Being able to respond with sarcasm within seconds of a dumb comment or question is the sign of a healthy brain. I’m not being rude. I’m just getting some much needed exercise.

When diagnosed with incurable goddamn brain cancer on Valentine’s Day** I knew, no matter what, I’d make it to my blue-eyed boy’s leavers ball (that’s graduation to Americans).

**Thx Cupid you dumb dick… You’re supposed to stick the arrow through my heart not my brain.

Anyway…

Not only did I make it to the ball but I drank, ate, socialised, went in the photo booth 32 times, attempted the bumper cars, but M dragged me away hissing ‘Have you forgotten you’ve got a massive fucking hole in your head?’

I enquired to our housemaster, ‘Sir, please be honest, is my kid in your top 10 naughtiest kids ever?’

‘Oh no’ was his reply.

I sighed waiting for something further.

Housemaster transitioned to stern teacher face and added ‘He’s in my top 3!’

YES!!! My blue-eyed boy’s going far in this world.

So my ultimate goal was not to expire prior to midnight. I lasted ‘til 2am… Screw you Cinderella.

I needed to get the most out of the beautiful gown gifted by my gorgeous girls.

We spent the weekend with bestest friends. One of whom travelled from Aus that am, played a round of golf that pm, then drove 200 miles to get pissed with us. That’s friendship!

The evening consisted of delicious lamb, erotic sexual poses against an old rover and Cards Against Humanity.

We laughed, cursed and spewed hilarious profanities. I didn’t inherit my potty mouth… I learned it from my foul-mouthed friends.

My baby sis’ and I visited the cemetery and left flowers for our beloved grandparents. The only adults who showed me unconditional love as a child.

Dinner on a lake and another debouched night followed.

Then a smart party hosted by Lord and Lady Q which aptly ended in a face licking competition. I’ve yet to catch Lord Q, however her Ladyship’s always up for it.

Then to London for 4 more nights of love.

Love arrived from Bermuda aka my gorgeous Guru and Godson laden with the bags of green cow fodder she still tries to cram inside me.

Next, love and lunch from Sussex. The wonderful women who I always wished could be my real mummy and sister.

Dinner on the Thames with dearest friends where I attempted a citizen’s arrest after an enibirated youth pissed in the river.

A 6 hr liquid lunch in Notting hill. Old friends, new friends, crackheads wandering by… One of whom became aggressive/racist/way too opinionated …

So I took matters into my own hands and stood up, lifted my hair and declared…

‘Seriously? You think you’re having a tough time? Look at this… I’ve got goddamn fucking brain cancer and weeks to live (slight exaggeration). Shut the fuck up, sit down and have a drink… Or fuck off.’

You can’t waste time trying to understand idiots. Unless you’re the fuckface whisperer, which I’m not.

An old acquaintance wandered by and stopped to interrogate me on the use of profanities in my blog… I replied ‘Did you know, the clitorous has 8000 nerve endings, but still isn’t as sensitive as some of the cunts I’ve met over the years.’

Whoops 1 less reader. I spend a lot of time realising I should have stopped talking 10 minutes ago.

Later that night something triggered the ‘funny turns’. It’s been two drama-free months then suddenly… bam! Extended periods of deja-vu again.

Rest was ordered or M would have strapped me to the bed (and not in an S&M kind of way). It seems I’ve become a pro at choking on air, falling up stairs and tripping over nothing.

Once up and about I purchased 27 lottery tickets… It’s the only way I’ll get to live in my favourite Holland Park postcode.

A final post-gay-pride supper with two gorgeous men I’d married had they not been gay.

Followed by a farewell lunch with beloved friends and hugs with my blue-eyed boy before heading to Heathrow for the long haul back.

So there you have it. I’m living proof that you really can fuck brain cancer and live a carefree-ish life… Well for 2.5 weeks anyway.

Next week the motherfucking toxic chemo bandwagon will be rolling into town to start the next chapter of thundercunt cancer treatment.

Bring it on bitch.

Advertisements

I’m a lady but ‘fuck that shit’ is still a perfectly good substitute for ‘no’

Imagine you’re about to embark on a trip to an unexplored planet far far away. Let’s call it Jedha.

I’m Princess Leia and M’s Hans Solo… Or maybe Chewbacca depending on time of day.

That’s what it felt like when we packed up and drove Darth Vader aka Reggie Maddog to Boston en-route to London.

Before we departed, friends asked ‘You must be excited for you trip?’

TBH borderline goddamn fucking terrified was more accurate. Even though I’ll admit I’ve contributed my fair share of carbon emissions to our planet I was now entering unknown territory.

My heightened senses fluster me. Smell, taste, sound, sight has revamped. Tolerance, energy, stamina has reshaped.

