I really hope my life doesn’t flash before my eyes when I die. There’s some fucked up shit I really wouldn’t want to see again.

A brief conversation I had the other day:  Brain Tumour Person I recently met: ‘Do you ever feel like you’re living on borrowed time?’ Me:Aren’t we all living on borrowed time whether we have a brain tumour or not?’

I’ve become a brain tumour crackerjack overnight. Go on ask me a question, any question?

I’ve already completed my Mastermind application and feeling quietly confident. Although hesitant about the general knowledge round. It’s very sexist, always too many sport questions.

The other subject I’ve been considering lately is death.

I know it sounds melancholy, but it’s a fact of life.

Some people live their life the same way every day. They get up, they put up with a load of shit, they go back to bed.

That’s not me… I live in the moment and I’m not putting up with anyone’s shit… Not anymore anyway.

Never a forward planner… I’ve been winging it most of my life…  Career, parenting, marriage, eye shadow application, virtually everything. 

Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t.  Just ask any of my husbands.

I live like this because I don’t see the point in planning too far ahead…  Anything could happen tomorrow.  And I think I’ve verified that point recently.

Everyone considers death at some point and I bet anyone reading this has asked themselves at least one of these three questions:

Who would play me in the movie of my life?

Which one out of all my friends is going to pop off first?

How will I die?

Do I look fat in this?

Sorry, the last one was a back-up just in case no-one has actually contemplated any of the first three.

When I was diagnosed and told what the worst possible outcome might be, I started to view death with a sceptical scrutiny.

Obviously I’d miss my loved ones terribly.  But that aside, when you die you die and if there’s diddly squat on the other side you’re not going to know about it…  And if there is… Well I hope it’s going to be a fun fluffy floaty around kind of place.

And I’m not sure if I do believe in reincarnation… I certainly didn’t when I was a hamster.  But then I look into Reggie’s eyes I swear I see Burt Reynolds in there.

My friend Bella (The Cheshire Cat) has just informed me that she doesn’t believe in life after death.  So I told her if there is, I will send her a Chanel handbag in the post as a sign.

One thing I do know for sure… When people have died I haven’t remembered them for the car they drove, the handbag they carried, the facelift they had…  I remember them for how they made ME feel during their time here.

However, that absolutely doesn’t mean I’m offering to give up my handbag collection.

And here’s a little tip I recently picked up… If you don’t want to die alone…

Don’t be a cunt.

some fucked up shit

Hippocampus is the region of the brain that’s associated with memory and is derived from the Greek hippocampus (hippo meaning “horse” and kampos meaning “sea monster” since the shape resembles that of a sea horse. (Cheers Wikipedia)

Humans have two hippicampi, one on each side of the brain and they play major roles in short-term and long-term memory, and in spatial memory that enables navigation.

I’d never even heard of a hippocampus before last week but I now know what my specialist subject will be when I finally get in that black swivel chair on Mastermind. I’m gonna kill it.

So the following day, after a standard MRI washed down with a large dose of intravenous sedative – (this monotonous event was having some benefits) – I was duly notified – “Yes you have a mass on your front temporal lobe, we have no idea what it is but it’s probs cancer. Could be primary (quite rare) or could be secondary (not so rare) or it could be benign (best case). Problem is it’s pushing on your hippocampus.”

VOILA – we had finally found the culprit causing the seizures! And I was finally able to put a face to Bambi. See image below.

I was informed that the next step was a CT body scan to attempt to discover any sneaky little cancer critters lurking in my vital organs. Nothing showed up in this test. Although I was warned by the neurologist that there could be the teeniest bit of melanoma sneaking around under my finger nail but we just can’t see it.

At around 3 pm I started to think about my flight home that evening; and this time I had taken precautions and booked M on the flight with me just incase I started convulsing at altitude, swallowing my tongue and in need of assistance in retriving it.

Then my doctor popped in and told me I needed to gown up and dejewel again as it was imperative that I now went for what they call a functional MRI. “Are there sedatives involved in this? I asked. ‘Yes ma’am there are”. Fuck the flight then – wheel me on down.

Meet Bambi