It’s ok to lose your shit sometimes because if you keep your shit, you’ll end up full of shit, then you’ll explode and there’ll be shit everywhere. A shit storm. And nobody wants that.

A post radiation visit to my radio of fame oncologist today.

He asked how I was feeling.

‘Feeling good,’ I replied ‘Apart from the anorexia and bald patch… And auras’.

‘Auras?’ He questioned (not fazed by the other 2).

‘Yes, not deja vu or seizures, more like a deja vu appetizer.’ I tried to explain.

He looked puzzled.

Then this spewed from my lips…

‘I get this feeling I’m wandering around a misty field and every now and then a memory suddenly pops out at me, it’s either a cute fluffy pony (good memory) or a long horned filthy bull with fire in his eyes (bad memory).’

Nope, still wasn’t explaining myself very well.

So I changed the subject and requested narcotics. I think after that diabolical description he felt I required them too.

I sense a turbulent ride ahead with all this chemo fuckery.

Blood drawn every month, MRI every month, 5 little nuclear bombs arriving via Fedex every 23 days.

So I was venting to a friend this evening.

‘You need a distraction.’ He advised. ‘You’re creative, find something creative and personal you might like to do for yourself to take your mind off what’s looming.’

‘Fuck off!’ immediate response.

‘Pooping on a glass top coffee table is creative and personal. Shall I do that?’

Everyone means well, but if you haven’t been afflicted with cancer or been close to someone who has, its almost impossible to understand what they’re feeling.

Unless of course you’re one of those super rare types filled with intuition and natural empathy.

All we really want to hear is ‘I’m here for you and I love you.’ No advice needed because this is something we figure out on our own.

I’ve said it a million times – Love love love is the answer.. And that’s it.

I’m heading into the Bermuda Triangle now for another week of love… And the added bonus of perfect pink sand, crystal clear warm ocean, 100% humidity and giant flying cockroaches.

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My husband’s amazing, he’d take a bullet for me. But he’d still criticise my driving on the way to the hospital.

Safely back in the US of Trumpton after binge watching a whole box set en-route only to discover that during the last 5 minutes of the last episode I’d already watched the whole goddamn series pre Bambi.

Picked up Maddog from gorgeous sis and bro in law. They still seemed fairly sane and weirdly attached to him. I think it’s called Stockholm Syndrome.

Then the 7 hour drive which takes as long as the Atlantic crossing.

Feeling hellishly homesick. Didn’t want to leave Blighty so planning on escaping this place again ASAFP.

The thought of starting chemo is nauseating. Not in a scary kind of way, more in a ‘For fuck’s sake, more fucking shit to deal with’ kind of way.

I want to get back to normal, plan holidays, drink copious amounts of fizz with my friends, ride a horse when I feel like it, work, go back to the gym and get back into shape.

I look like an old Barbie doll, who prior to getting crushed under Action Man’s tank in the bottom of a toy box 40 years ago, had her tits and hair chopped off by some fiendish demon child.

And whilst dealing with prolonged jet-lag I’ve been lounging around reading Brain Tumour Survivor stories.

This is serious stuff for the next 60 seconds.

Ridiculously there’s around 120 types of brain tumour. This might sound like a lot, because it is.

You almost have to multiply this by the amount of people in the world who have brain tumours to get an understanding of the enormity of the research required.

Because every single person reacts totally differently to every single tumour.

In our gang of 4 Love Honey Survivors 3 of us have the same tumour. But different sizes, different locations, different mutations.

Which means over the long term we’ll all fair differently and react differently to surgery, chemo and radiation.

Apparently around 5 in every 100,000 people in the general population will draw a short straw and end up with a Grade 3 Anaplastic Astrocytoma, so you might as well multiply 5 by a billion trillion… it’s impossible to believe statistics because every single case is different!

Some people carry on for years after treatment no problem, others have a recurrence within weeks or months, some have surgery time and time again and a few don’t make it at all.

Every human being has a cut-off point as to how much they can take… so this got me thinking about my cut-off point.

It’s been easy so far, almost a bizarre novelty walk in the park.

But it’s getting monotonous and the thought of having surgery, radiation and chemo all over again is exasperating. Especially when it’s a waiting game and all down to luck of the draw.

Tick fucking tock.

Right, that rant’s off my newly flat chested chest and I’m signing off… to book a flight to Bermuda.

I need warm ocean and pink sand right now, not toxic chemicals and poison.

Fuck cancer. Chemo can wait another week.

Being able to respond with sarcasm within seconds of a dumb comment or question is the sign of a healthy brain. I’m not being rude. I’m just getting some much needed exercise.

