I speak 4 languages: English, Profanity, Sarcasm and Shit.

I’m in a gang.  I’ve never been in a gang before. Well actually that’s not entirely true.  

When I was 9 my friends and I bullied a kid who was being mean to us…  We flicked horse shit on sticks at him until he retreated…  I feel bad about that now… Kind of.

There’s four of us in this gang and we all have something in common. We’re badass brain tumour survivors.

Names have been changed to protect the identities of these goddesses. So hence forth we are referred to as:  Aphrodite, Venus, Inanna and Aurora.

If you don’t know the meaning of these names you were obvs snogging/smoking in the bike sheds during mythology lessons at school. (I was anyway).

Our gang’s named The Love Honeys… Appropriate as we’re fucking cancer and Lovehoney is an online sex shop.

To know there are other people out there who feel exactly the same way as you is mind glowingly reassuring.

They help you realise that you haven’t actually lost the goddamn plot…  Your brain’s just been temporarily fucked because a mother-fucking-platinum-plated cunt has invaded your private headspace.

And in other news…

The Cheshire Kitty Cat has been here taking care of me. And what a fabulous little ball of energy she is.

She cooks, she cleans, she takes the dog on 5-mile runs along the beach… And all before I’ve even got out of bed.

She chauffeurs me around…  Even though this is her first time ever driving on the wrong side.

She’s befriended the neighbours by popping in with bottles of English gin and then staying for a few hours to help them polish it off.

She’s chummy with my radiology team to the point where they’ve offered to give her a tour of the 60 ft monster living 4 floors below ground at the proton centre.

She even mixes me cocktails before supper every evening. Last night was a questionable combo of laxative and sparkling wine. The results were rip-roaringly spine chilling.

Kitty keeps telling me that ‘Friends are like fish, they smell after three days.’ She’s been here a week…  I keep whiffing her fanny but it smells fine to me.

Sadly she must leave me tonight and like all my other beautiful besties who’ve been taking care of me I will miss her terribly.

Sad to say that my ‘house of ill repute’ might have to close its doors for a few weeks now due to the dreaded potential side effects of radio.

But as long as it doesn’t make me grow another head… Or a penis… I will fight it like a girl!

what’s he looking at…

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

If you’ve never seen a pair of toy poodles chatting to each other in French – you’ve never dropped acid.

Honey go put the kettle on – this one’s going to take a while.

Today felt like a day at the Academy Awards.

The results were in.   And waiting for results is a bit like waiting to find out whether you’ve won an Oscar or not.

I even decided to get proper dressed for the big event.  Gigantic pants and baggy sweats really weren’t going to cut it today.   It felt good slathering myself in Tom Ford and slipping into a little silk cami.  

The drive west was smooth. M has had to revise his driving style from deranged bedlamite to plain-sailing slow-lane chauffer in order to cater to my need for seamless gear changing due to wobbly brain issue.

Arriving at my doctor’s office we were escorted into a private room to await the entrance of the chief.

Time for a quick selfie in big examination chair to share on WhatsApp group with my girl gang back home.

Soon my two new favourite people in the whole wide world entered and we got down to business. 

Results were dispensed and I was given the all-inclusive synopsis of the invader of my synapses AKA Bambi.  

It had been concluded that she was a rarity who had mutated from a few pretty pink star shaped cells. 

I guess at the end of the day – if you’re going to get a brain tumour – what more could a girl ask for than a limited edition, sparkly one.

Then we got back to the important matters of English literature.. My brain surgeon is a literary treasure trove and the fact that he quoted Tolkien and my blog in the same sentence.. Made me feel extra special.

The ride home was fairly benign until suddenly an enormous real life Bambi ran into the road. Oh dear!! M slammed the brakes.  How paradoxical..  I’d never want to annihilate a pukka Bambi.

So next up is a spicy little cocktail of radio and chemo.  I have no idea what this entails.  Is it comparable to mixing acid and ecstasy – I can draw on a past experience for that one.

Finished off the day with my love, my friend, the biggest plate of sushi and the teeniest glass of fizz.

I felt so giddy with optimism that when the UPS man arrived with a package I took it from him and said ‘Thanks, love you. Bye.’

‘Nobody move! I dropped me brain.’ Captain Jack Sparrow

My gorgeous savvy surgeon and his beautiful brilliant assistant came for cocktail hour and inspection.  Upon their departure they awarded me with my much anticipated golden ticket.. I had permission to go home. Yay!

My discharge order was set in motion and I had 24 hours to prepare myself for checkout. 

Intravenous drips were finally ejected, long scripts were written and copious quantities of hospital knickers and sick bags were handed my way.  

And then there was the ‘blow job’ machine   Officially known as an incentive spirometer..  I’m required to blow it 10 times an hour.  In order to prevent pneumonia.. and other sexually transmitted diseases and unwanted menopausal pregnancies. 

I obtained special permission to take a shower too. Not currently looking my usual eye-wateringly-alluring-self.. My anatomy resembles that of a malnourished heroin addict in desperate need of rehab.. track marks cover my body like a map of the Cotswolds footpaths.

