If you’re happy and you know it, stay in bed. If you’re happy and you know it, stay in bed. If you’re happy and you know it, getting up will surely blow it. If you’re happy and you know it, stay the fuck in bed.

My godsons and their hot mama came to stay.

Oh how I love them.

But I was a frivolous hostess due to the fact that I believe my brain is missing in (mental) action.

Every day I tried to play and every day I failed miserably.

It feels like the sun’s shining around me but there’s a grey cloud directly overhead filled with dread and lethargy.

I’m so fucking tired all the fucking time. Brain tumour fatigue really fecking sucks.

So here’s an ambiguous question for anyone reading this?

What’s your wildest craziest fantasy right now?

Mine… A two week induced coma.

Then when I wake up that goddamn life-sucking cloud will have dissipated.

I don’t expect anyone who hasn’t had a brain injury to understand, because before Bambi I wouldn’t have remotely comprehended any kind of fatigue that couldn’t be cured with a double espresso and a family size Lindt.

I’ve spent the last week mostly horizontal. And when I do occasionally stand up it’s startling what tumbles from my person. Pens, nuts, water bottles, banana skins, remotes, hidden dog chews.

No one told me this was such an obnoxious enfeebling side effect of brain cancer.

‘And what’s the cause?’ I enquired to my Neuro this week. ‘Is it the gargantuan butt-plug sized pills you’ve got me on?’

Perhaps the universe is punishing me… But I don’t remember doing anything so terrible.

Maybe I was an evil mother-fucking cunt in a previous life and it’s payback time now.

Even my dreams are fucked up. Yesterday I dreamt I bought a new sweater and it ran away from me. So I went back to the shop and asked for a refund but the assistant said ‘Madam, the sweater would only have ran away if you don’t deserve to have it.’

Whatever, I might be Moaning Muggle Mrytle today but I’m truly sanguine at heart and tomorrow’s a brand new day.

All this extraneous shit crap bollocks will be replaced with splendid news, a stunningly sunny disposition and a large pocketful of rainbows.

Fuck cancer and its hellacious side effects.

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Real friends will tell you to ‘shut the fuck up’ to your face and they’ll say nice things about you behind your back.

Dumbass cancer has got me thinking about the old days.

Not the time before electricity – the time before responsibility.

I’m fortunate to still have friends from those days. We don’t see each other often but we stay in touch.

Jasmine and I were on an academic par, every lesson together, including trampolining.

We weren’t VERY naughty as we didn’t consider embezzled goods from our parents i.e. cigarettes and alcohol a crime.

There was a situation in class once. Vexed with our dickhead wankface teacher I wrote and illustrated explicit profanities regarding his wankiness on a netball.

Jas thought it an idea to roll said ball to front of class where it settled between teacher’s legs.

I was henceforth suspended for one week.

My other friends were, and still are, Lysette and Katarina.

We did some fucked up shit! We didn’t get busted because there was no internet, cell phones, GPS or police drones.

We didnt just share sexy clothing, we shared sexy boys too. And there were plenty of both in our adolescent flooziness.

One time Kat was banned from seeing me when Daddy found her diary and baby-proofing pills hidden in a dolls house in her bedroom.

He told her she could have a new pony if she did as she was told. She picked the pony, I would have done same!

But we still snuck out together and horsed around.

Lysette and I were the worst combo. I can’t divulge 95% of our waggishness. But we got away with most of it.

One time we were caught redhanded with a couple of ‘battery bananas’ we’d found – and decided to race them across the top of a wardrobe to see which one would topple first.

Back in the 70’s The Rampant Rabbit hadn’t been invented and you couldn’t fob a sex toy off as a neck massager.

This incident had a lasting effect because Lys grew up and became a sex therapist.

And still to this day she’s enlightening men on how to finger their wives.

Kat followed her dream too. She married a retired show-jumper who it turned out, enjoyed riding anything with a pulse.

Jas took the stage, but after being lured to a saggy director’s couch one time she packed it in, went back to school and became an attorney… She’s been invaluable over the years. 9 divorces between us has kept her busy.

My surgeon said I might lose some long term memory. But no, it’s still fully intact for now.

And if I do lose it, one of these 3 beauties will be there to remind me of the time we drank Shroom Smoothies whilst enjoying a group bath and washing each other’s hair with yellow finger paints.

Fungi with fun guys.

Just because I carry it well doesn’t mean it doesn’t get really fucking heavy sometimes.

Day 1. Back in my prevailing reality. Started with a drive to my old anxiety inducing friend the MRI machine.

By the time I’d necked a few sedatives it looked more like a cozy cocoon so I was content to crawl inside for a nap while a handsome stranger fiddled with a needle and injected a pretty purple dye into my arm.

