I’d never get away with murder. My hair just gets everyfuckingwhere.

So after 7 weeks of radio my mind’s been blown, Catwoman’s hung up her whiskers and I deserve a medal for not stabbing anyone with a fork. 

No more fuckerty-fuck brain fucking for me. 

Ecstatic it’s over, but glum to say bye-bye to the gorgeous proton team.

The last days were exceptionally vile.  I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t tell which end needed the loo.

It felt like bad morning sickness. But I don’t believe in immaculate conception and my name’s not Mary so I know I’m not up the duff.

At one point I considered throwing myself out the bedroom window but it was raining and I didn’t want to die wet. 

Whilst I was Catwoman for 660 mins (33 sessions) and screwed to a table unable to move or speak I had plenty of time to contemplate.

I realised I’m now one of those ‘living proof’ types that demonstrates ‘anyone’s world can turn on a dime.’

For fucks sake, in January I was swimming in the ocean with a pod of frisky dolphins.

I’ve been enlightened and this isn’t the ‘canned’ bullshit kind of enlightenment.   This is real life shit.

When you have an annoyingly incurable thunder-cunt disease the best thing to do is look at the positives.   

You can always find some. 

Mine… 

Weight loss… Oh come on… I see you rolling your eyes… But seriously who wouldn’t love to shed their roly-poly love handles.

Presents… It’s like Christmas… Silk scarves, hampers, flowers, knickers, vintage fizz, silk pillowcases, huge industrial vacuum cleaner juice making machines and even balloons.

Friends…  Calling and texting daily to perk me up and make me laugh.

Visitors… OMFG this is the best. Loved ones staying and cooking and chauffeuring and walking mad-dog and making me laugh. It’s been the best tonic.

Haters… This has been a great way to filter out the butt-munching cunts that never gave a shit…  Luckily there’s not many. They think they’re champagne in a crystal glass but all they really are is luke warm piss in a plastic cup. At the end of the day they’ve lost me and I’ve simply lost time. 

Perspective… I had it all wrong before. I gave too much of a shit about irrelevant superficial bollocks. 

Poison… I gave up sugar as apparently it feeds cancer. It also appears to feed cellulite because mine’s almost gone. If that’s not a fucking result I don’t know what is.

Filter…  I don’t have one and fuck me it’s liberating.

The biggest one of all is Love… Love really is the answer. It gives you strength, hope, comfort and laughter. It’s the remedy for all aliments. And as Mr. Bryan Ferry sung ‘Love is the drug.’ He was spot on.

And true love doesn’t care what you look like. M loves me for who I am. He doesn’t care if I have half a head of hair and look half dead half the time. He loves me for what’s inside (and the English roasts I make him). He’s not anguished by my outside appearance. He isn’t just my rock he’s my world and I couldn’t have made it this far without him to drag me (by what hair I have left) through it.

So if there’s anyone out there wading through shit right now and needs help finding some positives…  Just buy a shovel and start digging ‘til you find it. 

Don’t fuck it up… dig it up!

Advertisements

If life demands that you occasionally walk through hell… Then walk as if you own the goddamn place.

PART ONE

I went to a party… Uh-huh that’s right. 

I enticed the dog from my person with promises of treats. He still couldn’t assimilate why I’d possibly get out of bed at four in the afternoon. 

I crawled from my comfy duvet and pjs. Showered and considered shaving my pits, then decided ‘Fuck it, not like I’m wearing a strapless gown and I don’t have the energy to wave my arms in the air.’

I put on a real bra and not a sports vest. Covered my ever-growing baldness with a headscarf. Dressed in proper grown-up clothes (not sweats) and painstakingly applied a slathering of mascara and lipstick. 

I hardly recognised myself… It’s been so long since I’ve made any kind of effort to look remotely glamorous. Poor long suffering M. 

We then started our trek to the party venue… 

We strolled to the bottom of the garden, scrambled through various prickly bushes and ta-dah we’d arrived. 

In a dreamy gay pride garden soirée which happened to be playing my type of 80s feel good tunes Dépêche Mode, Erasure etc.

Annoyingly all the hot guys were gay… Actually they were all hot… Probs because they were all gay. Why is it all the hot ones always are?  Hope I come back as a gay man.

Our gorgeous host greeted us with cocktails and we partied hard… For 45 minutes! 

Now usually M’s the last man standing at a party… It’s his thing. 

So when I tugged his arm, looked up at him like a lost 5 year old and said ‘I need to go home now‘ I was slightly taken aback when he said ‘Ok.’

This guy’s a real diamond geezer… Of the ‘Cullinan’ kind.

We got home and I promptly passed out for the next 15 hours. 

I might not be gay… But I’m proud. Proud I got my butt up and out for the first time in 3 months!

