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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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.

‘Vaffanculo Bambi!’ My Italian friend taught me this word in 1977.

So the Gods spoke to me!  Well actually they didn’t..  It was a call from the insurance company.

I got the green light to start radiotherapy and I’m scared.  But Up and Atom!  Ahaha. 

So I made a snap decision as to which fuckety fuck fork path to take.

I then hopped a 5-bar-gate and skipped straight through the field that ran down the middle of both paths. 

I might be trespassing but this field seems like the most direct route out of here.

Radiotherapy combined with less aggressive alternatives, ketogenic diet and a handful of supplements for now.

And we’ll cross the chemo bridge of mass destruction in a few weeks time.

I’ve had to weigh up the pros and cons of course.

Radio Pros.. Should kill off Bambi’s baggage and cause appetite loss (goodbye middle age spread). 

Keto Pros..  Goodbye middle age spread.  

Radio Cons.. Possible permanent hair loss.  But one less thing to fuck with in the mornings.

Keto Cons..  Lots of faffing around.

The BIGGEST pro right now though.. I’ve been approved for Proton Beam Therapy. 

Some of you might think  ‘What the fuck’s that?’   That’s what I’d have thought a few weeks ago.

If I’m describing it in car terms (and this is my theory based on extensive googling) Proton is like the Bugatti Super Sport, whereas the other option, Photon, is more like your every day tried and tested, generally reliable family sedan. 

Even though I’ll be wearing my Catwoman mask I feel anxious thinking about the laser beam penetrating my brain. 

I’m also not particularly keen to lose my hair to be honest.  But luckily it’s not turtleneck season so I won’t look like a giant tallywacker.

But what are my hairless head options?

Daenerys Targaryen wig, Hermes silk scarves, beanies, hoodies, paper bags – only ones from Sloane/Bond Street of course. 

Human hair wigs give me the creeps. It would feel like wearing someone else’s knickers.

And will I look more radiant as each radiation day passes? 

I doubt it.. I’m probably going to look like a burnt slice of toast.  That will get the buzzards circling.

Agh why are there no really good side effects to medical treatments or medicine bottles.. Why don’t any of them say WARNING: May cause extreme sexiness.

So the best I can do right now is surround myself with love and fuck cancer!

Luckily the Cheshire Kitty Cat is arriving first-class on a jet plane next week and she’ll be here to purr at me for the first week of radio. 

The Chesire Kitty Cat and Me – 2 years ago today