red shoes green peppers

Life is a rollercoaster ...

2010-12-31T20:59:00.022Z

You know ... I used to say “if only I could have a pound for every compliment I receive for them red shoes.” However, over the last few weeks it would be for each time someone has said to me “Gosh ... doesn't time fly ... where did that year go ...?”

These comments have left me rather bemused ... wondering whether I am now looking so good that people have forgotten what has featured during my year ... or (what is more likely) is that they have very short memories. You see, to be honest, I wouldn’t say this year has been totally plain sailing. Why not? Well, let's spend a moment flicking through my 2010 diary ...

January ... mmm ... that was when I had my seventh and final chemo. Moving onto February there were discussions about a mastectomy – something that I really didn’t want – though the ultrasound showed Yukky Lump had not totally disappeared or dispersed but had shrunk and a lumpectomy was indeed possible. In March I had surgery – including the removal of 11 nodes – which was thankfully successful, and finally seven months after my diagnosis I was told that at this moment in time I was cancer-free.

Moving onto May ... when I experienced the high of returning to work ... and the low of four weeks on my back enduring radiotherapy. June and August saw sunny spells in France ... with the final removal of my trademark Baker Boy caps ... coming back to discussions in September regarding further surgery. Then, in mid-November, I saw not one op but two ... asymmetrical surgery on my ‘other side’ and the abstraction of my ovaries. Following a few nail-biting weeks, when I was dreading further bad news, I was informed that the tissue removed had been tested and everything was looking good ... and I was finally done and dusted ... in time for the festive period and the New Year.

Last Christmas I spent a lot of time thinking about this Christmas ... and this Christmas I spent some time reflecting on last Christmas. Twelve months ago I wasn’t in a good place – not really mentally and definitely not physically. I had just received my sixth chemo – Taxotere number two – and the weird second wave of side effects were just kicking in. I probably could have endured the cardboard mouth and achy joints – but the sore throat, hacking cough, the loss of voice and the hideous rash were terrible. On Christmas Day family members cried when I walked into the room, I missed the Pigeon Pooh Crew Annual Festive Outing ... and by Boxing Day I was visiting the out-of-hours GP to discuss the possibility of being admitted to hospital so I could be treated with antibiotics.

During this horrid spell I remember sitting on my bed – feeling isolated and lonely – flicking through my Favourites and deciding to pop over to Alright Tit. Now, for those of you who have had some unfortunate experience of BC the chances are you will also know Lisa .... Lisa is the Queen of the BC blog world.

I came across Lisa very shortly after my own diagnosis and, although it sounds funny to say it now, I couldn’t bring myself to read large segments of her blog. It was so brutally honest and detailed there was only so much that my distraught emotional state could take, so I would read one entry, switch off and return at another point. However as time went on ... and as I came to terms with what I had ... and the treatment I was to receive ... I became a regular reader.

So what did Lisa have to say during the 2009 festive period? Well, she had posted a photo of herself and husband P. In fact two pictures. The first taken on a bus in London a week after her own diagnosis ... and then the second, more recent snap, captured on a boat on the Seine. She looked lovely in both. Not just lovely ... but happy... a girl that looked a picture of health and fitness ... who was having fun. Lisa’s accompanying commentary basically said “this was me then” and “this is me now ... we made it”.

So I dropped her a note (mine was one of 31 comments on that entry – I told you she is the Queen of blogs, I think the maximum I have attracted is half that number) and this is what I wrote:

Hey - that is just what I needed. I am having a totally shite time in the middle of this cancer crap - and Christmas crap. Gives me hope that one day I can truly smile again.

Love and hugs - P x

Lisa’s pictures and lengthy personal response to my comment gave me inspiration and on my own blog this very day last year I said:

“I bought myself a camera for Christmas. I know, I already have a camera. But the camera I have is big and bulky ... in your face ... so I decided to purchase a little cutie which I can pop in to my back pocket. And it is pink! Yes, how girlie. Now, I am usually very practical with these things. Normally I would buy one in black ... or silver ... with view to the fact that once I have outgrown it then I can pass it on to one of my boys ... they are both broad minded and level headed but they don’t ‘do’ pink . But I didn’t this time. I just thought sod it. I want pink. I am having pink.

So far I have taken one picture with my new pinkie camera. Yep, just the one. Of what? Of me. Yes, rather surprisingly of me. Me, who hates having my pic taken at the best of times ... and this definitely ain’t the best of times. Now, don’t worry I am not gonna post it anywhere. Not yet anyway. I think the description above probably gives you a pretty good idea of what I look like at the moment. Perhaps the word ‘pretty’ isn’t the most appropriate word to use ...

