Not sure if it’s my eloquent British accent but honestly the US medical system have treated me like a princess throughout this freaky fiasco.
I have an exemplary A Team Royal Entourage, which must at the very least match that of HRH Megan, the new Duchess of Sussex.
I‘m being cared for by unquestionably brilliant people.. Neurosurgeons, neurologists, oncologists, radiologists, doctors, nurses. Not to forget my incredible group of beautiful friends who are flying in from all over to cook for me, enterain me and walk the dog.
The only team members missing from my ‘inner circle’ are the stylists, make up artists and hairdressers.
I even have a PA, Chauffer and Chief Protection Officer (AKA M), which incidentally came in handy today when a suspicious looking package arrived from Latvia.
I suggested M put on his bicycle helmet – take said package to garage for inspection and controlled explosion.
Instead he bravely opened it on kitchen counter with a pair of kitchen scissors.
Rather than an assemblage of brightly coloured cables and alarm clocks the box revealed a lovely selection of heart shaped beach stones sent to me by my gorgeous sister-in-law as a symbol of our love and the personal significance they hold.
I’ve also discovered that having a brain tumour is a full-time job and having an efficient PA to pick up the slack is imperative– there are appointments to be made, insurance companies to negotiate with, thank you notes to write.. It’s round-the-clock non-stop.
I barely have time to squeeze in a mani and wax – although I might not need that for a while once the chemo and radio kicks in.
It’s time for M to iron my pjs and run me a bubble bath now.
Good night all, I hope you have sexy dreams or flying dreams (they’re my favourite kind).
P.S. There are no mother-fuckers or cunts in this post because some of my friends mums are reading my blog and there’s concern my cursing is offensive.
Sorry about that!