When diagnosed with incurable goddamn brain cancer on Valentine’s Day** I knew, no matter what, I’d make it to my blue-eyed boy’s leavers ball (that’s graduation to Americans).

**Thx Cupid you dumb dick… You’re supposed to stick the arrow through my heart not my brain.

Anyway…

Not only did I make it to the ball but I drank, ate, socialised, went in the photo booth 32 times, attempted the bumper cars, but M dragged me away hissing ‘Have you forgotten you’ve got a massive fucking hole in your head?’

I enquired to our housemaster, ‘Sir, please be honest, is my kid in your top 10 naughtiest kids ever?’

‘Oh no’ was his reply.

I sighed waiting for something further.

Housemaster transitioned to stern teacher face and added ‘He’s in my top 3!’

YES!!! My blue-eyed boy’s going far in this world.

So my ultimate goal was not to expire prior to midnight. I lasted ‘til 2am… Screw you Cinderella.

I needed to get the most out of the beautiful gown gifted by my gorgeous girls.

We spent the weekend with bestest friends. One of whom travelled from Aus that am, played a round of golf that pm, then drove 200 miles to get pissed with us. That’s friendship!

The evening consisted of delicious lamb, erotic sexual poses against an old rover and Cards Against Humanity.

We laughed, cursed and spewed hilarious profanities. I didn’t inherit my potty mouth… I learned it from my foul-mouthed friends.

My baby sis’ and I visited the cemetery and left flowers for our beloved grandparents. The only adults who showed me unconditional love as a child.

Dinner on a lake and another debouched night followed.

Then a smart party hosted by Lord and Lady Q which aptly ended in a face licking competition. I’ve yet to catch Lord Q, however her Ladyship’s always up for it.

Then to London for 4 more nights of love.

Love arrived from Bermuda aka my gorgeous Guru and Godson laden with the bags of green cow fodder she still tries to cram inside me.

Next, love and lunch from Sussex. The wonderful women who I always wished could be my real mummy and sister.

Dinner on the Thames with dearest friends where I attempted a citizen’s arrest after an enibirated youth pissed in the river.

A 6 hr liquid lunch in Notting hill. Old friends, new friends, crackheads wandering by… One of whom became aggressive/racist/way too opinionated …

So I took matters into my own hands and stood up, lifted my hair and declared…

‘Seriously? You think you’re having a tough time? Look at this… I’ve got goddamn fucking brain cancer and weeks to live (slight exaggeration). Shut the fuck up, sit down and have a drink… Or fuck off.’

You can’t waste time trying to understand idiots. Unless you’re the fuckface whisperer, which I’m not.

An old acquaintance wandered by and stopped to interrogate me on the use of profanities in my blog… I replied ‘Did you know, the clitorous has 8000 nerve endings, but still isn’t as sensitive as some of the cunts I’ve met over the years.’

Whoops 1 less reader. I spend a lot of time realising I should have stopped talking 10 minutes ago.

Later that night something triggered the ‘funny turns’. It’s been two drama-free months then suddenly… bam! Extended periods of deja-vu again.

Rest was ordered or M would have strapped me to the bed (and not in an S&M kind of way). It seems I’ve become a pro at choking on air, falling up stairs and tripping over nothing.

Once up and about I purchased 27 lottery tickets… It’s the only way I’ll get to live in my favourite Holland Park postcode.

A final post-gay-pride supper with two gorgeous men I’d married had they not been gay.

Followed by a farewell lunch with beloved friends and hugs with my blue-eyed boy before heading to Heathrow for the long haul back.

So there you have it. I’m living proof that you really can fuck brain cancer and live a carefree-ish life… Well for 2.5 weeks anyway.

Next week the motherfucking toxic chemo bandwagon will be rolling into town to start the next chapter of thundercunt cancer treatment.

Bring it on bitch.

I love replacing my feelings and high levels of anxiety with new clothes.

And that’s what I did yesterday.

Obviously this is only an interim fix for deeply rooted issues, but fuck it, a girl’s gotta do etc. etc.

I could get a therapist, I could take baby steps to deal with my angst, or I could just buy something, feel temporarily good and then continue with my potty mouth vulgarity and put on a brave face.

Really, it’s all just invisible non-existent monsters anyway… Like the one who lived with the loo rolls in my bathroom cupboard when I was a child.

Damn I just let my guard down for a second then and showed a level a vulnerability. Fuck that, let’s get back to cursing.

So I think we’ve been home about a week now and it’s whizzed by.

My dear friend Lord R held a genteel garden party in the grounds of his most delightful estate.