You know the last week has been really tough. The worst in terms of feeling physically poorly. I won’t lie ... there have been tears. But not that many really. Yeah, I got cheesed off ‘cos I wanted to enjoy Christmas Day. I didn’t want my children to wake up on their special day and see their mum looking and feeling so God damn awful. And all the nice things I had planned ... meeting up with my friends for brisk walks and leisurely lunches ... a Christmas party with colleagues ... have all been knocked on the head ... I was really disappointed about that. But mentally I could have been worse ... and am not quite sure why I wasn't ... why I haven’t dissolved in the middle of the kitchen floor. And the only thing I can put it down to is that I have felt so physically poorly that I couldn’t slip mentally ... ‘cos my mind and body would not be able to cope with both. Or perhaps when you feel so so bad that you know that the only way is up ... I dunno. So what has kept me going? Next Christmas. Yeah, I know, it sounds a bit odd. Especially from me ... who doesn’t really ‘do’ Christmas.

You know I mentioned that red silk dress of mine ... the one that I wore to the Christmas party last year. The one where my Little Friend said that I looked like Jessica Rabbit. Well, I have been thinking about that. Thinking about it a lot. And I have made a promise to myself ... that next Christmas I am going to be back in that dress ... and I ain’t going look like I did for Christmas 08 ... no, that is because for Christmas 2010 I am going look even better.

I am going to have the little pixie crop, just like I had done a week before my hair dropped out, and which everyone loved. My brows will be back ... and hopefully my beautiful long black lashes ... Oooh ... and as a treat ... I think I might buy some new cracking killer heels ... red of course. Then I will take a second photo with my little pinkie camera. And I will be able to say ... that was last Christmas ... poorly, blotchy and hairless ... but I made it ... just look at me now. I am back ..."

And so that is exactly what I am going to do ... what I promised a year ago today.

This is this time last year ...

And ... this is now ...

Me in a new red frock ... and new red shoes ... with that pixie hair cut ... with a celebratory glass of red. I hope you think I have "made it" ... and that it gives inspiration to anyone who is currently where I was this time last year.

I talked about rollercoasters in my very first ever Red Shoes Green Peppers blog ... so I think it is only fitting to refer to them in my very last.

Indeed life is a rollercoaster ... but I am getting used to riding it. In fact, I would say I am riding it bucking bronco style, one hand gripping and the other swinging, into 2011 ...

Appreciating that most women would not want to stand in my shoes ... but that there are a few out there which gladly would ...

Saying farewell to Red Shoes Green Peppers ...and possibly hello to Red Shoes Red Wheels ...

Someone out there knows what I am referring to ... the rest of you will just have to wait and see ...

In the meantime I would like to wish you a happy, healthy, fit and fun New Year!!!

When ‘C’ is the common denominator ...

2010-11-22T20:15:00.007Z

Back in January I went to the supermarket to do my weekly shop. As I was wandering around the store I caught sight of my reflection. It was really was one of my worse times ... both mentally and physically. My bare scalp was covered by one of my trademark Baker Boy caps ... my eyebrows had long gone ... and there was nowhere to apply my mascara. My treatment had finished but my consultants were trying to prepare me for the possibility of a mastectomy ... not something we had aimed for... and something I certainly didn’t want.

As I took the items out of my trolley and put them on the conveyor belt the lady behind the till stopped ‘pinging’ my goods and looked up at me. “Are you having chemotherapy?” she enquired. I was so cheesed off that I was tempted to snap “What is it to you?” But I didn’t ... I just affirmed I was. “I hope you don’t mind me asking” she said, “but that was me last year. Breast cancer?” I looked at her, astonished. She looked so well ... so healthy ... and I told her so. “What about the chemo ... did it work?” I asked urgently. She replied it had. “So what about surgery, did you have a lumpectomy?” “No, no” she replied. “I just wanted the whole thing off. Get rid of the breast.” I told her that was something I didn’t want. “Having said that”, she replied, “I don’t like not having a breast and I am hopefully going to have reconstruction soon.”

I wished her well ... and as I walked away I was very grateful ... despite my initial annoyance ... that she had spoken up and given me some encouragement.

A couple of days ago I was required to go to the Oncology Department for a photo shoot. Whilst waiting for everyone to turn up I stood in the waiting room. Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly flashed by ... was a little surprised to see me ... but said “hello”. I wondered how he does it ... how does he surround himself with people with cancer all day, every day.

