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.