Two simple ways to look at life: Happy happy happy dead. Worry worry worry dead.

‘You’re emancipated.’ M announced.

‘Cool, does that mean you’ll unshackle me and take the potato sack off my head?’ I replied.

He corrected his statement.

‘Sorry, I meant ‘emaciated’. You’re emaciated. Oh and you’ve got wrinkly old lady armpits too.’

I found these observations both complimentary and contemptuous.

Luckily for M my short term memory’s shot so I won’t recall such audacity tomorrow.

On another note, the first chemo wagon rolled into town 3 days earlier than planned. I’d postponed and procrastinated but eventually threw down arms and surrendered.

It’s been a grim experience.

Surgery – Walk in the park.

Radiation – Piece of cake.

Chemo – Goddamn fucking hideous.

And no intravenous fiddling-with for me. There’s only one toxic cocktail sanctioned to annihilate Bambi.

Firstly, don’t eat for 2 hours. Easy as no longer find joy in food.

Then dissolve foul pill on tongue and wait an hour.

Finish off with complex combo of chemical weapons.

Go to bed and trust you don’t spend the night puking shitting dying on bathroom floor.

Other distasteful side effects crop up.

Curious hallucinogenic dreams.

We were way back in time circa 1977. Sid Vicious was cleaning my kitchen whilst humming to God Save The Queen on the wireless.

M walked in and announced he’d sent a photo to Penthouse to be included on the Readers Wives page.

The image depicted me skiing off-piste in Zermatt, wearing nothing but a bobble hat and a pair of giant green knickers… ‘FUCK’ printed on the vajuju and ‘CANCER’ on the butt. Not altogether porn but unpleasant enough. Especially as in reality I struggle to get down a blue run.

Five days a month now of this stomach-churning fun and games for as long as my body (and mind) endures.

But as the saying goes…

Never say die.

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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.

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.

P.S. Something else I have to say about today.

I went for my pre op prep today at the swanky shiny hospital.  It was especially tricky on a couple of levels. 

Firstly because the surrealism of it all is now definitely becoming my reality and secondly because M’s beautiful sister passed away here 21 years ago. 

She was on her way to work one morning at this very hospital when her car aquaplaned in the rain and she was hit by an on coming vehicle.  

She died twice because she flat lined in the ambulance, however she was a fighter and they revived her..  although sadly she lost her battle a little while later once in the hospital.  

We thought about her a great deal today and I know it was painful for M to go back to the place where he had lost his beloved little sister.  

The hospital planted a tree in her memory in the grounds and M will go and find it next week while he’s waiting for me to get out of surgery.

It was my choice to go to this hospital and I knew it would be difficult for M to be there again.  But he went back there just for me.

I BLOODY LOVE THIS MAN WITH ALL MY HEART.