Then a face caught my eye. A young angelic face ... a girl who was in her 30s ... maybe even her 20s ... sitting under a familiar turban-type cap. And as I looked at her ... she looked at me ... and I remembered sitting in the very same spot watching ‘NHS managers’ wandering in and out ... and wondering where they were going and doing. I guess she thought I was ‘just’ one of those. I wanted to go up to her and say “This was me, this time last year I was going through this too. I made it. Well, this far. You can too.”

But I didn’t get chance ... as I got called through to take the pic. It was a donation from a lovely chap ... probably the same age as me ... a football referee so probably quite healthy ... he had been diagnosed a few years ago with cancer of the throat ... but went on to have cancer of the tongue. He proudly told me the details and said that he is now in remission. I was really pleased for him ... he really didn’t know how pleased.

That was the first of two trips down memory lane – the second was to the Breast Care Unit. Now when I came back from holiday back in June – after I had finished my four weeks of rads and completed my treatment – one of my first meetings over at the hospital was up at the BCU. A group of patients were looking to raise some money and for the unit and I was asked to go along, in my capacity of Comms Manager for the hospital.

It was a late afternoon meeting and I was a little nervous. It was my first full day in the job ... and the very first day that I had gone into work without my cap on. I needn’t have worried ... as I walked in I was greeted by about a dozen very smiley faces. One by one the ladies went round the room introducing themselves. And then it got to me ... “Hi, my name is Paula ... the Communications Manager ... and a patient of Dr J’s ... I finished treatment just over a week ago.” There were cheers and clapping ... it was so welcoming.

Later on we moved down to the Board Room for a presentation. By chance I was sat next to Dr J and all ‘the girls’ were sat on the opposite side of the table. I looked over at them in total awe. They were all chatting, laughing and giggling ... all enthusiastic about their mission to raise money for the unit. I watched and thought they could be anywhere and anyone. A group of old schoolfriends ... colleagues ... a gaggle out on a hen night ... nobody would have known they had one thing in common ... breast cancer ... and they were all patients of Dr J. I felt so inspired ...

Someone walked by to pick up a cup of tea and whispered to me “I expect you still like a patient ... you haven’t moved on yet?” She could have almost read my mind. “No, no” I replied, “it is still early days”. “Don’t worry ... you will quickly move on" she replied.

I thought of that comment when I returned to the Breast Care Unit a couple of Saturdays ago. I was late ... as usual ... and ‘the girls’ and Dr J were already sat comfy, drinking coffee and eating muffins. They welcomed me just as warmly and introduced me to Rebekah Gibbs – who had volunteered to compere the first charity event ... a Gala Ball.

As I grabbed my own coffee I looked across at Rebekah ... and thought it is a funny old world. You see, when I was very first diagnosed I did lots of googling ... desperately trying to find any ‘ray of hope’. Stories of women who had been told that they had breast cancer at a similar age to me ... that had got through the horrid diagnosis, treatment ... including chemo, who had experienced the trials and tribulations of losing their hair, had undergone surgery ... to finally live another day. And, during my hours and hours of cyber searching I had come across Rebekah.

Rebekah Gibbs ... also known as BBC Casualty’s Nina Farr ... was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 35 ... ten weeks after her daughter Gigi was born. Despite the shock she went on to write a book and a weekly column for the Daily Mirror ... and this was what I read and what gave me some comfort and confidence that I could get through it all.

And there I was a year later ... sat in my BCU waiting room ... drinking coffee and swapping stories with her. Note that I didn’t mention the muffins ... they were passed under my nose and as I went to grab one I noticed Rebekah’s black skinny jeans tucked into some absolutely ‘gorgeous dahling’ black boots ... and suddenly changed my mind ...

On Thursday I was back over at the hospital ... stood in a now familiar position ... Dr J drawing in black felt-tip pen over my semi-clad torso. “Hey, I just thought” he chuckled, “I just realised you are going to miss the Ball on Saturday night!” “Yeah I am!” I laughed. “After all the build up I am once again going to be sat home alone ... a right Cinderella”.

And as I relax at home recuperating from last week's surgery ... which consisted of not just one op, but two ... with two different surgeons ... I am not sad or depressed about missing the Ball. Don’t get me wrong it would have been lovely to be actually there ... with my new BCU friends ... but I was there in spirit ... even if I was sat at home in front of the TV with my beans on toast.

The first time back in March I had to have surgery ... a lumpectomy ... because I had cancer.

But on this occasion I made the decision to have surgery ... for cosmetic reasons and to hopefully prevent me from getting a different type of cancer in the future.

This time the ‘C’ was ... for choice ...

and control ...

... and a cracking pair ;)

Life on a ‘G’ string

2010-10-02T18:17:00.013+01:00

When you’re with a man you like, be quiet and mysterious, act ladylike, cross your legs and smile. Don’t talk much. Wear black sheer pantyhose and hike up your skirt to entice the opposite sex! You might feel offended by these suggestions and argue this will suppress your intelligence or vivacious personality. You may feel that you won’t be able to be yourself, but men will love it!