The fizz flowed, the cakes devoured. The party came to a halt around midnight when the bells chimmed and the Big Kahuna promptly bellyflopped into the carp pond… Not exactly Mr D’arcy, more drowning bullfrog.

The following evening we enjoyed the delights of gourmet cuisine and another 58 bottles of fizz.

Our super-duper hostess with the mostess not only fed us a delicious supper but we were treated to a spellbinding sunset and a wheelbarrow race.

Note to brain tumour people: Not recommended when recovering from brain surgery… Likely one will fall and knock one’s noggin. Guilty.

Our hot hostess got so trollied she offered me a 10k designer coat from her vast collection.

Initially I declined such a generous gift but after some consideration decided ‘Fuck it’… I have a brain tumour after all.

So off I trotted home feeling like a million dollars.. well 10k at least.

Phone rang next morning… It was hot hostess ‘Um hi babe, any chance I can get my coat back?’

‘Well you could,’ was my response ‘But I already sold it on eBay.’

Damn it, shit-faced people do some bloody marvellous charitable work, why can’t they just stay shit-faced.

*Last time we got wasted together (at a charity auction) we bid on a ‘luxury’ vacay to the Canaries.

Turned out to be an anus of an apartment in the testicle of TenerGRIEF hosted by a lardass landlady with a serious psychotic disorder. However, we still had a fabulous time.

More gorgeous friends arrived from afar.

My godson visited and expertly demonstrated how to announce to the world he needed a shit, how it’s totally acceptable to pass out in a bar when you’ve had your fill of fish finger sandwiches and how there’s nothing to be ashamed of in picking one’s nose and eating it if a swift salty snack is required.

Kids have no comprehension of crudity and why should they? Let them live unashamedly and without judgement while they can still get away with it… And give their godparents a good laugh at the same time.

Further tales of the unexpected to follow.

I’m a lady but ‘fuck that shit’ is still a perfectly good substitute for ‘no’

Imagine you’re about to embark on a trip to an unexplored planet far far away. Let’s call it Jedha.

I’m Princess Leia and M’s Hans Solo… Or maybe Chewbacca depending on time of day.

That’s what it felt like when we packed up and drove Darth Vader aka Reggie Maddog to Boston en-route to London.

Before we departed, friends asked ‘You must be excited for you trip?’

TBH borderline goddamn fucking terrified was more accurate. Even though I’ll admit I’ve contributed my fair share of carbon emissions to our planet I was now entering unknown territory.

My heightened senses fluster me. Smell, taste, sound, sight has revamped. Tolerance, energy, stamina has reshaped.

I kept thinking ‘Fuck, what if I shlitz my Vicki’s during check-in or what if my titanium skull sets the bells ringing in security or what if my brain blows at 40,000 ft.’

I was vexed at the thought of not being able to neck my usual aperitif of 3 shots of fizz in the lounge then 3 more onboard prior to passing out for 6 hours.

Fuckerty fuck this was going to be a tiresome journey.

The drive to Boston took 7 arduously dull hours, longer than the goddamn 3500 mile flight to Blighty.

Vador spent the road trip farting and barking at random truckers.

We finally arrived at my gorgeous sis/bro in-laws picture perfect home at 2am. Vador spent the night pacing with his lightsaber, a stick he’d found in the garden. At one point I woke with him sitting on my chest and I swear he said ‘I am your father.’

By the following afternoon it was obvious, I’ve become the dullest houseguest in the history of dull houseguests. I spent 23 of the 24 hrs at this house sleeping.

I finally pulled myself together and we left our gutsy hosts with their captor Vader and trotted off to the airport.

We cantered through security with no frisking required and galloped to the lounge.

All very relaxed. And fuck me it was bloody marvellous to hear the chitter chatter of English accents again. Techie boys, posh boys, twatty self-important boys… Felt like home already.

My guru called to wish us a good flight and as I had her on speaker everyone overheard when she loudly enquired ‘Have you taken your dog worming pills yet?’ Followed by ‘And has your shit been tested for parasites?’

All banter ceased and heads turned to stare at the freak show with the discernible bald patch. Nice one sista.

We then boarded, I attempted a glass of fizz. Two sips and night-night out like a light.

We must have bombed because I woke to the beautiful green green grass of Blighty down below.

2 hours later we were home and ‘oi oi saveloy’ there was the Cheshire Cat sitting in the garden purring and grinning from ear to ear.

Back to my little world far far away from the adventures of the last 4 months. Time to breath, eat and attempt to get messy on it at least once in the next 2 weeks.

*Please note that due to the comments of a self righteous bossy battle-axe I’ve used self control and refrained from using the cunt word throughout this entire post.

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!

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.