PART TWO

Furthermore the 15 hours sleep didn’t pass without enlightenment. 

It turns out that when we die we don’t actually go to heaven or to hell.

Au contraire… we go to a tent. 

I know this because I died (in my dream) and found myself in a posh festival yurt wearing a voluminous pink tu-tu. I could hear David Bowie performing Jean Genie on the main stage. 

There was a genie in the yurt, he wasn’t in a lamp, he was floating on a magic carpet. He curled his index finger, with long pointy nail, in a come hither way and whispered ‘Honey, sit over here and rub this.’

So I did. 

He then boomed ‘Make a wish little girl. Whatever you wish is my command.’

I asked ‘May I have my hair back please?’

His response ‘No can do… But you can have dinner with 7 dead people!’ 

Hmm this was tricky but I chose Elvis, my amazing grandparents, Bob Marley, Aristotle, Salvador Dali and Brad Pitt.  And not just because I figured they’d have a plethora of drugs between them.

The genie responded ‘You can’t have Brad, he’s not dead.’

So, I very sweetly enquired ‘Oh, umm well can’t you just make him dead? I do have a brain tumour after all.’

Then I woke up. 

I must stop watching Killing Eve. 

I got called ‘pretty’ today. Well actually it was ‘pretty annoying’ but I only focus on the positive these days.

I really wasn’t ready for half the shit I’ve been through lately but clearly thought I was built for it.   

Then I got to week 5 of radiation, and I really wanted to be taken out… Not on a date…  But by a sniper.

This feeling of being fucked 22 hours a day is tricky to elucidate. But it’s how I imagine it would feel if you took a massive hit of heroin, but didn’t get the rush.

However, enough self-pity. I have a fairytale to tell.

So most Cinderella stories only have one fairy godmother. But I have FOUR.

And there are no evil motherfuckers involved in this tale. 

Just like Cinderella, I was having a shit day, although not on my knees scrubbing the floor…  More like on my knees with my head down the loo.

One of my gorgeous besties happened to call. Let’s call her Kim. 

She probably regretted phoning after my 3rd round of tears and overly descriptive info on the fucked up fucking side effects of radio.

But then I got tired of sobbing and we chatted about my trip home and the ball I’m attending.  I fretted that I had no idea what to wear to this soiree.

It’s not that I have nothing to wear.  But I’m different now. 

Pre Bambi I’d love an excuse to wear skin-tight gold sequins or any snug style of evening gown that involved spray tans, fuck me heels and backless, strapless, pushy-up sticky wings to perk my tits up.

But most women know that wearing this paraphernalia isn’t painless, it’s goddamn donkeywork.

I don’t have the energy for this shit at the moment. I doubt I could even knock the skin off a rice pudding right now.

So I sent Kim images of easy-to-wear dresses for critique.  But soon realized they’re ‘so not me’ and I just couldn’t bear the thought of looking like fuddy-duddy fanny. 

Then I came across an angelic goddamn fucking expensive beautiful easier-to-wear gown and thought ‘Hmm I could wear that and still feel fabulous in it’.

I shared it with Kim and she agreed it was heavenly.

At this point I needed the khazi again so said I’d call back later.

I promptly went off to ‘see a man about a horse’, returned, checked my phone, and there it was.

An email from the dress company we’d just been looking at telling me my order was on its way.

Umm, well I know my brain is slightly fucked right now but no one told me that buying fancy gowns and then forgetting I’d bought them was a side effect. 

The phone rang.  It was Kim again.

Look,’ she said ‘We wanted this to be a surprise, but I knew you’d buy it once you got off the porcelain bus, so I had a quick chat with Kourtney, Khloe and Kylie and we wanted to do this for you. We bought you the dress!’  

For a split nano second I was vexed, then I cried, then she cried, then we both cried, then we laughed and I told her a zillion times how much I’m in love with her and my other fairy godmothers for doing such a gorgeous thing for me.  

(Well I’d be in love them anyway, whether they’d bought me a dress or not.)  

I’m still totally overwhelmed and I am so blessed to have these breathtakingly extraordinary babes in my life.

All I need now is a crystal carriage, 8 Arabian ponies, some hot coachmen and a Prince Charming.

Oh no wait, I’ve already got the last one. M.

Be raw. Be open. Be fucking real. Because the last thing this world needs is more fake ass shit.

Life’s become mildly monotonous. 

Get up, get radiated, get back in my bed, repeat.  I’m perpetually exhausted and boregasmed out of my tiny half brain.

So I had blog writers block.

But then something mildly entertaining happened.

Driving to radiation, which incidentally takes forever, and is never that boring because M drives like Lewis Hamilton on crack.

We were on the freeway or highway or whatever it is Americans call a dual carriageway and were waiting at red lights. 

Next thing we know, wham fucking bam.  

