You know that thing inside you that stops you from saying stuff you probably shouldn’t? Yeah well mine’s fucked.

Yesterday someone said to me ‘One day we’re all going to die’. 

I nodded and agreed but in my head I was saying ‘Of course we are… Shut the fuck up you tedious twat’.

Obvs we’re all going to die ‘ONE DAY’,  but for every day we’re not dying,  we’re LIVING!  Duh.

So I’ve reached week 3 of Proton Beam Therapy.  I haven’t mentioned it much as felt it needed a full review before I passed comment.

(Like one of those people with the felicitous job of reviewing luxury spas and hotels.)

Anyway, I think now is a good time to post said review.  

And it’s 5 stars from me. 

The team is gorgeous, funny, warm, gracious, kind… Every positive adjective available to compliment people whom ‘point a laser beam from a 60ft machine, weighing 220 tonnes, creating light beams traveling at 2/3rds the speed of light through a 143ft cable’ at MY BRAIN.

Although we had a hiccup the other day when Bertha (the machine) decided to crash mid-session.  

I was screwed to the table in my head-hugging Catwoman mask listening to Blondie singing Atomic when Bertha suddenly shut down.  

I waited a minute. Then thought ‘Shit, they’ve all gone to lunch and forgotten me!’ 

Panic set in and suddenly I was The Man in the Iron Mask, only I was also fastened by the head to a goddamn fucking bench.  

The tears streamed and the screams rose but I couldn’t open my mouth…  So I raised a panic-stricken arm and waved frantically like a 5 year old chasing down the ice cream van. 

Thank fuck they saw me on the monitor and rushed to my rescue. 

No one had gone to lunch… Nincompoop!

Bertha needed her butt kicking though, so a hammer holding Oompa Loompa went subterranean and give her a good banging.  She perked up after that and we were cooking with protons again.

I also get a weekly tête-à-tête with my brilliant radio oncologist.  An adorable man who definitely got an A* in every single physics test he ever took. 

I make a list of critical questions beforehand so I don’t forget anything. This week’s list:

1. Can I get a prescription for medical marijuana?

2. How much hair will I lose.. like 100 millions strands or 100 thousand or just a few?

3. Can I get a prescription for medical marijuana?

I know I’m immensely lucky to receive the latest technology in radiation therapy. The insurance company denied it 3 times and on each occasion my docs fought back for me. 

Not sure what arguments they used… But if they hadn’t passed their doctor exams they’d have made fabulous defense lawyers.

Finally today I’m sharing a note I received from a dear friend.  Someone who wears so many hats for me, dad, brother, stand-in-husband, dance partner, barfly buddy…  I adore this man and the love I feel all around is what’s getting me through this fucked up 5 minutes in time. 

Dear Sarah

Most of the time I don’t know what to say, so I continue the bizarre nature of my world. 

While my heart is breaking as two of the most wonderful people I have ever met are going through a similar journey. 

You fill my thoughts and I spend each night sending the highest energy to you. 

The power of the universe can and will win. When you are through this we will start an Ashram somewhere? India? Arizona? Mexico? We have the power together. 

The energy around you is amazing and growing. We are all using the blog to help channel it. 

Post more, loads of F words…  it makes it so very funny.

If love had a value, you my dear girl are richer than Hatshepsut.

All my love ‘Dad’ xxxx

dad, brother, stand-in-husband, dance partner, barfly buddy…  

‘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.

‘A naked woman in heels is a beautiful thing. A naked man in shoes looks like a fool.’ Christian Louboutin

Lately my life’s become a set of fucked up life changing events separated by intermittent snacks and naps. 

Hence a little snack I had yesterday ended up going a bit Pete Tong.

After devouring a bountiful amount of fine Swiss chocolate I retired upstairs for a nap.  

It’s true that I’ve always been a person who wants to do a lot of stuff most of the time..  

But lately I find myself trapped in the body of a person who wants to do mostly fuck all most of the time.   

So I was surprised when en-route to my bed I randomly had the fancy to re-organise my shoe closet.

Perched on the floor whilst dispensing unwanted footwear to charity bag..  That old familiar déjà vu feeling wafted over me..  

Memories of dancing shoes, workout shoes, party shoes, fuck-me shoes.. there’s stacks of memories in shoes.  