The Rules ~ Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider ~ 1995

The miles and miles of vines and vineyards had expired and we were skirting one of those non-descriptive industrial French towns ... so unremarkable I can’t remember its name. We were on the way to a medieval fort up in the mountains.

“I am glad we are going out for the day” said S, “I couldn’t do another day on the beach, it is far too hot. Besides ... I am starting to look like a Sambo.” “You could never be a Sambo ... you don’t have any hair” I retorted. “As opposed to you” he replied, pointedly looking at my dark curly post-chemo barnet. “I guess you are going for the golliwog look?” he chuckled. “Actually I used to love golliwogs” I responded huffily.

I turned away and looked out of the winddow ... my mind drifted as I thought back to my childhood and how I used to eagerly and routinely chop out the coupons on the Robinson’s marmalade jar ... and despite this I never obtained the much wanted golliwog badge for my school blazer ... as I kept losing the little slips of paper and struggled to save the six that I needed.

“Why does everyone called Ronald have ginger hair?” asked a little voice behind me, breaking my train of thought. “Such as ...” I asked rather bemused. “Well, there is Ronald McDonald” Harry Look-a-likey replied and pointed back to the Golden Arches that we had just passed. “Right ... and?” “And Ronald Weasley.” OK so he didn’t quite say “doh” but it could have easily followed. If my life is ‘g’ filled then his generation has moved onto ‘h’ ... all Harry Potter, Homer, Halo and hamburgers.

“I don’t think Ronald Reagan ever had ginger hair”, I finally replied.

“Who is Ronald Reagan ...?”

That evening we sat on the sofa and watched Grease. I snuggled up to Harry and said “I was your age when this film came out.” He nodded a little but said nothing. I am sure that as my head touched his I could swear I could hear his mind saying “Please ... one day ... let me sit down to watch this film without her saying that.” Anyway he got his own back, because what I didn’t realise until a few days later was that the Harry Look-a-likey thick brunette mop was riddled with nits and they took the opportunity at that very moment to jump into my boucles. Ruddy nits ... something I haven’t had since I was his age ... and something wouldn’t have ... couldn’t have ... this time last year.

Grease was the first grown up film that ever saw. It was 1978 – a few years before Ronald R became president of the United States - I was 10 years old. I went with my friend Sue. It was Thursday night – a school night – "we stayed up til ten o’clock". I felt very grown up. And ... thinking about it ... it was about that time that life changed ... I changed ... and I started to mature. Up until then my life had been very Enid Blyton. All Mallory Towers, O’Sullivan Twins and Famous Five. My heroine was George. Famous Five George – the bright one of the pack - with her dark curls and cool dog. To the extent that I wrote “George” on my pink eraser and tried to get my friends to call me that.

And then things changed ... I left George and her jolly ginger beer behind ... and I started shopping at Chelsea Girl and listening to songs like Heart of Glass and Enola Gay. Ironically those tunes are still on my playlist today ... unlike other things that have come and gone ... like golliwogs ... George and Mildred ... My Guy ... and gob stoppers ... ‘cos they were all politically incorrect. Which is why Grease is hanging on in there right? Mmm ... let’s just stop and have a think about that ...

Grease. Boy meets girl on holiday. He likes her. She likes him. They think they won’t see each other again ... but by chance she doesn’t return to Australia as planned ... instead she stays and goes to his school, Rydell High. However ... when they meet up he acts really cool and shuns her as she doesn't fit in with his image. There is some emotional to-ing and fro-ing. He does up a car and claims that "chicks'll cream for greased lightnin'" - that it will be "a real pussy magnet" and that "we'll be gettin' lots of tit". In turn, she bouffants her hair, puts a fag in her mouth and sews herself into some incredibly tight leather trousers ... and he changes his mind ... ahem ...

My favourite character was feisty funny Rizzo ... who sings "Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee" and “There are worse things I could do”. Sandy prior to her transformation was a bit wet ... and afterwards ... well ... somehow I knew even at that tender age that never in my lifetime would I squeeze into a pair of leather trousers like that. Having said that ... I can’t claim that I could foresee that thirty years later that my post-chemo look would leave me looking like Rizzo ...

Before going on holiday we had a barbie ... the old Pigeon Poo crew ... My Little Friend, the Silverback and the Prince and Princess of Darkness. With it being August 1st I had images of us sitting in a beautifully sunny garden ... but it wasn’t like that ... and the afternoon commenced with the guys erecting the gazebo. The gals supervised from the kitchen ... with a little glass wine ... trying to hum the tune of the Good Life - but coming out with Terry and June – I am still not sure why. Then the conversation moved on ...