Assmonkey on his phone rear-ends us. 

Under normal circumstances I would’ve got out and thrown the customary profanities at him. 

But this is America and you never know who’s holstering a firearm. 

Not only that but I knocked my head so hard the shock caused me to hyperventilate and nearly pass out. 

I’ve become a blithering mess. Very disappointed in myself. 

M called 911 and the Fuzz arrived in a flash of flashing lights. 

And goddamn was it my lucky day. 

He wasn’t just any old smokey bear… He was a super sexy spine-tingling state trooper.  Tall, dark and hot as hell.  

He was also wearing an exceptionally commanding uniform with a shiny star shaped badge, while completing this sex god/Village People look with a pair of gold-rimmed aviators.  Oh and he had an incredibly large…  Weapon. 

He saw me as a maiden in distress and instantly his heart melted and he was head-over-heels in love with me.  I could tell.  The only thing between us was M.

Fiddlesticks!

I wondered if he’d come round to the passenger door and rescue me like that scene in An Officer and a Gentleman… Sadly not.

M was thinking on his feet though…  He played the brain tumour card… And said ‘Look, my wife’s got a brain tumour and we’re on our way to an extremely urgent appointment’.

Instantly I thought OMFG he’s going to flash his lights and give us an escort to the hospital… Sadly not.

But I’m sure he did wink at me at least twice.  

He asked for my full name and date of birth but unfortunately not my phone number.  Maybe my age put him off.

We said farewell minus a bumper and number plate and made a dash to radiation leaving hot cop to cuff the thundercunt who was clearly buffing his banana and watching porn on his phone whilst driving.

Trying to figure out how not to look like a twat in a headscarf. Luckily my fabulous guru sent me this beaut.

Karmasutra: When life fucks you in all kinds of creative ways.

I’ve realized something curious lately.  I find it relatively painless to say I have a brain tumour but virtually impossible to say I have cancer.  Why is that?

Cancer is such an unpleasant word.

I’m not saying ‘brain tumour’ sounds poetic or alluring. But telling someone you have a brain tumour is a little like declaring you have crabs or chlamydia.

The shock value is mildly entertaining due to the gulps and gasps and the lack of clichés available. 

Whereas with the word cancer there are many vexing metaphors.

 For example:

‘Oh poor you, you have a long bumpy journey ahead of you!’

Or

‘Oh poor you, you need to be a warrior and fight this battle!’

These violence and journey clichés are questionable to me.   

After all, this isn’t Game of Thrones. 

What if you knew your cancer was terminal yet everyone’s telling you  ‘Be a warrior, be a fighter’…   Surely when you’re teetering on the edge of your own existence you’d feel you’ve failed because you know for sure you’re losing the mother-fucking stupid goddamn battle.

On the upside of brain tumours… Most people know fuck all about them so you don’t get so many clichés.

It’s especially advantageous to spell out exactly what tumour you have as many have long Latin sounding names and this adds to the theatrics of the moment.  

Technically mine’s not called Bambi, her real name is Anaplastic Astrocytoma, and she’s a rare one, it’s guesswork even for the experts.  

But one thing I know for sure…   Shoving 2 sticks of unsalted butter and a pickled onion up my ass will not cure me.

Obviously this is just my personal view and I’m sure there are some out there who find my taxonomy objectionable. 

But that’s ok because ‘Ego irrumabo non facio.’ 

(That’s pidgin Latin for ‘I don’t give a fuck’.)

In other news I’m counting the days until I get a month’s reprieve between radio and chemo.  

I’m going to board a jet plane and head home to Blighty for 3 weeks. Against some of my doctors’ recommendations but again… ‘Ego irrumabo non facio’ as my body requires M&S food, country walks, country pubs, London and the Sunday papers. 

Oh and there’s quite a few faces Catwoman is desperate to lick. 

MY HUSBAND CALLS ME CRAZY… BUT HE WAS THE ONE WHO MARRIED ME!

You know that thing inside you that stops you from saying stuff you probably shouldn’t? Yeah well mine’s fucked.

Yesterday someone said to me ‘One day we’re all going to die’. 

I nodded and agreed but in my head I was saying ‘Of course we are… Shut the fuck up you tedious twat’.

Obvs we’re all going to die ‘ONE DAY’,  but for every day we’re not dying,  we’re LIVING!  Duh.

So I’ve reached week 3 of Proton Beam Therapy.  I haven’t mentioned it much as felt it needed a full review before I passed comment.

(Like one of those people with the felicitous job of reviewing luxury spas and hotels.)

Anyway, I think now is a good time to post said review.  

And it’s 5 stars from me. 

The team is gorgeous, funny, warm, gracious, kind… Every positive adjective available to compliment people whom ‘point a laser beam from a 60ft machine, weighing 220 tonnes, creating light beams traveling at 2/3rds the speed of light through a 143ft cable’ at MY BRAIN.

