You should see the shit I DON’T post. Which sits in my folder entitled ‘I find this hilarious, but some uptight fuckers won’t.’

OMFG we watched the BBC2 TV show ‘Surgeons’. They documented a brave young man who had similar brain op to me except this poor boy had to be awake throughout so they could monitor his speech.

I’m so fecking fortunate I was asleep as I don’t own the strength of character to have been conscious while they fiddled with my brain. 

I most likely would have ‘william shatner’d’ my Tuesday pants (although I don’t actually think I was wearing any at the time). 

Later in the show he was given his prognosis. He had a Grade 3 malignant tumour and was informed he couldn’t be cured but his condition would hopefully be controlled. Same as me.

I felt sad for him, as he was only 20. And he will now be feeling just like me..  Like someone is permanently holding a gun to his head. Although luckily, also like me, he did have a very handsome, talented and emphatic surgeon.

But I’m 52 soon and even though I’m sure I’ll still have a full and fun life ahead I don’t have my ‘whole’ life ahead like he should have.  

Obvs there’s things I still need to do..

A. Skinny dip with Brad Pitt
B. Frolic with gorillas in Rwanda
C. See my lil’ boy star in a Tarantino movie

Luckily this lovely chap had an amazingly supportive fam’ and that means so much when you’re in a serious life threatening fucked up situation.

If you found yourself in this position and were on your own with no support it would be a double whammy of really shit luck.

I know I’m incredibly lucky in so many ways. I have so much loving support from so many gorgeous people around the world.

And it turns out.. You never really know a man (or woman) until you get a brain tumour and he/she has to stop everything to take care of you for a while.

Short of having to wipe my ass M has done everything for me over the last few weeks.

It’s not easy physically or emotionally when you suddenly have to care for the person who’s the centre of your world.

Everyone asks M ‘How’s Sarah doing?’ And luckily most people also ask ‘And how are you doing?’

It’s important to not forget the burden of the poor bastard who’s stuck with walking the dog, washing your knickers and loading the dishwasher every day.

After all, how was he to know that a drunken game of spin the bottle and a one night stand in Bermuda 15 years ago was going to end like this!

me and mr incredible


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‘You only go around once, but if you play your cards right, once is enough.’ Frank Sinatra

I was just thinking the other day that there has to be some benefit to having a goddamn mother-fucking brain tumour.

Then it suddenly dawned on me. If you play your cards right you get to join an elite circle.

And so I’m now a member of two exclusive clubs. And they each come with a gold card. One’s called the Cancer Card and the other’s called the Brain Tumour Card.

When you carry these cards you acquire many benefits. They can get you out of almost anything and come with no pre-set spending limit.. It’s just like having a black Amex.

Toting these cards can excuse you from virtually any social obligation you don’t fancy attending. Lunches, dinners, parties, weddings, walking the dog.

All you need to do is flash your card and you get an instant ‘out of jail’. It works for almost anything.

‘Oh I’m so sorry I forgot your birthday/anniversary/christmas card but I’ve got a goddamn fucking brain tumour and I can hardly even recollect my own name or walk in a straight line.’

It’s also great for getting what you want. So when M’s watching sport or some monotonous long-winded-shit history program on the television and I come into the room and say ‘Can we watch something else?’ His response is ’But I’m watching this!’  Then I retaliate with ‘But I’ve got brain cancer!’ Works like a dream every time.

Or when another package lands on the porch from The Outnet or Lulu Lemon I get ‘Don’t you have enough stuff?  Do you really need more?’ I can answer this with ‘Why would you say that? Are you suggesting I might die soon?’

So to anyone who’s eligible for these ‘members only’ cards, enjoy it’s easy access, instant approval and great benefits!

No credit history?
No job?
No photo ID?
No problem!

Don’t leave home without it!

Footnote: There are many ways to play your cards.. I have particularly fond memories of a game of strip poker in Bermuda circa 1994. My guru and me were shrewd enough to each put on 12 pairs of knickers before the game began.

I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m doing it my way.

I made an important life changing decision today but I’ll get to that in a little while.

We had another appointment to meet the radiology team.  This time, the lovely people I’ll be seeing 5 days a week for 6 weeks.

First I had to pee in a minuscule cup. As always my aim was off, I got it on my hands, shoes, the loo, the floor and all over the cup.  The shocking thing though was the colour of it.. Fluorescent Orangina, without the fizz, swishing around. 

Clearly, I hadn’t consumed enough water since the contrast MRI yesterday where they pumped me full of fluid to see if Bambi was still lurking.

The reason they performed the pee test was to see if I was pregnant.. Even though I’d informed them I haven’t had a period in forever they still felt it prudent to check. 