“I remember our first meeting Princess”, said My Little Friend. “The Prince turned up at the curry house with his new girlfriend. All long blonde hair ... high heels ... wearing black leather trousers”. “Ooh ... I’ve still got those trousers”, replied Princess, “they are in the attic”. “I bet you can still fit into them?”, replied My Little Friend. “I am not sure about that”, admitted Princess. “Well” I chipped in “I can safely say that I certainly don’t have any leather trousers in my closet”. “No” replied My Little Friend, deadpan and no second of hesitation, “we would have to kill a few more cows for that to happen.”

G is for Game for a Laugh ... do you remember it ... awful programme ... but time for a revival me thinks ... I have a few victims lined up already ...

Simply red ...

2010-08-08T17:09:00.019+01:00

I love the thought of giving hope to you
Just a little ray of light shining through

Mick Hucknall ~ Fairground ~ 1995

My mother died 14 years ago, aged 53, of ovarian cancer. She had been diagnosed five years before ... but to be truthful the cancer had probably been there since her early forties, when she was a similar age to me. For a year or two they had said she was peri-menopausal and by the time they realised the real problem, and operated, the tumour was the size of a melon.

I wore a pillar box red jacket to my mother’s funeral. I wasn’t being disrespectful. My mother didn’t like black. I don’t recall her ever wearing anything black. Black doesn’t suit me ... and it probably didn’t suit her. She liked red ... she liked the red jacket ... so I wore that.

I remember the cortege pulling up outside the crematorium, and as I opened the car door and climbed out I heard someone say “There’s Sylvie”. It was an odd thing for me to hear. Sylvia was my mother. Obviously, they weren’t talking about her ... they were referring to me... and how much I looked like her.

I must admit I did inherit a number of her features and as I mature, steadily edging closer to the age she was when she died, it is probably now even more noticeable. She was also shortish and curvyish, with high cheek bones, and fine brown hair. When she was alive mine was shoulder length and wavyish and which I would straighten ... whereas she wore hers short and would curl it.

My mother was pretty low maintenance. She used to wear a dash of mascara and little bit of lipstick. However, her big thing was her hair. She liked to go to the hairdressers and have it permed and styled. The chemo she had didn’t make her hair drop out until right near the end. When it did she got a really good wig and lots of people didn’t realise it wasn’t her hair ... but she did. It hit her hard.

Until twelve months ago the only cancer that really appeared on my radar was ovarian. If I saw something about it in a magazine, or on TV, then it would get my attention. Not breast cancer. And ... when I went for my very first appointment at the Breast Care Unit, a year ago this week, Dr Jordan looked at my family history and said he wasn’t too concerned. “The lump is probably a cyst that will need draining.” Of course once they had scanned it and taken biopsies we all knew that it sadly wasn’t “just a cyst”.

A few weeks ago I returned to the hospital to have Perky checked out after the four weeks of rads. I saw Dr Gillies, the oncologist, and she said it was looking pretty fine ... that there might still be a little fluid there and that I need to keep slapping the aqueous cream on and massaging it ... and that they will take another peek at Perky again next month.

Whilst I was there I decided to ask her a couple of questions. I wanted to know why they hadn’t done any genetic testing ... why they hadn’t tested to see if I have either of the faulty BRCA genes and whether my chances of another incidence of breast cancer, or my chances of getting ovarian cancer, were significant. She said that as I didn’t appear to have a noteworthy number of breast or/and ovarian cancer cases in my family then that isn’t something they would normally do. I explained that my mother had no sisters and no aunts ... however, my grandfather had died of cancer ... as did all of his five or six brothers. She said it wasn’t something that the health profession was sure about ... but if I wanted genetic counselling to talk about it then she could arrange it.

I knew the answer ... I had thought long and hard about this ... and the answer was “no”.

Is that right? I don’t know? I may have the opportunity to discuss what my risks are of another incidence of breast cancer ... or getting ovarian cancer ... but I am not taking up the option.

I explained to Dr Gillies that I have survived this last year ... but my head is not in a place to consider the implications of testing and recommendations ... which I guess may mean being advised to have both my breasts removed ... along with my ovaries. Perhaps I am being silly ... or naive ... or stupid ... especially as I am Triple Negative and there is no medication to keep the cancer at bay. But, for the moment least, I am happy to protect my ignorance ... and live on a ray of hope ...

I went back to the hospital again last week. Let’s think ... on Monday. Oh ... and Tuesday. And probably Wednesday. Thinking about it ... Thursday too. And Friday ... definitely Friday.