M got prime viewing of this spectacle while hosing me down like I was an oppressed palomino belonging to a pigged-tailed posh kid about to enter the Pony Club mounted games. 

Then my physiotherapist declared that I require a walking cane.. ‘Will hospital issue suffice?’ I was asked.

‘Umm no thank you very much.  I desire an elaborate gold dragon’s head with bright green emerald eyes .. thanks for your offer, but I’ll require Chinese eBay for this accessory.’

Ironically I fell asleep that last evening whilst watching a movie about a little blue fish (called Dory) who suffered from short term memory loss.

The morning couldn’t arrive soon enough and I was so so excited to get home.. because as the saying goes.. ‘Home is always the place where .. You POOP most comfortably!’ And I was really looking forward to that fuzzy cozy feeling.

I’m a ‘ROCKSTAR’ and there’s no denying it now.

Swiftly upgraded from the ICU,  l’m now residing on the swanky Four Seasons ward of this shiny new hospital.

Especially popular (it must be my fancy British accent and breathtaking assemblage of pjs) I’m inundated with fans aka fabulous nurses, doctors, interns, dieticians, physiotherapists, cleaning ladies, caterers, chambermaids and the chatty man who unblocks the loos.  

At 6am I had to put my foot down though.. Well actually it was my yellow non-slippy socked foot.  

A young handsome doctor bounded into my room.  He had a Starbucks Vente in one hand and a shiny pair of pliers in the other.  He seemed wired.. Like he had three hours remaining of a forty-hour sleepless shift. 

He approached explaining he was here to remove the staples from my head. ‘No thanks!’  Was my instant response,  ‘I don’t think I’m ready for this, please come back later.’ 

Luckily, he didn’t protest and swiftly left.. Possibly in search of a quiet gurney to cat nap on. 

A few minutes later another adorable young doctor entered also brandishing a pair of pliers but with no caffeine in hand.

‘Hello’  he said  ‘I’m here to remove your staples.’ 

‘Do you have gentle hands?’  Was my nervous reply.  ‘Yes I believe so..’ he responded confidently enough.  ‘Ok you can come over here and very gently remove the staples from my head.’

I whiffed his breath as he approached to confirm he hadn’t been on the coffee bean elixir.  It wasn’t a painless procedure but he managed to remove the staples with only a couple of little squawks from me. 

After which my headband sanitary napkin was gone and my wound was unveiled.  It was time to look at my gorgeous surgeon’s piece de resistance. 

I bumbled to the bathroom and took a glimpse in the mirror at my expertly stitched dissolvable sutures..  Frankenstein‘s bride came to mind.  Yeah not my best look.. And slightly furious I hadn’t thought to ask Doc to give me a face-lift while he was at it.. Surely incision lines would be same.   

The day progressed with various IV fillers, pills and buttock injections. One thing I’m having to endure is steroids through IV which instantly disburses a malice electrical current to my ‘back passage region’.. Not an erotic sensation I would willingly sign up for.

The other thing that’s changed around here is the climate under the sheets.. Things are usually pretty calm and tranquil in my world but it’s gotten windy and we’re experiencing great sailing conditions.. Don’t be surprised if things start to disappear into the Bermuda Triangle! 

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.

‘Que sera, sera’

Famously sung by Doris Day.. 

And my grandmother to me when I was little..

‘Whatever will be, will be, the future’s not ours to see, que sera, sera’

So basically Doris is saying that the future is up in the air and whatever is going to happen is going to happen no matter what.

I don’t believe this is entirely true because obviously some things in life are within our power.. Like deciding to drive home shit-faced or going for a home run on a first date.. But when it comes to getting goddamn cancer and brain tumours most often they’re not within our power. 

How the hell does it happen?  How did I end up with a fucked up fucking brain tumour? Was there anything I could have done to elude it?  Answers on a postcard please.   

I tried to behave myself during the last 51 years but there were way too many distracting and alternative options.

Maybe if I didn’t have a phone stuck to my ear for the last 20, or stood in front of the microwave watching popcorn pop, or drank saccharin infused diet drinks, or ate burnt toast, or smoked the odd social cigarette, or drank alcohol, or hung out with maryjane a few times, or enjoyed myself in any way.. I wouldn’t be blighted with Bambi right now.  

But it’s fruitless trying to figure out how she got in there.  She just needs to get her ass out!  And just maybe I need to change my ways.. 

One thing I’ve noticed that’s changed already.. Until recently I’ve loved to google middle-aged celebrities who’re the same age as me just to see how I’m fairing in the ageing game.. Julia Roberts, Nicole Kidman, Pamela Anderson.. fuck they all look so bloody good!

Well my focus has shifted because now I find myself googling middle-aged celebrities who’ve had brain tumours (and survived).. Sheryl Crow, Mark Ruffalo and Martin Kemp! 

But hey.. In the actual true words of Doris Day:

 ‘Middle age is youth without levity, and age without decay.’  

And it’s highly unlikely that I’ll change my middle age ways now.. Because I’m set in them.