We waited with baited breath and I mentioned to M that this could be the first menopausal immaculate conception baby ever, or better still..   Twins. 

It took an unusually long time for the results, which convinced me it WAS twins.

Naturally I started thinking names. If it’s girls.. Bunny and Hunny.. And boys.. Danger and Ranger.

Eventually results came back and surprise surprise no little menopause babies for us. We’ll just have to get more pets to fill the empty nest. Maybe I can play the cancer card to get the 3 donkeys I always wanted. Boli, Dom and Krug. 

So even though I still don’t know if I’m having Photon or Proton therapy the wheels have been set into spinning motion and the biggest deal is the radiotherapy mask which is essential when attempting to eradicate evil brain cells at the same time as trying to keep the good guys.

The procedure was explained..  it would feel like a spa treatment.  

I wasn’t falling for this and decided to pop a couple of Valium just to be on the safe side.  So by the time the process started I was feeling spa-like relaxed and they could’ve told me I was in the Mandarin Oriental Miami and I might’ve believed them. The moulding and sculpting took place and was followed by a swift CT scan.

Me getting moulded (or ‘molded’ if you’re American)

So the huge life changing decision we had to make came next.

What type of mask would I like?   

I was offered a bland selection but nothing appealed.  I asked the nice radio man if I could have a superhero mask and he looked at me in a blank kind of shocked way and said ‘Well we do this for children sometimes, but I’ve never been asked to do it for an adult before.’   ‘Yes, but is it possible?’  Was my response  ‘Okay, well I can show you a few kids ones I’ve done.’  He answered.  

He then revealed a selection of impressive photos – a pink unicorn, the Incredible Hulk and Wonder Woman.

It was a tough choice as I’d been secretly dreaming of Spider-Man. But then I thought, maybe I’d like something more feminine and enquired what his opinion was re. making me the face of a blow-up sex doll.  

M stamped his foot at this and said NO WAY’

Then we moved back to superheroes and I suggested a sultry looking Catwoman. We liaised over some provocative images of Michelle Pfeiffer and Halle Berry then found a sexy Catwoman compromise and all agreed that would do the trick.. Minus the latex suit of course.

The blank canvas

So there you have it.  Biggest decision made today and I’m going to face this terra-fucking-frying treatment as goddamn Catwoman!  

MEOW! 

‘You can’t arrest me, I’m a rock star’. (Sid Vicious)

What do you get when you put two super-sexy high-powered middle-aged Englishwomen, an 18-year-old thespian skinhead, a designer Australian Labradoodle with a questionable haircut and a bag of ‘special ’ gummy bears on a sofa together?

High as heck baby. 

One got jiggly, one got giggly, one got wiggly and one got licky.  Then they all got excessively munchy.

Luckily we’d pre-emptied this scenario and there was an extensive Japanese sushi banquet in the kitchen waiting to be inhaled.

I of course was an outsider looking in..  A spectator watching the spectacle unfold.  My current situation and cocktail of narcotics probably wouldn’t have been an agreeable mixer so I had to sit on the side lines of this little soiree.  

You might well think that Saturday nights in the house of a brain tumour person would be a tad tedious and tame..  But not around here honey.  It’s all about love and other drugs.

Having a goddamn mother-fucking brain tumour isn’t going to eliminate the good-time-party-girl in me.   

After all..  A little party never killed nobody and who knows what fucked up shit tomorrow might bring.

Technically I’m a brain cancer virgin but I feel like I’ve been on the game forever.

I met with the radiology team and I’m now confident I could pass my O-Level physics.  I failed first time.

Proton or Photon..  I had no idea what either was. I know what a futon is but apparently it’s not related.

Proton is better than Photon I know that much. And I know this because doc drew lovely descriptive pics for me.  Proton is aimed at just the cancer and has no exit point. Photon, not so tempting as needs an exit..  It also fries more healthy cells.  I can’t afford to lose more precious brain cells!  The downside to Proton is possible permanent hair loss..  But what would I prefer..  Hair or brain cells?  It’s a no brainer.   (No pun intended.)   I may be trending the comb-over. 

So the obstacle is the minefield of negotiating with US insurance companies..  They don’t like to fork out for Proton but my fabulous docs assured me they’d fight it.  If it doesn’t happen then Photon it is..  That, or I could just stick my head in the microwave for a few minutes every day.

They also told me I’d need to be fitted with a special kind of mask.  I requested the Spiderman kind… they said they’d consider it.

Every doc I’ve met post surgery has congratulated me on how well I look.  And it definitely wasn’t a chat-up line. 

