You know that thing inside you that stops you from saying stuff you probably shouldn’t? Yeah well mine’s fucked.

Yesterday someone said to me ‘One day we’re all going to die’. 

I nodded and agreed but in my head I was saying ‘Of course we are… Shut the fuck up you tedious twat’.

Obvs we’re all going to die ‘ONE DAY’,  but for every day we’re not dying,  we’re LIVING!  Duh.

So I’ve reached week 3 of Proton Beam Therapy.  I haven’t mentioned it much as felt it needed a full review before I passed comment.

(Like one of those people with the felicitous job of reviewing luxury spas and hotels.)

Anyway, I think now is a good time to post said review.  

And it’s 5 stars from me. 

The team is gorgeous, funny, warm, gracious, kind… Every positive adjective available to compliment people whom ‘point a laser beam from a 60ft machine, weighing 220 tonnes, creating light beams traveling at 2/3rds the speed of light through a 143ft cable’ at MY BRAIN.

Although we had a hiccup the other day when Bertha (the machine) decided to crash mid-session.  

I was screwed to the table in my head-hugging Catwoman mask listening to Blondie singing Atomic when Bertha suddenly shut down.  

I waited a minute. Then thought ‘Shit, they’ve all gone to lunch and forgotten me!’ 

Panic set in and suddenly I was The Man in the Iron Mask, only I was also fastened by the head to a goddamn fucking bench.  

The tears streamed and the screams rose but I couldn’t open my mouth…  So I raised a panic-stricken arm and waved frantically like a 5 year old chasing down the ice cream van. 

Thank fuck they saw me on the monitor and rushed to my rescue. 

No one had gone to lunch… Nincompoop!

Bertha needed her butt kicking though, so a hammer holding Oompa Loompa went subterranean and give her a good banging.  She perked up after that and we were cooking with protons again.

I also get a weekly tête-à-tête with my brilliant radio oncologist.  An adorable man who definitely got an A* in every single physics test he ever took. 

I make a list of critical questions beforehand so I don’t forget anything. This week’s list:

1. Can I get a prescription for medical marijuana?

2. How much hair will I lose.. like 100 millions strands or 100 thousand or just a few?

3. Can I get a prescription for medical marijuana?

I know I’m immensely lucky to receive the latest technology in radiation therapy. The insurance company denied it 3 times and on each occasion my docs fought back for me. 

Not sure what arguments they used… But if they hadn’t passed their doctor exams they’d have made fabulous defense lawyers.

Finally today I’m sharing a note I received from a dear friend.  Someone who wears so many hats for me, dad, brother, stand-in-husband, dance partner, barfly buddy…  I adore this man and the love I feel all around is what’s getting me through this fucked up 5 minutes in time. 

Dear Sarah

Most of the time I don’t know what to say, so I continue the bizarre nature of my world. 

While my heart is breaking as two of the most wonderful people I have ever met are going through a similar journey. 

You fill my thoughts and I spend each night sending the highest energy to you. 

The power of the universe can and will win. When you are through this we will start an Ashram somewhere? India? Arizona? Mexico? We have the power together. 

The energy around you is amazing and growing. We are all using the blog to help channel it. 

Post more, loads of F words…  it makes it so very funny.

If love had a value, you my dear girl are richer than Hatshepsut.

All my love ‘Dad’ xxxx

dad, brother, stand-in-husband, dance partner, barfly buddy…  
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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…

‘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

‘There is a place, like no place on Earth. A land full of wonder, mystery and danger! Some say, to survive it, you need to be as mad as a hatter. Which, luckily, I am.’ Alice in Wonderland.

I fell down a rabbit hole, banged my head pretty hard and found myself in a whole new world. 

But I’m not Alice and this definitely isn’t Wonderland. 

I’m me and the person I was 4 months ago is not who I am today.  Although do I still look for the humour in everything? Abso-fucking-lutely!

One of M’s lovely friend’s asked him  ‘How the fuck can your wife have brain cancer and still be funny?’ 