Don’t worry ... I am OK ... I didn’t have any appointments. No. I was at the hospital because I now work there. Yes ... my hospital. What I have not had chance to tell you about yet is that when I came back from holiday in June my job changed. Not totally. I am still working with those old colleagues including Mr Campbell, Peaches, Miss Sweaty Jockstrap, Cornish Cous et al. But my different role means I now have some new colleagues ... including Chemo Nurses A to H, Dr Jordan and the luv-ver-ly Dr O ....

Now ... I know it sounds odd ... but you would think that each time I go to the hospital I would think about what has happened there before. My mother’s cancer ... her death... as well as my own diagnosis and treatment ... especially as that really wasn’t very long ago. But I don’t. OK ... so when I walk past the breast care unit ... or radiotherapy building it might fleetingly cross my mind ... but generally I consider it just to be one of the places that I work.

I say “generally” as last Friday was a little different ... it was a year to the day that I attended the Breast Care Unit for the very first time.

On Friday I went over to the hospital to do a charity donation photo shoot. It went well and once it was done I left the hospital feeling all warm and fuzzy. That was until I drove down the drive .... and I looked at the clock and it said ten to two ... about the time of my appointment exactly a year ago ... and it got me thinking. I had a flashback of me and Nit Nat getting into her little black car and setting off to the hospital to get my lump checked out. I remembered feeling nervous ... and a little scared ... but certainly no idea of what was about to knock me for six ...

As I drove along, the memories from my initial visit the previous year caused tears to well up in my eyes and warm salty drops toppled down my cheeks. I thought back to the comment made by the actress Lynne Redgrave when she heard her diagnosis. She said: “I have my moments of such sadness. They hit me quite suddenly. My loss of innocence. The innocence that made me feel that cancer couldn't happen to me.”

And that is what happened to me at that moment as I was driving along. I got cancer... I got treated ... and hopefully it has gone away ... and I am truly grateful for that. But ... I will never be the same person who walked into that Breast Care Unit a year ago. I want to continue to live a healthy, happy and fulfilling life ... but I know that even if I go hours ... or maybe days ... and perhaps one day even weeks without thinking about cancer ... that it will always be in my life. Not necessarily physically but definitely mentally. There will always be something in the back of mind ... I will never have that innocence ever again ... I will always live with a silent shadow ... a tiny grim reaper sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear and reminding me that the cancer could reappear ... in my breasts ... my ovaries ... anywhere ...

I got back to the office and pulled into the car park and checked my face ... grabbed a tissue to wipe away the smudged make up. And, as I did so, I caught sight of my hair ... and let out a little chuckle. Yes ... my hair ... my hair that used to be fine and shoulder length but ain’t no more. Following the chemo it has grown back thick and curly ... not even wavy ... but curly. Honestly, my mum would love it. She would be so envious of it ... along with them infamous red shoes of mine ...

I can’t remember who made that comment as I got out of the car at her funeral ... I am not even sure if they are still alive ... but I do know that if they thought I looked like my mother back then ... then they certainly would now.

Fingers crossed hey, that it is just our looks ~ and our passion for red ~ to remain the things she and I have in common.

You are one in a million ...

2010-08-02T21:11:00.024+01:00

Well, actually I am not one in a million ... I am one in 28 million. What I am not sure about is whether that makes me more ... or less ... special ....?

Last weekend saw the end of the Tour de France. Yes, I know what you are saying. “Tour de France?! What is she on?"

That it is up there with my admission about my fondness for fishing?

OK – your thought processes? Well let me guess ...

“Tour de France? No!

Oh ... but hang on there ... Tour de France ... men ... fit men ... fit men in lycra ... perhaps it is to be expected of her ..."

Oh you guys ... do you really think I am that shallow? Honestly!

Let me explain ...

Well ... annually I do dip in and out of the Tour de France ... as I did this year. Why? Well, as an imposed-Francophile I like to check out the bits of France that I’ve been to ... and the ones I haven’t. I must admit there aren’t many. As I joked with a colleague at work a couple of weeks ago ... I am often tempted to buy one of those ‘departmental’ maps of the country and fill in the places that I have been to ... painting by numbers style ... and I don’t think there would be too many white ones ...

And then there is Lance. I must admit I have a bit of an obsession with Lance. Yes ... Lance Armstrong. Now ... I don’t want you to worry ... I have not become some kind of celebrity stalker ... he has not had any need to take a court injunction out on me ... honestly. Maybe 'obsession' is too strong ... perhaps I should say 'admiration' and since my diagnosis 'fascination'.

"Why?"

