It’s ok to lose your shit sometimes because if you keep your shit, you’ll end up full of shit, then you’ll explode and there’ll be shit everywhere. A shit storm. And nobody wants that.

A post radiation visit to my radio of fame oncologist today.

He asked how I was feeling.

‘Feeling good,’ I replied ‘Apart from the anorexia and bald patch… And auras’.

‘Auras?’ He questioned (not fazed by the other 2).

‘Yes, not deja vu or seizures, more like a deja vu appetizer.’ I tried to explain.

He looked puzzled.

Then this spewed from my lips…

‘I get this feeling I’m wandering around a misty field and every now and then a memory suddenly pops out at me, it’s either a cute fluffy pony (good memory) or a long horned filthy bull with fire in his eyes (bad memory).’

Nope, still wasn’t explaining myself very well.

So I changed the subject and requested narcotics. I think after that diabolical description he felt I required them too.

I sense a turbulent ride ahead with all this chemo fuckery.

Blood drawn every month, MRI every month, 5 little nuclear bombs arriving via Fedex every 23 days.

So I was venting to a friend this evening.

‘You need a distraction.’ He advised. ‘You’re creative, find something creative and personal you might like to do for yourself to take your mind off what’s looming.’

‘Fuck off!’ immediate response.

‘Pooping on a glass top coffee table is creative and personal. Shall I do that?’

Everyone means well, but if you haven’t been afflicted with cancer or been close to someone who has, its almost impossible to understand what they’re feeling.

Unless of course you’re one of those super rare types filled with intuition and natural empathy.

All we really want to hear is ‘I’m here for you and I love you.’ No advice needed because this is something we figure out on our own.

I’ve said it a million times – Love love love is the answer.. And that’s it.

I’m heading into the Bermuda Triangle now for another week of love… And the added bonus of perfect pink sand, crystal clear warm ocean, 100% humidity and giant flying cockroaches.

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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.

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.’

Friends are like boobs.. You get big ones, you get small ones, you get real ones, you get fake ones.

One of my bestie’s from Bermuda is here to stay for the weekend.  Yay.

It’s not a secret that we fell out a few years ago.

Then I heard she had cancer and was so upset.. I got in touch.

We made up and we made a plan.

She was going to Philadelphia to have her breasts removed so I planned to go visit her.

We hadn’t seen each other in four years and I wasn’t sure what to expect. She’d already been through chemo and surgery by the time we reached her.

I was apprehensive and had to take a deep breath before entering the room.

But there was my frail little friend sitting in a monstrous blue pleather chair with no boobs, no hair on her head and with an uncanny resemblance to Mr Magoo.. but prettier.

We hugged and cried and hugged and cried and then I said ‘We need to break you out if here’.   Astonished, she replied ‘I CAN’T go out.. I CAN’T walk and I DON’T have a wheelchair.’ 

Not put off by the plethora of tubes poking from her vest.. (she did look like a suicide bomber) I answered ‘Nonsense’ and promptly turned to M and asked ‘Please find the nearest hospital and acquire a wheelchair.’

So off M and husband went to pilfer some wheels. They returned an hour later with a ‘borrowed’ hospital issue chariot.

I wrapped my friend in blankets and off we went to pound the streets of Philadelphia. It’s handy having someone in a wheelie when you’re in Zara.. You can pile clothes on them while making crucial decisions.

Also we discovered it’s easier getting a table in a busy restaurant when you have a bald headed person who isn’t too proud to play the cancer card.

At some point we accidentally joined a gay pride parade and it was entertaining spinning her around to the music with lots of colourful, friendly people filling the air with love and positivity.. and the sweet sweet smell of marijuana.

The only curious thing about the weekend were the strangers who felt it appropriate to randomly stop us and pat my friend on her bald little head and say ‘God bless you.’

Well firstly it was obvious she wasn’t a Labrador and secondly.. How did they know she wasn’t a goddamn atheist!

Now it’s my turn to be the patient and she’s flown across the ocean for me. Usually our weekends are consumed with vast quantities of alcohol but this weekend we’ll have to make do with vast qualities of mutual love and Netflix.

Incidentally, many years ago she represented her country in the Miss Universe pageant. She was beautiful then but she’s even more beautiful now.  She hates it when I tell people this.