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.

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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.

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!

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…

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.