Well firstly, I muse over how on earth back in 1996, when he was the world no 1 ranking cyclist and member of the Olympic team, did Lance get cancer. Nope ... not only did this extremely fit top sportsman get cancer, but he got bad bad cancer. It started as testicular cancer – but that wasn’t it in a nutshell. No. No, that definitely wasn't it. It roamed ... and roamed lots ... it spread to his lungs and his brain. It was so severe that in fact he was given a less than 50-50 chance of survival.

Secondly, I want to know how someone who was so poorly manage to kick that cancer in the balls and come back and not only complete the arduous Tour de France the following year ... but an unbelievable further six occasions after that. Hollywood could base a film on these incredible highs and lows ...

And thirdly, as an aside, how on earth did he and singer Sheryl I-just-want-to-have-some-fun Crowe get it together? I guess it takes all sorts, everyone to their own ... and all that ...

So this year? Well .... Lance didn’t make it an eighth time ... but he certainly didn't let me down. If he ain't conquering cancer one way ... then he is successfully doing it another ...

I don't think Lance really thought he was going to win this time round. And at the end he was 40 minutes off pace. 40 minutes ... about the time it takes me to do a bit of shopping, or make some supper or run a bath and have decent soak. But 40 minutes is a long time in the sporting world.

"So this race was a meek and mild affair then?"

Err no ... this is Lance ... who is renowned for not just being yellow-shirty ...

First of all there was that run-in with the pedestrian who made the mistake of getting in his way.

But ... even more amusingly there was that ending ... when Tour officials noticed Lance’s Team RadioShack were wearing unauthorised jerseys for last Saturday's final stage, they halted proceedings and made them put their official kit back on.

The disgraced shirts were emblazoned with the number 28 - to signify the 28 million people suffering from cancer worldwide. They were billboards for Livestrong, the charity Lance set up in 1997, a year after he was told he had a less than a 40% chance of beating his cancer. The successful charitable foundation vows to 'unite and fight cancer'.

Lance and Radioshack had already been told by Tour officials that they weren’t going to permit the unauthorised sweaters. And, if the intended message was that nobody is bigger than the Tour, then it didn’t happen. Lance and the guys still put the shirts on ... and Tour officials insisted they be removed. Farcical scenes ensued as the team changed by the side of the road, safety-pinning race numbers to their old shirts, while the rest of the riders wondered what was going on. The officials had stuck to their guns but ironically headstrong Lance still got his photo opportunity and publicity. The world’s media watching and talking about what he is doing to raise awareness of cancer for 15 minutes ... absolutely and totally priceless. I have to hand it to him ... a true example on how to take others for a ride ...

"So talking about France how was that holiday back in June?"

Yeah, nice. It was warm and sunny. I got do the things I said I would do. Resting and relaxing .... reading my books and poodling around on my bike. But to be truthful it feels like quite a long time ago now ... it was after all two months back. I’m actually looking forward to my next holiday ... to France ... in a week.

Yes, I know, I know. Another holiday. But nobody can begrudge me of this one. This is the holiday I was due to go on last August. But didn’t ... as I was diagnosed the day before my scheduled departure. So I am going this year ... on my actual first year 'cancerversary'. I will be taking the ferry to Calais and going right down the middle of France ... all the way to the Spanish border, nestling in the foothills of the Pyrenees, beside the sea. Oh don’t worry, I will have my bike with me, but I won’t be cycling there. Gosh, no. What takes Lance three weeks and 40 minutes would take me at least three years ... honest. No, I will be travelling down more conventionally by car. The Tom Tom says it will take about 10 hours ... 10 hours for me to watch the French countryside fly by ... and quietly reflect on the last year.

Now, for those of you who have been with me since the beginning you may remember the Cogs story ... when I described how the months ahead of me felt long and never ending. That how I wondered whether I would ever look back at that diagnosis and treatment time... and it would feel like a distant memory. Well, for those of you that are just starting off on a similar journey ... I can say it does. Only three months since I returned to work ... and two months since I finished treatment ... those nine months of hell really do feel like a blur.

So what will I be thinking about as I am heading down to the sunny south? Well, I will be looking forward to that long-awaited break ahead of me. How I will be enjoying my usual favourites walking, cycling, exploring, taking photos ... soaking up the sunny atmosphere ... swimming ... and boarding. Yep ... boarding. That raised a few titters in the office this week. Instead of the delivery of the expected and accepted shoe box shaped parcel ... this week it was body board shaped ... and what most of my colleagues failed to realise was they had paid for the accompanying wetsuit. Uhhh ....??

