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…
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I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m doing it my way.

I made an important life changing decision today but I’ll get to that in a little while.

We had another appointment to meet the radiology team.  This time, the lovely people I’ll be seeing 5 days a week for 6 weeks.

First I had to pee in a minuscule cup. As always my aim was off, I got it on my hands, shoes, the loo, the floor and all over the cup.  The shocking thing though was the colour of it.. Fluorescent Orangina, without the fizz, swishing around. 

Clearly, I hadn’t consumed enough water since the contrast MRI yesterday where they pumped me full of fluid to see if Bambi was still lurking.

The reason they performed the pee test was to see if I was pregnant.. Even though I’d informed them I haven’t had a period in forever they still felt it prudent to check. 

We waited with baited breath and I mentioned to M that this could be the first menopausal immaculate conception baby ever, or better still..   Twins. 

It took an unusually long time for the results, which convinced me it WAS twins.

Naturally I started thinking names. If it’s girls.. Bunny and Hunny.. And boys.. Danger and Ranger.

Eventually results came back and surprise surprise no little menopause babies for us. We’ll just have to get more pets to fill the empty nest. Maybe I can play the cancer card to get the 3 donkeys I always wanted. Boli, Dom and Krug. 

So even though I still don’t know if I’m having Photon or Proton therapy the wheels have been set into spinning motion and the biggest deal is the radiotherapy mask which is essential when attempting to eradicate evil brain cells at the same time as trying to keep the good guys.

The procedure was explained..  it would feel like a spa treatment.  

I wasn’t falling for this and decided to pop a couple of Valium just to be on the safe side.  So by the time the process started I was feeling spa-like relaxed and they could’ve told me I was in the Mandarin Oriental Miami and I might’ve believed them. The moulding and sculpting took place and was followed by a swift CT scan.

Me getting moulded (or ‘molded’ if you’re American)

So the huge life changing decision we had to make came next.

What type of mask would I like?   

I was offered a bland selection but nothing appealed.  I asked the nice radio man if I could have a superhero mask and he looked at me in a blank kind of shocked way and said ‘Well we do this for children sometimes, but I’ve never been asked to do it for an adult before.’   ‘Yes, but is it possible?’  Was my response  ‘Okay, well I can show you a few kids ones I’ve done.’  He answered.  

He then revealed a selection of impressive photos – a pink unicorn, the Incredible Hulk and Wonder Woman.

It was a tough choice as I’d been secretly dreaming of Spider-Man. But then I thought, maybe I’d like something more feminine and enquired what his opinion was re. making me the face of a blow-up sex doll.  

M stamped his foot at this and said NO WAY’

Then we moved back to superheroes and I suggested a sultry looking Catwoman. We liaised over some provocative images of Michelle Pfeiffer and Halle Berry then found a sexy Catwoman compromise and all agreed that would do the trick.. Minus the latex suit of course.

The blank canvas

So there you have it.  Biggest decision made today and I’m going to face this terra-fucking-frying treatment as goddamn Catwoman!  

MEOW! 

‘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.

Technically I’m a brain cancer virgin but I feel like I’ve been on the game forever.

I met with the radiology team and I’m now confident I could pass my O-Level physics.  I failed first time.

Proton or Photon..  I had no idea what either was. I know what a futon is but apparently it’s not related.

Proton is better than Photon I know that much. And I know this because doc drew lovely descriptive pics for me.  Proton is aimed at just the cancer and has no exit point. Photon, not so tempting as needs an exit..  It also fries more healthy cells.  I can’t afford to lose more precious brain cells!  The downside to Proton is possible permanent hair loss..  But what would I prefer..  Hair or brain cells?  It’s a no brainer.   (No pun intended.)   I may be trending the comb-over. 

So the obstacle is the minefield of negotiating with US insurance companies..  They don’t like to fork out for Proton but my fabulous docs assured me they’d fight it.  If it doesn’t happen then Photon it is..  That, or I could just stick my head in the microwave for a few minutes every day.

They also told me I’d need to be fitted with a special kind of mask.  I requested the Spiderman kind… they said they’d consider it.

Every doc I’ve met post surgery has congratulated me on how well I look.  And it definitely wasn’t a chat-up line. 

I don’t look sick, but inside my head is in trauma. So a life lesson I’ve learnt recently..  We seriously have no idea what kind of awful fucked up shit people are dealing with in their private life’s..  So we just need to be kind..  Simple! 

Oh and a final observation for today..  People who refer to cancer as a ‘journey’ need to shut the fuck up.  Unless you plan on taking me on a five star first class vacation to the Maldives please don’t say it.


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 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.