‘Oh shut the fuck up and have a drink.’ Me as a therapist.

Arrived in Bermuda with all the energy of a 14ft python who’d just eaten a fattened cow.

3 hours on the tarmac waiting to take off for a 2 hour flight. WTF American Airlines.

1st night was like a scene from a Stephen King novel. I opened the wardrobe and there he was… waiting for me… the giant flying roach… flip flop in hand I got into bed and waited.

I then clocked him spying me through a crack in the door, 10ft tentacles flaying around. After noticing my 6 inch scar and undercut he determined he was no match and fucked off back into the crevice he’d come from.

Woke to blue skies and the warm fuzzy feeling of ‘home’. Blissful day filled with birthday celebrations, delicious food and a dip in the heavenly crystal clear ocean.

The night ended with a successful flip flop splattering of cockroach #2 who was clearly cockier than his mate from last night.

FYI vermin: I have a goddamn brain tumour and no man-eating-mother-fucking-roach is ever giving me the heebie geebies again.

When I first arrived here nearly 30 years ago, someone said to me ‘You know what Bermuda is? It’s 60,000 alcoholics clinging to a rock.’

‘Fantastic.’ Was my immediate response, ‘I’ve moved to paradise!’

Times have changed since those glory days and just as well because tonight at a party, while chatting to old friends and neighbours, I downed one glass of fizz and was ready for bed. FFS Bambi.

And btw Brad, when the movie rights for Bambi sell, you’ve got stiff Bermudian competition as leading man. There’s a handsome Mr Kempe up for the role, and he’s not of the Spandex Ballet kind.

Sunday followed with more frolicking. At one point I came out of the club pool with my hair swept back and received an extended once over from 3 members of the super bitch wives club. Oh fuck, was I flashing a nipple? Or worse, had I exposed my vajayjay? What were they looking at?

Then I realised it was my impressively large bald patch and scar. They were probably wondering how a rough old slag could have gained access to such a prestigious establishment.

Gorgeous dinner on the beach with one Bermuda bestie followed by a sleepover with another Bermuda bestie and my 12 year old goddaughter.

Her mother had told her all about brain tumours but not much about the ‘birds and the bees’.

So took it upon myself to give her a few pointers and attempt to not expose her mothers overly edited version of her own youth.

The conversation commenced with a ‘pure white flower’ being the symbolisation of virginity and how this ‘pure white flower’ should remain pure until marriage.

‘Mummy told me I must remain pure until I’m at least 35 or married. Just like her.’ She told me.

Well I could accept the first sentence of this statement with a sweet nodding (fake) smile.

But when the second sentence hit my ears I choked on air and fell backwards into a nearby oleander tree.

I’ve known her mother for 30 years and luckily for her she’s in my tighty-tight circle of ‘besties’ and what happens in the circle must stay in the circle.

However, there’s a tinge of regret in not disclosing the truth now because after emerging from the pool that afternoon she declared…

‘You look like that famous character from Game of Thrones!’

‘Aww,’ I responded ‘Which one… Daenerys Targaryen?‘No,’ she smirked ‘I was thinking of The Hound. You have similar scar and haircut.’

Fuck off bitch. I guess we’re both old dogs.

Finally today and on a more serious and sobering note. I’ve requested that she and my goddaughter provide the eulogy at my eventual funeral.

I’ve given them strict instructions that it must be goddamn funny as hell or else I’ll be back as a poltergeist to haunt them for all eternity.


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

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

I don’t sugar coat shit.. I’m not Willy Wonka.

Buckle up baby we’re in for a rough ride to the OR today but let’s stop en-route, load up on narcotics and get comfortably numb so we don’t shit ourselves or run for the hills at the last minute.  

I’m gowned up in my absurd backless ensemble + banana yellow socks et al. Attempted to put on Tuesday knickers only to be advised these aren’t hospital issue and had to replace with sexless paper pants. M acquired a black marker and scrawled ‘C U Next Tues Bambi’ across the back.

Soon I found myself in a labyrinth of state of the art neurosurgical heaven.  I was feeling happy and relaxed after the racy little cocktail I’d just necked and was so busy staring at the starry ceiling completely forgot that my skull was about to be delved into by what seemed like a team of 85 medical professionals and a fancy pink unicorn elegantly cantering around the perimeter of the room.

Five hours later I woke with a monumental sanitary napkin wrapped around my head and my knickers had been replaced by a bright pink catheter attached to a clear plastic handbag thingy which was busy collecting pale yellow fluid from my bladder.  I’m a trend setter sweetie.

I was wheeled into recovery and attended to by a very handsome TV-soap-star-worthy doctor who continuously stroked my arm and asked if I knew what my name was.  ‘Yes I know what my name is, but what’s yours honey?’ I found myself repeating. 

Next time I woke I was in a private room on the ICU.  Yay no sharing.  I met many people in scrubs and was informed that Bambi had doubled in size in a week .. fucking fat yellow cow!  But she was out in her entirety and currently being scrutinised under a microscope in the path lab. We’d have some answers by Friday with any luck.

I was asked many questions to determine how much of my short term memory I might have lost.. What’s your name? Sarah. How old are you? 47. Where are we? Disneyland. What’s your husband’s name: Brad. Seems spot on to me!

Meanwhile my phenomenally artistic and beautiful ICU nurses Heather and Nicole have magic markers and made me ‘days of the week’ knickers out of hospital issue pants.. what totally cool chicks they are.  I’m now all set for Thursday and Friday at least.

But what about Brad?

So they didn’t know exactly who Bambi was or why she was there but it didn’t matter, she had to come out – there was simply no room for her in my headspace. Surgery was scheduled for Monday.

But it was only Thursday. I’d had every test available and no way was I was sitting in that hospital room eating brown food whilst waiting for D Day. So I discharged myself and went home for the weekend. I needed to get on with important stuff… pedicure, manicure, waxing, purchasing some new knickers etc.

My departure was authorised on the condition I return the following day to meet my neurosurgeon.

I met with Dr. Cowboy Boots at 11am, I was thrown by his attire mostly because you don’t expect a brain surgeon to look like he’s been rounding up cattle. Although maybe more concerning was the face mask he wore – turned out he was sick with the flu and just being thoughtful.

He was a LOVELY man and he spent ages telling me how he was going to shave my head, cut my skull open, remove Bambi, fix my skull with screws and plates and sellotape and stitch me back up. He even offered to shave my whole head so I don’t look lopsided – very thoughtful – but no thanks – I’d rather sport the Phil Oakey/Human League 80’s look.

Dr Boots explained the risks. One of the biggest being the chance I might not recognise faces I haven’t known for a long time.

So I’ll say this now – if in the future I see you on the street and totally blank you – I apologise in advance – I’m not being one of those people who pretends not to know you even though we’ve been introduced 14 times. You might just have to give me a gentle reminder re. the level of intimacy in our relationship.

But more disturbingly than this – Dr Boots informed me that many patients no longer recognise famous faces! This would be a catastrophe because I know for a fact that one day I will meet Brad Pitt. It is set in the stars to happen and I know this because my two best friends Amanda and Claudine have met Brad – on separate occasions – and it’s karma that I will also meet him one day. But if I don’t recognise him how will I know it’s him?!

Based on this devasting news I decided to cancel Monday’s op and seek a second opinion!