needles in my throat, cameras up my nose, and endless prodding and poking. Eventually, they found a swelling on my tonsil. A routine tonsillectomy and biopsy were scheduled.
Two weeks later, I was told I had throat cancer.
Let me tell you — nothing prepares you for those words. Not a single damn thing. I was shocked, terrified, and frozen with fear. Christmas had come and gone, and now my world was on fire.
The Brutal Truth of Treatment
I was booked in for six weeks of intense radiotherapy at Addenbrooke’s Hospital. Every day felt like survival. I was drowning in fear, physically battered, and mentally broken. At my lowest, I turned to Macmillan Cancer Care for support. They were kind — and pointed me in the direction of a specialist charity: The Throat Cancer Foundation (TCF).
That introduction changed everything.
Jamie and Gordon at TCF became my lifeline. They didn’t just support me — they checked in every single day, even after treatment ended. When I say they were there day and night, I mean it. This wasn’t just charity — this was family. Jamie, who has walked this brutal path himself, understood in a way no one else could.
I am beyond proud to now call them my friends. I’ve even been asked to become an ambassador for TCF — a role I intend to take up with pride and purpose.
But Cancer Isn’t a Clean Ending
Let me be very clear: just because treatment ends, doesn’t mean the fight does. I now live with the fear of “what if it comes back?” I’ve still months to wait for final results. The impact on my family, on my mental health, on everything — it’s massive.
And the saddest part? Most people still don’t understand throat cancer. They hear “sore throat” and assume it’s no big deal. If only.
There are several types of throat cancer. Even I still don’t fully understand mine. That’s why awareness and research are so vital — and why TCF’s work is nothing short of essential.
Update: A New Twist in the Tale
After all that… we got the good news. Treatment for my throat cancer was successful. Relief doesn’t even begin to cover it. I owe my survival to my husband Terry, my family, my friends, and of course, TCF.
But the story didn’t end there.
In a cruel twist, cancer has now spread to my lung. I’ve just finished another round of radiotherapy in January 2025 and am waiting — again — for results. The nightmare isn’t over. But I’m not facing it alone.
Gordon still checks in with me. Jamie — despite his own terrifying health crisis late last year — is still fighting too. He spent three months in hospital and very nearly didn’t make it. Now he’s on the long road to recovery. And that makes my fight seem almost small by comparison.
TCF needs your help more than ever. Jamie’s illness has understandably delayed some of their plans, and your donation could make a massive difference.
Why I’m Asking You to Help
I’ve set up a https://www.justgiving.com/page/jane-mallan-1719251136734 and I’m asking you — from the bottom of my heart — to give what you can. TCF relies 100% on donations. Every single pound helps them support someone like me, or worse, someone who doesn’t have the support I did.
If you’ve already donated, thank you — truly. But if you haven’t yet, now’s the time. No amount is too small.
Together, we can help make sure that no one faces this horror alone.
Thank you for reading. If you or someone you love is going through this, I’m here. TCF can connect us. I’ll listen. I’ll share. And I’ll be honest.
Because this disease doesn’t deserve silence.
Jane Mallan.
