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.


I’m the star of my very own science fiction movie and I can make great Yorkshire puddings

According to the Urban Dictionary a jet setter is “a person who travels to numerous places around the world to places that other people always want to go but never do.”

Well that’s NOT me, even though some people say “Oh I’d love to have your jet-set lifestyle!” I travel back and forth to East Coast USA A LOT. Like I’m catching the No.9 bus. But I don’t do this because I’m living a jet-set lifestyle – I do this because my life mostly revolves around two people, my husband and my son – and inconveniently one lives in the US and the other lives in the UK. Subsequently I reside somewhere in the middle.

So two weeks after my ‘funny turn’ outside posh Peggy’s, I hopped on the No. 9 and headed to the US for a week with my beloved Reggie (Australian Labradoodle) and my husband .. just kidding M.

Arriving at my usual convenient time – bedtime; I went straight to bed. The next morning feeling a tad jet lagged we took Reggie to the beach for a run. Everything was normal … until a pair of obnoxious military helicopters buzzed by.

Then a curious thing happened – suddenly I was transported into my own science fiction movie, Interstellar comes to mind. I shifted back into that parallel universe and this time it was intense. Familiar faces appeared but I didn’t know where they were familiar from. A burning pain rose from my abdomen to my chest and then into my throat – and there was a dreadful smell so potent I could taste it too. Again this was familiar but I couldn’t identify it and no-one around me could smell it.

Within a few minutes I was back to reality and thinking “Wow that was weird.. am I going mad or am I Mystic Meg?!” I brushed it off as another unexplainable phenomenon and went home to make roast beef and some bloody fabulous Yorkshire puddings.. even though I say so myself.