‘You are what you eat.’ Are you fuck! When did I eat a brain tumour?

An old friend came to visit. When we were young I spent much time correcting her linguistics.

‘Are you feeling fat-e-guude?’ She enquired not long after arrival.

‘What the fuck’s fat-e-guude?’ I replied.

‘You know, fat-e-guude’ she said again.

‘Oh for fucks sake – you mean fatigued?’

The next day we cycled to the beach.

‘Wow, what a beautiful lake!’ she exclaimed after spotting a vast expanse of water.

Incredulously, I responded ‘Are you insane? That’s the goddamn fucking Atlantic Ocean.’

Later in the week M and I were chatting about his old uni alumni.

‘What’s an alumni?’ My friend enquired as she entered the room.

I glanced at M and then turned to my friend and replied

‘It’s what you call a support group for people with perverse sexual fetishes.’

‘Omg! Really? What type of fetishes?’ She squealed.

‘Mostly sexual.’ I pointed out again.

At this point M couldn’t bear my jesting and told my friend what an alumni really is. Killjoy!

She’s been a great distraction from Bambi’s fuckery and doesn’t complain when I roll out of bed at noon and crawl back in at sundown.

I love this whacky beautiful babe so much but sadly she’s now departed and I’m back on the evil vomituous chemo.

I fucking hate this poison and as each day passes I feel like Captain Blackbeard’s mutinous deckhand being forced to walk the plank.

After a while I find myself washed up on a desert island. That island being my bed. And while I’m castaway I have plenty of time to contemplate.

This afternoon I woke from a 6 hour nap after dreaming about the epitaph I’d like inscribed on my tombstone…

‘She died doing what she loved, swearing like a sailor.’

My fabulous friend posing for the centre-fold!

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At the stage where my mind thinks I’m 26, my humour thinks I’m 12… and my body thinks I’m dead.

Seems I get a couple of weeks between chemo sessions when my brain isn’t overloaded with fuckery so I can be normal (ish).

I don’t feel the need to take a daily 6 hour nap and I have enough energy to hold a conversation for more than 3 minutes without yawning.

I look for joy in food… Don’t find much, but it’s a better feeling than wanting to puke at the thought.

So due to this unexpected lift of chemo fog, I’ve become curiously enlightened and found the answer to some therapeutic alleviation.

It consists of 3 simple ingredients: love, positive energy and a sprinkling of fucks. That’s it.

Number 1: No one needs a plethora of friends in order to be happy. A handful of beautiful diamonds is worth so much more than a 1000 bitchface cunts.

Surround yourself with the people who know your true value and vice versa.

If you find yourself free-falling and your people are just watching you fall… Then they simply aren’t your people. Stick with the ones who will catch you and not run away squawking.

Courage is contagious after all.

Number 2: Try and find something positive in every situation.

For instance, yesterday I fell off my bicycle whilst crossing the railway tracks and my first thought afterwards was ‘Wow, thank fuck there wasn’t a train coming.’

Chemo’s gruesome – but on the upside it’s destroying Bambi’s bellend bastard babies and it’s getting me back into my super skinny jeans (If you rolled your eyes at that you’re just jealous).

Number 3: Apparently having an expansive vocabulary of swear words is a sign of intelligence and may be beneficial to the mind and body.

Swearing is also proven to help with pain as the benefits include increased circulation, elevated endorphins, and an overall sense of feeling motherfucking fantastic.

And as Humpty Dumpty said “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.”

There you have it. Possibly Betty Swollocks but seems to be working for me.

Just because I carry it well doesn’t mean it doesn’t get really fucking heavy sometimes.

Day 1. Back in my prevailing reality. Started with a drive to my old anxiety inducing friend the MRI machine.

By the time I’d necked a few sedatives it looked more like a cozy cocoon so I was content to crawl inside for a nap while a handsome stranger fiddled with a needle and injected a pretty purple dye into my arm.

This dye would travel to my brain and illuminate any signs that Bambi might be attempting to show her cock-juggling-thunder-cunt-face again.

After the procedure I was feeling contently languorous so went home and back to my bed.

How life can fuck with you. This time yesterday I was frolicking with my friends in paradise.

Woke at 6pm, watched M devour his supper, went back to bed via a disturbingly insane episode of The Handmaids Tale.

Day 2. Rocked up at my oncologist’s office at 10am.

Had a weigh-in at 10.15am… Lost another 4 lbs. Got told off. FFS. There has to be some benefit to cancer.

MRI images back and my brain’s looking pretty and grey with no sign of Bambi for now.

The only slice of info I didn’t quite fathom was when oncol mentioned 5 rare and unusual mutations with names so obscure I’ll never remember.

That got me thinking about Mutant Ninja Turtles.

There were 4. So I’ve named mine Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello and Bellatrix Lestrange (she’s no. 5).

Bellatrix is the only one who might be targetable should Bambi rear her butt-ugly face again.

The rest are immune to anything short of a high velocity assault weapon, because they’re so exceptionally peculiar, scientists seem to know fuck all about them. Buggery bollocks.

I felt like crying on the drive home.

This is a new random phenomenon for me.

Not because I’m scared or in pain but because I’m tired.

Tired of all the bullshit and of being told what to do and when to do it.

Tired of the meds and needles. It’s like being a drug addict but without the benefits.

Tired of feeling tired all the goddamn fucking time.

Seriously, how soon after waking up in the morning is it acceptable to take a nap?

I might seem strong (and hilariously funny) because I am. But even strong women need to have their hand held sometimes.

My husband and my closest friends know this about me and they’re always there to hold my hand when it needs holding.

For anyone who has cancer or any other serious illness this is an invaluable gift. To feel loved is everything.

Stick with the people who pull the magic out of you and not the madness.

And lucky me… I have another Blighty Bestie arriving tonight for two more weeks of bestie bliss.

Not only is my short term memory fucked but so is my short term memory.

They told me this could be a side effect of brain surgery.

Some memories I might not mind forgetting, like the time my girlfriend held my hair back while I expunged the contents of my stomach in a gutter on the Old Brompton Road.. Or the time my baby did a huge shit in a posh hotel swimming pool in Barbados and I had to scoop it out before anyone noticed..

But I really don’t want to forget any of the people I’ve met along the way. Not even the bad ones. Because how will I know they’re dickheads the next time I see them.

Mostly I don’t want to forget my good friends.. And hopefully I won’t because they aren’t ‘short term’. I’m so lucky to be blessed with the most incredible bunch of beautiful besties and I can’t believe for a second that I could ever forget any of their gorgeous faces.

Though maybe if I do lose my short term memory I’ll gain something new.

I read about a woman who woke up from a coma and could speak Mandarin. I don’t think I’d find that very handy.

But what if I woke up and could sing like Lady Gaga.. Maybe I’d forget about Brad and shift my attention to Bradley!

Incidentally, a couple of friends have asked if I’ve decided on hospital underwear, yes I have.. I’m going for ‘days of the week’ knickers.. so if I do forget everything else at least I’ll know which day it is.