Well isn’t everything funny if you can laugh at it?

I’m surrounded by lotions and potions and murky green cocktails which all say ‘Drink me goddamit!’

My reality has changed forever and there will be no going back to yesterday or how I was before Bambi arrived on the scene. 

I’m still me but I’m a slightly different version of me.  I haven’t gone crazy, my perspective on things has just changed.  

And I’m sensitive, seriously, to everything:

Sound, light, alcohol (fucks sake), information, judgment, slap and tickle, negativity, CAFFEINE big time, sugar, blar blar blar.. 

And I’ve come to a fork in the road because even though I’ve been led to believe that 6 weeks of radiotherapy, followed by 12 months of chemotherapy are my best chance there is another option.. 

I could take the holistic route. I could stay away from sugar (because it feeds cancer), turn my back on cakes and bread (because wheat and grains have an inflammatory influence on the human body).  

I could take a billion supplements, oxygen therapy, consume every derivative of cannabis and eat those fried sea cucumbers.  I could also wrap my head in tin foil. 

Some people might think I’m bonkers because they see clearly which road I should be taking. 

But when you’re stuck in the woods you can’t always see a clear way out.  

I have to make that decision yesterday because it’s now or never. 

Am I going to be a scaredy kitty Catwoman, as lost as Alice or as mad as the Hatter!  

But as the Mad Hatter said himself  ‘The best people usually are.’

Ultimately recovery doesn’t just happen it takes a plan and a support system surrounded by love. I’m so blessed to have the latter, but now I just need to find my way out of the woods and formulate the former. 

And so the next chapter can begin.. Of which I’m more terrified than the last. But chin up, tits out and onwards. 

Practice what you preach .. or fuck off.

So my beautiful Guru has been here for a few delightful diverting days. 

We’ve done fuck all apart from lounge around in our pjs emulating lazy sexual positions and having really deep and meaningful chats.  

On her first night on the way up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire (dog in tow):

Guru:

‘I hope you’re taking one of your cats to bed  too…  They’re proven to cure brain cancer if you let them sleep on your head.’

Me:

‘For fucks sake.’

Next day…

Guru:

‘I think we should blow that candle out right now…   You’ve breathed in enough toxic paraffin for one night. You need to buy soy candles in future.’

Me: 

‘Fuck off.  My doctor said I can drink neat paraffin if I feel like it.’

An hour later…

Guru:

‘Right, here’s what you need to do, throw away your laundry detergent and replace it with baking soda and vinegar. Next throw away your dryer sheets and make your own with rags and lavender oil. All that Estee Lauder skincare has to go in the bin and put nothing on your face except what you can eat. Coconut oil all the way baby.’

Me:

‘Fuck off… I’d rather die!’

She’s also into juicing lots of green shit and making swamp water and she’s an advocate of eating all kinds of cancer fighting crap I’ve never even heard of. 

Me trying to join in…

Some people might say… You haven’t lived until you’ve shit yourself at least once…  And I’d die for this woman… But I’m not drinking that pig-pen juice.

Then right before bed the next night, when I went to make my bedtime cup of builders tea I was bombarded with a matronly…

Guru:

‘This is what you need to drink at bedtime… You need to drink golden milk… It’s turmeric, coconut milk, red hot chilli peppers and something else I can’t remember.’

Me:

‘Will you just shut the fuck up!’

I know I need all of Bambi’s baggage dispensed from my brain and there’s various patterns of thought on this. 

Go down the hardcore toxic chemical route of radio and chemo and end up sticking to the fridge every time I walk past it.

Or take the gentle holistic route and hope that kale and apricot kernels will do the trick.  

My Guru is educating me… Or at least trying to… In the more natural healing kind of way… And I definitely will be taking some of it on board.

I particularly like the hairy coconut balls she makes. 

And she gives a bloody good sexy coconut oil massage while she’s hand feeding me the hairy balls. 