I kept thinking ‘Fuck, what if I shlitz my Vicki’s during check-in or what if my titanium skull sets the bells ringing in security or what if my brain blows at 40,000 ft.’

I was vexed at the thought of not being able to neck my usual aperitif of 3 shots of fizz in the lounge then 3 more onboard prior to passing out for 6 hours.

Fuckerty fuck this was going to be a tiresome journey.

The drive to Boston took 7 arduously dull hours, longer than the goddamn 3500 mile flight to Blighty.

Vador spent the road trip farting and barking at random truckers.

We finally arrived at my gorgeous sis/bro in-laws picture perfect home at 2am. Vador spent the night pacing with his lightsaber, a stick he’d found in the garden. At one point I woke with him sitting on my chest and I swear he said ‘I am your father.’

By the following afternoon it was obvious, I’ve become the dullest houseguest in the history of dull houseguests. I spent 23 of the 24 hrs at this house sleeping.

I finally pulled myself together and we left our gutsy hosts with their captor Vader and trotted off to the airport.

We cantered through security with no frisking required and galloped to the lounge.

All very relaxed. And fuck me it was bloody marvellous to hear the chitter chatter of English accents again. Techie boys, posh boys, twatty self-important boys… Felt like home already.

My guru called to wish us a good flight and as I had her on speaker everyone overheard when she loudly enquired ‘Have you taken your dog worming pills yet?’ Followed by ‘And has your shit been tested for parasites?’

All banter ceased and heads turned to stare at the freak show with the discernible bald patch. Nice one sista.

We then boarded, I attempted a glass of fizz. Two sips and night-night out like a light.

We must have bombed because I woke to the beautiful green green grass of Blighty down below.

2 hours later we were home and ‘oi oi saveloy’ there was the Cheshire Cat sitting in the garden purring and grinning from ear to ear.

Back to my little world far far away from the adventures of the last 4 months. Time to breath, eat and attempt to get messy on it at least once in the next 2 weeks.

*Please note that due to the comments of a self righteous bossy battle-axe I’ve used self control and refrained from using the cunt word throughout this entire post.

I’d never get away with murder. My hair just gets everyfuckingwhere.

So after 7 weeks of radio my mind’s been blown, Catwoman’s hung up her whiskers and I deserve a medal for not stabbing anyone with a fork. 

No more fuckerty-fuck brain fucking for me. 

Ecstatic it’s over, but glum to say bye-bye to the gorgeous proton team.

The last days were exceptionally vile.  I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t tell which end needed the loo.

It felt like bad morning sickness. But I don’t believe in immaculate conception and my name’s not Mary so I know I’m not up the duff.

At one point I considered throwing myself out the bedroom window but it was raining and I didn’t want to die wet. 

Whilst I was Catwoman for 660 mins (33 sessions) and screwed to a table unable to move or speak I had plenty of time to contemplate.

I realised I’m now one of those ‘living proof’ types that demonstrates ‘anyone’s world can turn on a dime.’

For fucks sake, in January I was swimming in the ocean with a pod of frisky dolphins.

I’ve been enlightened and this isn’t the ‘canned’ bullshit kind of enlightenment.   This is real life shit.

When you have an annoyingly incurable thunder-cunt disease the best thing to do is look at the positives.   

You can always find some. 

Mine… 

Weight loss… Oh come on… I see you rolling your eyes… But seriously who wouldn’t love to shed their roly-poly love handles.

Presents… It’s like Christmas… Silk scarves, hampers, flowers, knickers, vintage fizz, silk pillowcases, huge industrial vacuum cleaner juice making machines and even balloons.

Friends…  Calling and texting daily to perk me up and make me laugh.

Visitors… OMFG this is the best. Loved ones staying and cooking and chauffeuring and walking mad-dog and making me laugh. It’s been the best tonic.

Haters… This has been a great way to filter out the butt-munching cunts that never gave a shit…  Luckily there’s not many. They think they’re champagne in a crystal glass but all they really are is luke warm piss in a plastic cup. At the end of the day they’ve lost me and I’ve simply lost time. 

Perspective… I had it all wrong before. I gave too much of a shit about irrelevant superficial bollocks. 

Poison… I gave up sugar as apparently it feeds cancer. It also appears to feed cellulite because mine’s almost gone. If that’s not a fucking result I don’t know what is.

Filter…  I don’t have one and fuck me it’s liberating.

The biggest one of all is Love… Love really is the answer. It gives you strength, hope, comfort and laughter. It’s the remedy for all aliments. And as Mr. Bryan Ferry sung ‘Love is the drug.’ He was spot on.