Although we had a hiccup the other day when Bertha (the machine) decided to crash mid-session.  

I was screwed to the table in my head-hugging Catwoman mask listening to Blondie singing Atomic when Bertha suddenly shut down.  

I waited a minute. Then thought ‘Shit, they’ve all gone to lunch and forgotten me!’ 

Panic set in and suddenly I was The Man in the Iron Mask, only I was also fastened by the head to a goddamn fucking bench.  

The tears streamed and the screams rose but I couldn’t open my mouth…  So I raised a panic-stricken arm and waved frantically like a 5 year old chasing down the ice cream van. 

Thank fuck they saw me on the monitor and rushed to my rescue. 

No one had gone to lunch… Nincompoop!

Bertha needed her butt kicking though, so a hammer holding Oompa Loompa went subterranean and give her a good banging.  She perked up after that and we were cooking with protons again.

I also get a weekly tête-à-tête with my brilliant radio oncologist.  An adorable man who definitely got an A* in every single physics test he ever took. 

I make a list of critical questions beforehand so I don’t forget anything. This week’s list:

1. Can I get a prescription for medical marijuana?

2. How much hair will I lose.. like 100 millions strands or 100 thousand or just a few?

3. Can I get a prescription for medical marijuana?

I know I’m immensely lucky to receive the latest technology in radiation therapy. The insurance company denied it 3 times and on each occasion my docs fought back for me. 

Not sure what arguments they used… But if they hadn’t passed their doctor exams they’d have made fabulous defense lawyers.

Finally today I’m sharing a note I received from a dear friend.  Someone who wears so many hats for me, dad, brother, stand-in-husband, dance partner, barfly buddy…  I adore this man and the love I feel all around is what’s getting me through this fucked up 5 minutes in time. 

Dear Sarah

Most of the time I don’t know what to say, so I continue the bizarre nature of my world. 

While my heart is breaking as two of the most wonderful people I have ever met are going through a similar journey. 

You fill my thoughts and I spend each night sending the highest energy to you. 

The power of the universe can and will win. When you are through this we will start an Ashram somewhere? India? Arizona? Mexico? We have the power together. 

The energy around you is amazing and growing. We are all using the blog to help channel it. 

Post more, loads of F words…  it makes it so very funny.

If love had a value, you my dear girl are richer than Hatshepsut.

All my love ‘Dad’ xxxx

dad, brother, stand-in-husband, dance partner, barfly buddy…  

I speak 4 languages: English, Profanity, Sarcasm and Shit.

I’m in a gang.  I’ve never been in a gang before. Well actually that’s not entirely true.  

When I was 9 my friends and I bullied a kid who was being mean to us…  We flicked horse shit on sticks at him until he retreated…  I feel bad about that now… Kind of.

There’s four of us in this gang and we all have something in common. We’re badass brain tumour survivors.

Names have been changed to protect the identities of these goddesses. So hence forth we are referred to as:  Aphrodite, Venus, Inanna and Aurora.

If you don’t know the meaning of these names you were obvs snogging/smoking in the bike sheds during mythology lessons at school. (I was anyway).

Our gang’s named The Love Honeys… Appropriate as we’re fucking cancer and Lovehoney is an online sex shop.

To know there are other people out there who feel exactly the same way as you is mind glowingly reassuring.

They help you realise that you haven’t actually lost the goddamn plot…  Your brain’s just been temporarily fucked because a mother-fucking-platinum-plated cunt has invaded your private headspace.

And in other news…

The Cheshire Kitty Cat has been here taking care of me. And what a fabulous little ball of energy she is.

She cooks, she cleans, she takes the dog on 5-mile runs along the beach… And all before I’ve even got out of bed.

She chauffeurs me around…  Even though this is her first time ever driving on the wrong side.

She’s befriended the neighbours by popping in with bottles of English gin and then staying for a few hours to help them polish it off.

She’s chummy with my radiology team to the point where they’ve offered to give her a tour of the 60 ft monster living 4 floors below ground at the proton centre.

She even mixes me cocktails before supper every evening. Last night was a questionable combo of laxative and sparkling wine. The results were rip-roaringly spine chilling.

Kitty keeps telling me that ‘Friends are like fish, they smell after three days.’ She’s been here a week…  I keep whiffing her fanny but it smells fine to me.

Sadly she must leave me tonight and like all my other beautiful besties who’ve been taking care of me I will miss her terribly.

Sad to say that my ‘house of ill repute’ might have to close its doors for a few weeks now due to the dreaded potential side effects of radio.

But as long as it doesn’t make me grow another head… Or a penis… I will fight it like a girl!

what’s he looking at…