This dye would travel to my brain and illuminate any signs that Bambi might be attempting to show her cock-juggling-thunder-cunt-face again.

After the procedure I was feeling contently languorous so went home and back to my bed.

How life can fuck with you. This time yesterday I was frolicking with my friends in paradise.

Woke at 6pm, watched M devour his supper, went back to bed via a disturbingly insane episode of The Handmaids Tale.

Day 2. Rocked up at my oncologist’s office at 10am.

Had a weigh-in at 10.15am… Lost another 4 lbs. Got told off. FFS. There has to be some benefit to cancer.

MRI images back and my brain’s looking pretty and grey with no sign of Bambi for now.

The only slice of info I didn’t quite fathom was when oncol mentioned 5 rare and unusual mutations with names so obscure I’ll never remember.

That got me thinking about Mutant Ninja Turtles.

There were 4. So I’ve named mine Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello and Bellatrix Lestrange (she’s no. 5).

Bellatrix is the only one who might be targetable should Bambi rear her butt-ugly face again.

The rest are immune to anything short of a high velocity assault weapon, because they’re so exceptionally peculiar, scientists seem to know fuck all about them. Buggery bollocks.

I felt like crying on the drive home.

This is a new random phenomenon for me.

Not because I’m scared or in pain but because I’m tired.

Tired of all the bullshit and of being told what to do and when to do it.

Tired of the meds and needles. It’s like being a drug addict but without the benefits.

Tired of feeling tired all the goddamn fucking time.

Seriously, how soon after waking up in the morning is it acceptable to take a nap?

I might seem strong (and hilariously funny) because I am. But even strong women need to have their hand held sometimes.

My husband and my closest friends know this about me and they’re always there to hold my hand when it needs holding.

For anyone who has cancer or any other serious illness this is an invaluable gift. To feel loved is everything.

Stick with the people who pull the magic out of you and not the madness.

And lucky me… I have another Blighty Bestie arriving tonight for two more weeks of bestie bliss.

‘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.

My husband’s amazing, he’d take a bullet for me. But he’d still criticise my driving on the way to the hospital.

Safely back in the US of Trumpton after binge watching a whole box set en-route only to discover that during the last 5 minutes of the last episode I’d already watched the whole goddamn series pre Bambi.

Picked up Maddog from gorgeous sis and bro in law. They still seemed fairly sane and weirdly attached to him. I think it’s called Stockholm Syndrome.

Then the 7 hour drive which takes as long as the Atlantic crossing.

Feeling hellishly homesick. Didn’t want to leave Blighty so planning on escaping this place again ASAFP.

The thought of starting chemo is nauseating. Not in a scary kind of way, more in a ‘For fuck’s sake, more fucking shit to deal with’ kind of way.

I want to get back to normal, plan holidays, drink copious amounts of fizz with my friends, ride a horse when I feel like it, work, go back to the gym and get back into shape.

I look like an old Barbie doll, who prior to getting crushed under Action Man’s tank in the bottom of a toy box 40 years ago, had her tits and hair chopped off by some fiendish demon child.

And whilst dealing with prolonged jet-lag I’ve been lounging around reading Brain Tumour Survivor stories.

This is serious stuff for the next 60 seconds.

Ridiculously there’s around 120 types of brain tumour. This might sound like a lot, because it is.

You almost have to multiply this by the amount of people in the world who have brain tumours to get an understanding of the enormity of the research required.

Because every single person reacts totally differently to every single tumour.

In our gang of 4 Love Honey Survivors 3 of us have the same tumour. But different sizes, different locations, different mutations.

Which means over the long term we’ll all fair differently and react differently to surgery, chemo and radiation.

Apparently around 5 in every 100,000 people in the general population will draw a short straw and end up with a Grade 3 Anaplastic Astrocytoma, so you might as well multiply 5 by a billion trillion… it’s impossible to believe statistics because every single case is different!

Some people carry on for years after treatment no problem, others have a recurrence within weeks or months, some have surgery time and time again and a few don’t make it at all.

Every human being has a cut-off point as to how much they can take… so this got me thinking about my cut-off point.

It’s been easy so far, almost a bizarre novelty walk in the park.

But it’s getting monotonous and the thought of having surgery, radiation and chemo all over again is exasperating. Especially when it’s a waiting game and all down to luck of the draw.

Tick fucking tock.

Right, that rant’s off my newly flat chested chest and I’m signing off… to book a flight to Bermuda.

I need warm ocean and pink sand right now, not toxic chemicals and poison.

Fuck cancer. Chemo can wait another week.

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.

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.