And true love doesn’t care what you look like. M loves me for who I am. He doesn’t care if I have half a head of hair and look half dead half the time. He loves me for what’s inside (and the English roasts I make him). He’s not anguished by my outside appearance. He isn’t just my rock he’s my world and I couldn’t have made it this far without him to drag me (by what hair I have left) through it.

So if there’s anyone out there wading through shit right now and needs help finding some positives…  Just buy a shovel and start digging ‘til you find it. 

Don’t fuck it up… dig it up!

Be raw. Be open. Be fucking real. Because the last thing this world needs is more fake ass shit.

Life’s become mildly monotonous. 

Get up, get radiated, get back in my bed, repeat.  I’m perpetually exhausted and boregasmed out of my tiny half brain.

So I had blog writers block.

But then something mildly entertaining happened.

Driving to radiation, which incidentally takes forever, and is never that boring because M drives like Lewis Hamilton on crack.

We were on the freeway or highway or whatever it is Americans call a dual carriageway and were waiting at red lights. 

Next thing we know, wham fucking bam.  

Assmonkey on his phone rear-ends us. 

Under normal circumstances I would’ve got out and thrown the customary profanities at him. 

But this is America and you never know who’s holstering a firearm. 

Not only that but I knocked my head so hard the shock caused me to hyperventilate and nearly pass out. 

I’ve become a blithering mess. Very disappointed in myself. 

M called 911 and the Fuzz arrived in a flash of flashing lights. 

And goddamn was it my lucky day. 

He wasn’t just any old smokey bear… He was a super sexy spine-tingling state trooper.  Tall, dark and hot as hell.  

He was also wearing an exceptionally commanding uniform with a shiny star shaped badge, while completing this sex god/Village People look with a pair of gold-rimmed aviators.  Oh and he had an incredibly large…  Weapon. 

He saw me as a maiden in distress and instantly his heart melted and he was head-over-heels in love with me.  I could tell.  The only thing between us was M.

Fiddlesticks!

I wondered if he’d come round to the passenger door and rescue me like that scene in An Officer and a Gentleman… Sadly not.

M was thinking on his feet though…  He played the brain tumour card… And said ‘Look, my wife’s got a brain tumour and we’re on our way to an extremely urgent appointment’.

Instantly I thought OMFG he’s going to flash his lights and give us an escort to the hospital… Sadly not.

But I’m sure he did wink at me at least twice.  

He asked for my full name and date of birth but unfortunately not my phone number.  Maybe my age put him off.

We said farewell minus a bumper and number plate and made a dash to radiation leaving hot cop to cuff the thundercunt who was clearly buffing his banana and watching porn on his phone whilst driving.

Trying to figure out how not to look like a twat in a headscarf. Luckily my fabulous guru sent me this beaut.

I really hope my life doesn’t flash before my eyes when I die. There’s some fucked up shit I really wouldn’t want to see again.

A brief conversation I had the other day:  Brain Tumour Person I recently met: ‘Do you ever feel like you’re living on borrowed time?’ Me:Aren’t we all living on borrowed time whether we have a brain tumour or not?’

I’ve become a brain tumour crackerjack overnight. Go on ask me a question, any question?

I’ve already completed my Mastermind application and feeling quietly confident. Although hesitant about the general knowledge round. It’s very sexist, always too many sport questions.

The other subject I’ve been considering lately is death.

I know it sounds melancholy, but it’s a fact of life.

Some people live their life the same way every day. They get up, they put up with a load of shit, they go back to bed.

That’s not me… I live in the moment and I’m not putting up with anyone’s shit… Not anymore anyway.

Never a forward planner… I’ve been winging it most of my life…  Career, parenting, marriage, eye shadow application, virtually everything. 

Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t.  Just ask any of my husbands.

I live like this because I don’t see the point in planning too far ahead…  Anything could happen tomorrow.  And I think I’ve verified that point recently.

Everyone considers death at some point and I bet anyone reading this has asked themselves at least one of these three questions:

Who would play me in the movie of my life?

Which one out of all my friends is going to pop off first?

How will I die?

Do I look fat in this?

Sorry, the last one was a back-up just in case no-one has actually contemplated any of the first three.

When I was diagnosed and told what the worst possible outcome might be, I started to view death with a sceptical scrutiny.

Obviously I’d miss my loved ones terribly.  But that aside, when you die you die and if there’s diddly squat on the other side you’re not going to know about it…  And if there is… Well I hope it’s going to be a fun fluffy floaty around kind of place.

And I’m not sure if I do believe in reincarnation… I certainly didn’t when I was a hamster.  But then I look into Reggie’s eyes I swear I see Burt Reynolds in there.

My friend Bella (The Cheshire Cat) has just informed me that she doesn’t believe in life after death.  So I told her if there is, I will send her a Chanel handbag in the post as a sign.

