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.

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.

Be raw. Be open. Be fucking real. Because the last thing this world needs is more fake ass shit.

Life’s become mildly monotonous. 

Get up, get radiated, get back in my bed, repeat.  I’m perpetually exhausted and boregasmed out of my tiny half brain.

So I had blog writers block.

But then something mildly entertaining happened.

Driving to radiation, which incidentally takes forever, and is never that boring because M drives like Lewis Hamilton on crack.

We were on the freeway or highway or whatever it is Americans call a dual carriageway and were waiting at red lights. 

Next thing we know, wham fucking bam.  

Assmonkey on his phone rear-ends us. 

Under normal circumstances I would’ve got out and thrown the customary profanities at him. 

But this is America and you never know who’s holstering a firearm. 

Not only that but I knocked my head so hard the shock caused me to hyperventilate and nearly pass out. 

I’ve become a blithering mess. Very disappointed in myself. 

M called 911 and the Fuzz arrived in a flash of flashing lights. 

And goddamn was it my lucky day. 

He wasn’t just any old smokey bear… He was a super sexy spine-tingling state trooper.  Tall, dark and hot as hell.  

He was also wearing an exceptionally commanding uniform with a shiny star shaped badge, while completing this sex god/Village People look with a pair of gold-rimmed aviators.  Oh and he had an incredibly large…  Weapon. 

He saw me as a maiden in distress and instantly his heart melted and he was head-over-heels in love with me.  I could tell.  The only thing between us was M.

Fiddlesticks!

I wondered if he’d come round to the passenger door and rescue me like that scene in An Officer and a Gentleman… Sadly not.

M was thinking on his feet though…  He played the brain tumour card… And said ‘Look, my wife’s got a brain tumour and we’re on our way to an extremely urgent appointment’.

Instantly I thought OMFG he’s going to flash his lights and give us an escort to the hospital… Sadly not.

But I’m sure he did wink at me at least twice.  

He asked for my full name and date of birth but unfortunately not my phone number.  Maybe my age put him off.

We said farewell minus a bumper and number plate and made a dash to radiation leaving hot cop to cuff the thundercunt who was clearly buffing his banana and watching porn on his phone whilst driving.

Trying to figure out how not to look like a twat in a headscarf. Luckily my fabulous guru sent me this beaut.

Karmasutra: When life fucks you in all kinds of creative ways.

I’ve realized something curious lately.  I find it relatively painless to say I have a brain tumour but virtually impossible to say I have cancer.  Why is that?

Cancer is such an unpleasant word.

I’m not saying ‘brain tumour’ sounds poetic or alluring. But telling someone you have a brain tumour is a little like declaring you have crabs or chlamydia.

The shock value is mildly entertaining due to the gulps and gasps and the lack of clichés available. 

Whereas with the word cancer there are many vexing metaphors.

 For example:

‘Oh poor you, you have a long bumpy journey ahead of you!’

Or

‘Oh poor you, you need to be a warrior and fight this battle!’

These violence and journey clichés are questionable to me.   

After all, this isn’t Game of Thrones. 

What if you knew your cancer was terminal yet everyone’s telling you  ‘Be a warrior, be a fighter’…   Surely when you’re teetering on the edge of your own existence you’d feel you’ve failed because you know for sure you’re losing the mother-fucking stupid goddamn battle.

On the upside of brain tumours… Most people know fuck all about them so you don’t get so many clichés.

It’s especially advantageous to spell out exactly what tumour you have as many have long Latin sounding names and this adds to the theatrics of the moment.  

Technically mine’s not called Bambi, her real name is Anaplastic Astrocytoma, and she’s a rare one, it’s guesswork even for the experts.  

But one thing I know for sure…   Shoving 2 sticks of unsalted butter and a pickled onion up my ass will not cure me.

Obviously this is just my personal view and I’m sure there are some out there who find my taxonomy objectionable. 

But that’s ok because ‘Ego irrumabo non facio.’ 

(That’s pidgin Latin for ‘I don’t give a fuck’.)

In other news I’m counting the days until I get a month’s reprieve between radio and chemo.  

I’m going to board a jet plane and head home to Blighty for 3 weeks. Against some of my doctors’ recommendations but again… ‘Ego irrumabo non facio’ as my body requires M&S food, country walks, country pubs, London and the Sunday papers. 

Oh and there’s quite a few faces Catwoman is desperate to lick. 

MY HUSBAND CALLS ME CRAZY… BUT HE WAS THE ONE WHO MARRIED ME!

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…