And then it happened.. I experienced a pre-surgery-parallel-universe-out-of-this-goddamned-world seizure.  

Proof that I’m a hardcore hypochondriac..   And never do anything half ass. I also didn’t have any canine rectal valium at hand.

An urgent call was made to my gorgeous angel friend (aka my surgeon’s PA). 

She expedited hospital action where a nice man with a shiny beard rolled me into the CT for a swift scan. 

Next up.. Blood works and ouch.. Turns out it was Nurse Nancy’s first day and I was her first ever patient but luckily she had some deliciously distracting tattoos.

Home to await results. 

CT confirmed brain’s looking dope* post Bambi and my blood’s made of sterling stuff.   

*I’m reaching out to younger audience hence use of this new word preferred by teenagers to express excellence.

So there’s a little hiccup in the remedying of my ailment ..  My cocktails require spicing up.. And I need to abstain from all caffeine and find a new vice!  

Luckily one of my favourite vices is flying in on a jet plane in a few days time. 

“Not tonight darling, I’ve got a brain tumour.”

Having a brain tumour can be a great excuse to get out of doing all kinds of things…

And give you time to think about what’s important right now.

So subsequently I’ve finally made the big decision.

I’ve decided on who I’d like to evicit Bambi. Dr. Tall Dark & Handsome .. obvs. He even gave me a choice of hospital. University Medical Research Centre or Swanky Shiny 5* Lux. If you know me well enough you’ll know which one I picked.

What really tipped the balance was his gorgeous assistant. OMG I am in bloody love with her. The most fabulously efficient woman I’ve ever met. She even answers texts from distressed patients (me) at 7pm on a Saturday night.

We’ve moved the surgery up to Tuesday 5th March at 12pm EST. This seems to be a more auspicious day. And you know how I know this..

Astronomy … no astrology (I always get the two confused).

I asked a very gifted astrologer to shuffle some cards and run some numbers … and please… before you judge me on this .. make sure that you’re pretty bloody perfect and have all the answers.

This is what she said:

“The 5th is coming up as a good day for the surgeon.

Whatever is going on is something they’ve never encountered before or don’t know much about.

Finding answers will allay everyone’s fears, and I see you needing lots of rest but bouncing back.”

Yay well that sounds like good news all round. Apart from the bit about “never encountered before”. Maybe it’s a giant pea or a huge nut (pea-brain/nut-job.. get it?).

Anyway whatever Bambi’s genetic make-up is we’ll find out soon enough.

And in the meantime, I’m going to exploit her existence to get out of doing all the things I don’t feel like doing.

One thing I know about the dark… you can’t see in it.

I felt sick to my stomach in the elevator approaching the doctor’s office. What news did he have for me. “You have a week to live!” “Sorry it was just dust on the lens!” Maybe it was best to stay in the dark.. just turn around, go home and keep my head buried in the sand.

But no, that would be a really dumb ass thing to do.

The nurse took my blood pressure – perfection as usual, asked my height – 5ft 10in and then my weight – 8st give or take 2.

Doc entered the room and I’m expecting it to all kick off. “You’re a dead woman walking – might as well say your goodbyes now.”

But instead we chatted about Tolkien, Imran Kahn and Brexit; and in-between we touched on the subject of brain tumours.

We then proceeded to look at some unusual abstract artwork – pictures of my brain – one of which I likened to a crab (see below).

It was concluded that Bambi would be served with an an eviction notice on Thursday 7th March. That’s two weeks and you’re out bitch! Out on your ear – or technically speaking out and then in a ziplock bag on your way to the path lab.

M and I left the doctor’s office resigned to the fact that war was pending. And decided to have our first strategy meeting at the nearest Starbucks. Not long after finishing my latte I felt that now familiar feeling of deja vu creeping in and I abruptly vanished into my parallel universe. I was gone for a couple of minutes before the habitual smell and then taste signalled the end of the seizure.

But OMG as soon as it was over I had a light bulb moment.

Caffeine of course is a trigger! So that’s it, my coffee bean days are over. From now on I’m a tiresome decaf tea totaler. All I need now is an a-line skirt and a hessian bag.

Eviction Notice Served!