One thing I do know for sure… When people have died I haven’t remembered them for the car they drove, the handbag they carried, the facelift they had…  I remember them for how they made ME feel during their time here.

However, that absolutely doesn’t mean I’m offering to give up my handbag collection.

And here’s a little tip I recently picked up… If you don’t want to die alone…

Don’t be a cunt.

some fucked up shit

‘There is a place, like no place on Earth. A land full of wonder, mystery and danger! Some say, to survive it, you need to be as mad as a hatter. Which, luckily, I am.’ Alice in Wonderland.

I fell down a rabbit hole, banged my head pretty hard and found myself in a whole new world. 

But I’m not Alice and this definitely isn’t Wonderland. 

I’m me and the person I was 4 months ago is not who I am today.  Although do I still look for the humour in everything? Abso-fucking-lutely!

One of M’s lovely friend’s asked him  ‘How the fuck can your wife have brain cancer and still be funny?’ 

Well isn’t everything funny if you can laugh at it?

I’m surrounded by lotions and potions and murky green cocktails which all say ‘Drink me goddamit!’

My reality has changed forever and there will be no going back to yesterday or how I was before Bambi arrived on the scene. 

I’m still me but I’m a slightly different version of me.  I haven’t gone crazy, my perspective on things has just changed.  

And I’m sensitive, seriously, to everything:

Sound, light, alcohol (fucks sake), information, judgment, slap and tickle, negativity, CAFFEINE big time, sugar, blar blar blar.. 

And I’ve come to a fork in the road because even though I’ve been led to believe that 6 weeks of radiotherapy, followed by 12 months of chemotherapy are my best chance there is another option.. 

I could take the holistic route. I could stay away from sugar (because it feeds cancer), turn my back on cakes and bread (because wheat and grains have an inflammatory influence on the human body).  

I could take a billion supplements, oxygen therapy, consume every derivative of cannabis and eat those fried sea cucumbers.  I could also wrap my head in tin foil. 

Some people might think I’m bonkers because they see clearly which road I should be taking. 

But when you’re stuck in the woods you can’t always see a clear way out.  

I have to make that decision yesterday because it’s now or never. 

Am I going to be a scaredy kitty Catwoman, as lost as Alice or as mad as the Hatter!  

But as the Mad Hatter said himself  ‘The best people usually are.’

Ultimately recovery doesn’t just happen it takes a plan and a support system surrounded by love. I’m so blessed to have the latter, but now I just need to find my way out of the woods and formulate the former. 

And so the next chapter can begin.. Of which I’m more terrified than the last. But chin up, tits out and onwards. 

People: ‘Watch your language!’ Me: ‘Oh fuck, sorry.’

My kitchen transformed overnight into a Michelin star Indian restaurant thanks to my beautiful friend who arrived on a jet-plane with a suitcase loaded with spices and supplements. No wonder she got the ‘rubber glove’ treatment at Customs.

Feeling she hadn’t brought enough ingredients with her we made a trip to Wholefoods where the excitement of shopping for all these delicious ingredients but not having to navigate cooking them caused me to have a seizure at the checkout.

I think my friend thought I did it deliberately to get out of paying, but hey if you’ve got a cancer card you need to play it.

We then headed home, with her driving my car under my instruction as to which side of the road she should be on.

For a brief second we were both distracted, then I realised she was on the wrong side.

FUCK’ I screamed ‘You’re on the wrong FUCKING side’

She speedily manoeuvred over and managed to avoid hitting any small children or dogs.

We made it home in one piece where I promptly went on to have another seizure. One more and it would be a hat trick.

The next morning she put her pinny on and spent the day cooking up a storm and making a selection of the most delicious mouth-watering curries and saags.

If you looked in my freezer now you’d think we’re preparing for Armageddon.

The next evening we felt like going clubbing but instead settled for Barnes and Noble. At one point I lost my friend and started to cry. I even had the cashier call her name on the loud speaker! Confirmation of how fragile my little brain is right now.

My friend’s calmness has brought such a relaxed feeling to our home. After the yummiest curry that evening we settled down to watch Game of Thrones where after the first 10 mins I felt a seizure coming on.

Not wanting to ruin the moment I managed to keep it to myself without making the slightest fuss.. Not my usual style at all.

Mostly her serenity has transformed my barking mad labradoodle. He’s had a personality change and is now almost Crufts worthy (well apart from yesterday when he escaped and she had to chase him down the drive with a rotesserie chicken under her arm).

And even M is so relaxed he’s almost horizontal. But that might be something to do with the amount of curry he’s consumed.

She can’t possibly ever leave me now. I’m sure her diamond geezer back home won’t mind..

Reggie and his Bestie comparing eyelashes