I don’t look sick, but inside my head is in trauma. So a life lesson I’ve learnt recently..  We seriously have no idea what kind of awful fucked up shit people are dealing with in their private life’s..  So we just need to be kind..  Simple! 

Oh and a final observation for today..  People who refer to cancer as a ‘journey’ need to shut the fuck up.  Unless you plan on taking me on a five star first class vacation to the Maldives please don’t say it.


Practice what you preach .. or fuck off.

So my beautiful Guru has been here for a few delightful diverting days. 

We’ve done fuck all apart from lounge around in our pjs emulating lazy sexual positions and having really deep and meaningful chats.  

On her first night on the way up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire (dog in tow):

Guru:

‘I hope you’re taking one of your cats to bed  too…  They’re proven to cure brain cancer if you let them sleep on your head.’

Me:

‘For fucks sake.’

Next day…

Guru:

‘I think we should blow that candle out right now…   You’ve breathed in enough toxic paraffin for one night. You need to buy soy candles in future.’

Me: 

‘Fuck off.  My doctor said I can drink neat paraffin if I feel like it.’

An hour later…

Guru:

‘Right, here’s what you need to do, throw away your laundry detergent and replace it with baking soda and vinegar. Next throw away your dryer sheets and make your own with rags and lavender oil. All that Estee Lauder skincare has to go in the bin and put nothing on your face except what you can eat. Coconut oil all the way baby.’

Me:

‘Fuck off… I’d rather die!’

She’s also into juicing lots of green shit and making swamp water and she’s an advocate of eating all kinds of cancer fighting crap I’ve never even heard of. 

Me trying to join in…

Some people might say… You haven’t lived until you’ve shit yourself at least once…  And I’d die for this woman… But I’m not drinking that pig-pen juice.

Then right before bed the next night, when I went to make my bedtime cup of builders tea I was bombarded with a matronly…

Guru:

‘This is what you need to drink at bedtime… You need to drink golden milk… It’s turmeric, coconut milk, red hot chilli peppers and something else I can’t remember.’

Me:

‘Will you just shut the fuck up!’

I know I need all of Bambi’s baggage dispensed from my brain and there’s various patterns of thought on this. 

Go down the hardcore toxic chemical route of radio and chemo and end up sticking to the fridge every time I walk past it.

Or take the gentle holistic route and hope that kale and apricot kernels will do the trick.  

My Guru is educating me… Or at least trying to… In the more natural healing kind of way… And I definitely will be taking some of it on board.

I particularly like the hairy coconut balls she makes. 

And she gives a bloody good sexy coconut oil massage while she’s hand feeding me the hairy balls. 

If anyone wants her secret recipe for these delectable cancer cures (or a coconut Bermudian massage) just send me a cheque for 999999 thousand tax-free Bermuda dollars and I’ll happily forward you her number.  

I LOVE LOVE LOVE this girl with ALL MY HEART. And as the old saying goes… ‘Friend’s are like condons – they protect you when things get hard.’

PS. My gorgeous baby boy and my Ab Fab bestie from Chelsea are arriving on another jet plane tonight and I’m dying for a dose of both of them.  

It’s a dog’s life..

I kind of know how dogs feel.. Especially dogs that live in pleasant houses with pleasant owners.. 

As like a dog I sleep, I go for the odd walk around the block, then I come home and sleep again. I guess the only difference is I don’t shit in public, I don’t hump inanimate objects and I don’t sniff ass. 

When I’m awake I’m consumed with déjà vu.. This often indicates a seizure is pending.. But not always.

Being on the edge of a seizure is goddamn fucking frustrating because you just wanna get it out.. It’s like being on the edge of a sneeze or an orgasm.. But you can’t quite make it happen.

Conveniently it appears I’ve become allergic to housework.  I was dusting yesterday when things got trippy and Brad Pitt appeared on the sofa.. Which made my face tingle.. At least it was only my face. 

The seizure ran its course, then ended with the acrid smell and taste before I was transported back to reality.  

Obvs I can’t carry on seeing Brad lounging on my settee so a swift visit to my neuro and an increase of cocktails should put a stop to it. I won’t think of myself as overly medicated.. Just pharmaceutically fabulous! 

I also met my oncologist.. A charming man but not sure he appreciated my humour.  Although after we’d played a game of funny bone smacking and feet tickling I’m pretty sure we bonded.

Next up is a radiography consult.. But in the meantime I’m wallowing in the delight of one of my perfectly darling oldest besties here to look after me..   She’s already demonstrated the best way to have ‘lazy sick person sex’.   

Instructions to follow. 

The Sex Guru and Me mid orgasm circa 1999