If anyone wants her secret recipe for these delectable cancer cures (or a coconut Bermudian massage) just send me a cheque for 999999 thousand tax-free Bermuda dollars and I’ll happily forward you her number.  

I LOVE LOVE LOVE this girl with ALL MY HEART. And as the old saying goes… ‘Friend’s are like condons – they protect you when things get hard.’

PS. My gorgeous baby boy and my Ab Fab bestie from Chelsea are arriving on another jet plane tonight and I’m dying for a dose of both of them.  

It’s a dog’s life..

I kind of know how dogs feel.. Especially dogs that live in pleasant houses with pleasant owners.. 

As like a dog I sleep, I go for the odd walk around the block, then I come home and sleep again. I guess the only difference is I don’t shit in public, I don’t hump inanimate objects and I don’t sniff ass. 

When I’m awake I’m consumed with déjà vu.. This often indicates a seizure is pending.. But not always.

Being on the edge of a seizure is goddamn fucking frustrating because you just wanna get it out.. It’s like being on the edge of a sneeze or an orgasm.. But you can’t quite make it happen.

Conveniently it appears I’ve become allergic to housework.  I was dusting yesterday when things got trippy and Brad Pitt appeared on the sofa.. Which made my face tingle.. At least it was only my face. 

The seizure ran its course, then ended with the acrid smell and taste before I was transported back to reality.  

Obvs I can’t carry on seeing Brad lounging on my settee so a swift visit to my neuro and an increase of cocktails should put a stop to it. I won’t think of myself as overly medicated.. Just pharmaceutically fabulous! 

I also met my oncologist.. A charming man but not sure he appreciated my humour.  Although after we’d played a game of funny bone smacking and feet tickling I’m pretty sure we bonded.

Next up is a radiography consult.. But in the meantime I’m wallowing in the delight of one of my perfectly darling oldest besties here to look after me..   She’s already demonstrated the best way to have ‘lazy sick person sex’.   

Instructions to follow. 

The Sex Guru and Me mid orgasm circa 1999

If you’ve never seen a pair of toy poodles chatting to each other in French – you’ve never dropped acid.

Honey go put the kettle on – this one’s going to take a while.

Today felt like a day at the Academy Awards.

The results were in.   And waiting for results is a bit like waiting to find out whether you’ve won an Oscar or not.

I even decided to get proper dressed for the big event.  Gigantic pants and baggy sweats really weren’t going to cut it today.   It felt good slathering myself in Tom Ford and slipping into a little silk cami.  

The drive west was smooth. M has had to revise his driving style from deranged bedlamite to plain-sailing slow-lane chauffer in order to cater to my need for seamless gear changing due to wobbly brain issue.

Arriving at my doctor’s office we were escorted into a private room to await the entrance of the chief.

Time for a quick selfie in big examination chair to share on WhatsApp group with my girl gang back home.

Soon my two new favourite people in the whole wide world entered and we got down to business. 

Results were dispensed and I was given the all-inclusive synopsis of the invader of my synapses AKA Bambi.  

It had been concluded that she was a rarity who had mutated from a few pretty pink star shaped cells. 

I guess at the end of the day – if you’re going to get a brain tumour – what more could a girl ask for than a limited edition, sparkly one.

Then we got back to the important matters of English literature.. My brain surgeon is a literary treasure trove and the fact that he quoted Tolkien and my blog in the same sentence.. Made me feel extra special.

The ride home was fairly benign until suddenly an enormous real life Bambi ran into the road. Oh dear!! M slammed the brakes.  How paradoxical..  I’d never want to annihilate a pukka Bambi.

So next up is a spicy little cocktail of radio and chemo.  I have no idea what this entails.  Is it comparable to mixing acid and ecstasy – I can draw on a past experience for that one.

Finished off the day with my love, my friend, the biggest plate of sushi and the teeniest glass of fizz.

I felt so giddy with optimism that when the UPS man arrived with a package I took it from him and said ‘Thanks, love you. Bye.’