At the stage where my mind thinks I’m 26, my humour thinks I’m 12… and my body thinks I’m dead.

Seems I get a couple of weeks between chemo sessions when my brain isn’t overloaded with fuckery so I can be normal (ish).

I don’t feel the need to take a daily 6 hour nap and I have enough energy to hold a conversation for more than 3 minutes without yawning.

I look for joy in food… Don’t find much, but it’s a better feeling than wanting to puke at the thought.

So due to this unexpected lift of chemo fog, I’ve become curiously enlightened and found the answer to some therapeutic alleviation.

It consists of 3 simple ingredients: love, positive energy and a sprinkling of fucks. That’s it.

Number 1: No one needs a plethora of friends in order to be happy. A handful of beautiful diamonds is worth so much more than a 1000 bitchface cunts.

Surround yourself with the people who know your true value and vice versa.

If you find yourself free-falling and your people are just watching you fall… Then they simply aren’t your people. Stick with the ones who will catch you and not run away squawking.

Courage is contagious after all.

Number 2: Try and find something positive in every situation.

For instance, yesterday I fell off my bicycle whilst crossing the railway tracks and my first thought afterwards was ‘Wow, thank fuck there wasn’t a train coming.’

Chemo’s gruesome – but on the upside it’s destroying Bambi’s bellend bastard babies and it’s getting me back into my super skinny jeans (If you rolled your eyes at that you’re just jealous).

Number 3: Apparently having an expansive vocabulary of swear words is a sign of intelligence and may be beneficial to the mind and body.

Swearing is also proven to help with pain as the benefits include increased circulation, elevated endorphins, and an overall sense of feeling motherfucking fantastic.

And as Humpty Dumpty said “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.”

There you have it. Possibly Betty Swollocks but seems to be working for me.

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Real friends will tell you to ‘shut the fuck up’ to your face and they’ll say nice things about you behind your back.

Dumbass cancer has got me thinking about the old days.

Not the time before electricity – the time before responsibility.

I’m fortunate to still have friends from those days. We don’t see each other often but we stay in touch.

Jasmine and I were on an academic par, every lesson together, including trampolining.

We weren’t VERY naughty as we didn’t consider embezzled goods from our parents i.e. cigarettes and alcohol a crime.

There was a situation in class once. Vexed with our dickhead wankface teacher I wrote and illustrated explicit profanities regarding his wankiness on a netball.

Jas thought it an idea to roll said ball to front of class where it settled between teacher’s legs.

I was henceforth suspended for one week.

My other friends were, and still are, Lysette and Katarina.

We did some fucked up shit! We didn’t get busted because there was no internet, cell phones, GPS or police drones.

We didnt just share sexy clothing, we shared sexy boys too. And there were plenty of both in our adolescent flooziness.

One time Kat was banned from seeing me when Daddy found her diary and baby-proofing pills hidden in a dolls house in her bedroom.

He told her she could have a new pony if she did as she was told. She picked the pony, I would have done same!

But we still snuck out together and horsed around.

Lysette and I were the worst combo. I can’t divulge 95% of our waggishness. But we got away with most of it.

One time we were caught redhanded with a couple of ‘battery bananas’ we’d found – and decided to race them across the top of a wardrobe to see which one would topple first.

Back in the 70’s The Rampant Rabbit hadn’t been invented and you couldn’t fob a sex toy off as a neck massager.

This incident had a lasting effect because Lys grew up and became a sex therapist.

And still to this day she’s enlightening men on how to finger their wives.

Kat followed her dream too. She married a retired show-jumper who it turned out, enjoyed riding anything with a pulse.

Jas took the stage, but after being lured to a saggy director’s couch one time she packed it in, went back to school and became an attorney… She’s been invaluable over the years. 9 divorces between us has kept her busy.

My surgeon said I might lose some long term memory. But no, it’s still fully intact for now.

And if I do lose it, one of these 3 beauties will be there to remind me of the time we drank Shroom Smoothies whilst enjoying a group bath and washing each other’s hair with yellow finger paints.

Fungi with fun guys.

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.

‘Oh shut the fuck up and have a drink.’ Me as a therapist.

Arrived in Bermuda with all the energy of a 14ft python who’d just eaten a fattened cow.

3 hours on the tarmac waiting to take off for a 2 hour flight. WTF American Airlines.

1st night was like a scene from a Stephen King novel. I opened the wardrobe and there he was… waiting for me… the giant flying roach… flip flop in hand I got into bed and waited.

I then clocked him spying me through a crack in the door, 10ft tentacles flaying around. After noticing my 6 inch scar and undercut he determined he was no match and fucked off back into the crevice he’d come from.

Woke to blue skies and the warm fuzzy feeling of ‘home’. Blissful day filled with birthday celebrations, delicious food and a dip in the heavenly crystal clear ocean.

The night ended with a successful flip flop splattering of cockroach #2 who was clearly cockier than his mate from last night.

FYI vermin: I have a goddamn brain tumour and no man-eating-mother-fucking-roach is ever giving me the heebie geebies again.

When I first arrived here nearly 30 years ago, someone said to me ‘You know what Bermuda is? It’s 60,000 alcoholics clinging to a rock.’

‘Fantastic.’ Was my immediate response, ‘I’ve moved to paradise!’

Times have changed since those glory days and just as well because tonight at a party, while chatting to old friends and neighbours, I downed one glass of fizz and was ready for bed. FFS Bambi.

And btw Brad, when the movie rights for Bambi sell, you’ve got stiff Bermudian competition as leading man. There’s a handsome Mr Kempe up for the role, and he’s not of the Spandex Ballet kind.

Sunday followed with more frolicking. At one point I came out of the club pool with my hair swept back and received an extended once over from 3 members of the super bitch wives club. Oh fuck, was I flashing a nipple? Or worse, had I exposed my vajayjay? What were they looking at?

Then I realised it was my impressively large bald patch and scar. They were probably wondering how a rough old slag could have gained access to such a prestigious establishment.

Gorgeous dinner on the beach with one Bermuda bestie followed by a sleepover with another Bermuda bestie and my 12 year old goddaughter.

Her mother had told her all about brain tumours but not much about the ‘birds and the bees’.

So took it upon myself to give her a few pointers and attempt to not expose her mothers overly edited version of her own youth.

The conversation commenced with a ‘pure white flower’ being the symbolisation of virginity and how this ‘pure white flower’ should remain pure until marriage.

‘Mummy told me I must remain pure until I’m at least 35 or married. Just like her.’ She told me.

Well I could accept the first sentence of this statement with a sweet nodding (fake) smile.

But when the second sentence hit my ears I choked on air and fell backwards into a nearby oleander tree.

I’ve known her mother for 30 years and luckily for her she’s in my tighty-tight circle of ‘besties’ and what happens in the circle must stay in the circle.

However, there’s a tinge of regret in not disclosing the truth now because after emerging from the pool that afternoon she declared…

‘You look like that famous character from Game of Thrones!’

‘Aww,’ I responded ‘Which one… Daenerys Targaryen?‘No,’ she smirked ‘I was thinking of The Hound. You have similar scar and haircut.’

Fuck off bitch. I guess we’re both old dogs.

Finally today and on a more serious and sobering note. I’ve requested that she and my goddaughter provide the eulogy at my eventual funeral.

I’ve given them strict instructions that it must be goddamn funny as hell or else I’ll be back as a poltergeist to haunt them for all eternity.

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.

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.