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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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.

Practice what you preach .. or fuck off.

So my beautiful Guru has been here for a few delightful diverting days. 

We’ve done fuck all apart from lounge around in our pjs emulating lazy sexual positions and having really deep and meaningful chats.  

On her first night on the way up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire (dog in tow):

Guru:

‘I hope you’re taking one of your cats to bed  too…  They’re proven to cure brain cancer if you let them sleep on your head.’

Me:

‘For fucks sake.’

Next day…

Guru:

‘I think we should blow that candle out right now…   You’ve breathed in enough toxic paraffin for one night. You need to buy soy candles in future.’

Me: 

‘Fuck off.  My doctor said I can drink neat paraffin if I feel like it.’

An hour later…

Guru:

‘Right, here’s what you need to do, throw away your laundry detergent and replace it with baking soda and vinegar. Next throw away your dryer sheets and make your own with rags and lavender oil. All that Estee Lauder skincare has to go in the bin and put nothing on your face except what you can eat. Coconut oil all the way baby.’

Me:

‘Fuck off… I’d rather die!’

She’s also into juicing lots of green shit and making swamp water and she’s an advocate of eating all kinds of cancer fighting crap I’ve never even heard of. 

Me trying to join in…

Some people might say… You haven’t lived until you’ve shit yourself at least once…  And I’d die for this woman… But I’m not drinking that pig-pen juice.

Then right before bed the next night, when I went to make my bedtime cup of builders tea I was bombarded with a matronly…

Guru:

‘This is what you need to drink at bedtime… You need to drink golden milk… It’s turmeric, coconut milk, red hot chilli peppers and something else I can’t remember.’

Me:

‘Will you just shut the fuck up!’

I know I need all of Bambi’s baggage dispensed from my brain and there’s various patterns of thought on this. 

Go down the hardcore toxic chemical route of radio and chemo and end up sticking to the fridge every time I walk past it.

Or take the gentle holistic route and hope that kale and apricot kernels will do the trick.  

My Guru is educating me… Or at least trying to… In the more natural healing kind of way… And I definitely will be taking some of it on board.

I particularly like the hairy coconut balls she makes. 

And she gives a bloody good sexy coconut oil massage while she’s hand feeding me the hairy balls. 

If anyone wants her secret recipe for these delectable cancer cures (or a coconut Bermudian massage) just send me a cheque for 999999 thousand tax-free Bermuda dollars and I’ll happily forward you her number.  

I LOVE LOVE LOVE this girl with ALL MY HEART. And as the old saying goes… ‘Friend’s are like condons – they protect you when things get hard.’

PS. My gorgeous baby boy and my Ab Fab bestie from Chelsea are arriving on another jet plane tonight and I’m dying for a dose of both of them.  

I might have been born in the shadows of Windsor Castle but I knew I’d burst into the sunshine eventually.

Not sure if it’s my eloquent British accent but honestly the US medical system have treated me like a princess throughout this freaky fiasco.

I have an exemplary A Team Royal Entourage, which must at the very least match that of HRH Megan, the new Duchess of Sussex.

I‘m being cared for by unquestionably brilliant people..   Neurosurgeons, neurologists, oncologists, radiologists, doctors, nurses.  Not to forget my incredible group of beautiful friends who are flying in from all over to cook for me, enterain me and walk the dog.   

The only team members missing from my ‘inner circle’ are the stylists, make up artists and hairdressers.

I even have a PA, Chauffer and Chief Protection Officer (AKA M), which incidentally came in handy today when a suspicious looking package arrived from Latvia.   

I suggested M put on his bicycle helmet – take said package to garage for inspection and controlled explosion.

Instead he bravely opened it on kitchen counter with a pair of kitchen scissors. 

Rather than an assemblage of brightly coloured cables and alarm clocks the box revealed a lovely selection of heart shaped beach stones sent to me by my gorgeous sister-in-law as a symbol of our love and the personal significance they hold.

I’ve also discovered that having a brain tumour is a full-time job and having an efficient PA to pick up the slack is imperative– there are appointments to be made, insurance companies to negotiate with, thank you notes to write.. It’s round-the-clock non-stop. 

I barely have time to squeeze in a mani and wax – although I might not need that for a while once the chemo and radio kicks in.

It’s time for M to iron my pjs and run me a bubble bath now.

Good night all, I hope you have sexy dreams or flying dreams (they’re my favourite kind).

P.S. There are no mother-fuckers or cunts in this post because some of my friends mums are reading my blog and there’s concern my cursing is offensive. 

Sorry about that!