Well, about six months ago, Mr Campbell said to me that he still had some money left over from my gift collection. He asked if I would like him to buy something or would I like the money ... did I have something in mind I would like to purchase. And I told him that funny enough I did.

Back in September, after my treatment started, I spent a day on the beach with my family and friends. Now, I have done a bit of body boarding ... borrowing a wetsuit and board as required ... but I have never been too bothered. I was just as happy sitting quietly on the blanket with a magazine or book. But back last summer it was different ... it was the classic thing of I wanted to do something ... because I couldn’t... I wasn't allowed in the water because of my low immunity due to the chemo. It was a bit like wanting a particular food if you go on some wacko diet which doesn’t allow you to have certain things to eat. Life is like that ... as soon as you are told you can't have something you want it makes you want it even more. So, I vowed there and then ... that once I was able to ... then I would grab the opportunity. Which I am ... and every time I put on my wetsuit I will picture my lovely kind and generous colleagues. I am just thankful that they won't be able to see me ...

Before I sign off I want to mention my friend Johnny Boy ... Johnny Boy who will be jumping on his bike soon and cycling from Honiton to Teignmouth to raise money for prostate cancer – the number one cancer for men. Now, if you know and work with Johnny then put your hands in your pockets and throw him some loose change ... And for those of you who don’t ... well ... when someone you do know does something similar then I ask you to do the same for them. Honestly, every little bit counts. There are 28 million of us out there you know ...

I am going to sponsor Johnny Boy ... but I am not sure how much yet ... I need to check out whether he is prepared to put on the lycra ...

That’s all folks ...

2010-05-30T11:31:00.016+01:00

"Women are like teabags. We don't know our true strength until we are in hot water."

Eleanor Roosevelt

You know ... I used to say if only I had a pound for every time someone made a comment or complimented me on them little red shoes. These days I confess I would relish a quid for each occasion over the last few months that I have been told that this blog is really good ... and that I should write a book ...

And believe me, I am delighted. If only one person who reads my ramblings takes on board what I have explained ... and who appreciates that cancer can happen at any age ... that breast cancer can sadly appear in those who are in their 40s, 30s .... even 20s ... and encourages them to regularly ‘coppafeel’ ... it means I have achieved something extraordinary.

When I was little I loved books ... and was renowned for being a book worm. I wanted to be a writer or poet when I grew up. Either that or a travel agent or a librarian. Many years on, I am fortunate to have a job which involves writing ... and in hindsight I now realise that being a travel agent or librarian would be a nightmare. Assisting travellers to flit around the world, visiting exotic places whilst I was stuck in a shop ... or watching people walking off with all those books that I anxiously wanted to read. And besides ... I think those who know me would say I am not the shy, quiet retiring type suited to working in such a studious environment ...

If I was a writer then I would be the sort to desperately miss my characters once my tome was complete ... ‘cos I even do that when I am just reading a paperback. And it is not just books ... ‘cos this week I am mourning the loss of Alex ... and Ray ... and Chris ... and Shaz ... and of course ... the ‘Unt ...

For those of you who don’t have a clue as to what I am referring to, and didn’t watch Ashes to Ashes, then here is one of those infamous RSGP quickie summaries:

Ashes to Ashes was a fictional BBC series about Alex Drake, a female police officer in the Metropolitan Police, who is shot in 2008 and inexplicably regains consciousness in 1981 ... working for DI Gene Hunt ... a whiskey drinking, foul mouthed, totally politically incorrect, tangerine-coloured Quattro driver ... but who is totally loveable. (Gosh ... did I really publically admit that ...)

Throughout the series, we didn’t know whether Alex was dead or alive in the present day, though in last week’s final episode it was revealed that the Ashes to Ashes world was a kind of limbo land for ‘restless dead’ police officers. That in fact Gene, Ray, Chris, and Shaz were all dead; and in fact that Alex herself has died. The programme ended with all of them, except Gene, all moving on to a new heavenly life ... via the local pub, the Railway Arms. I know ... if you didn’t watch it then it does sound a bit odd ... but it was really good ... honest ...

Over the last few weeks colleagues have been asking how it feels to be back at work. My response? Great ... but a bit weird. It is wonderful to have returned ... but it is still not quite the normality that I unexpectantly left behind last summer. Why? Well for starters I am only doing 15 hours a week ... rather than 37 ... over three short days where I start later and finish earlier. Then, on top of that, I am still a breast cancer patient. I have to be at the hospital for my daily zapping ... which once I have got there, waited and had my treatment is about an hour out.

I’ve often spoken of this weird parallel-malignant-universe ... where you live out a ‘normal’ existence ... even though you have this life threatening disease ... and are receiving this powerful cocktail of chemicals ... which make you poorly ... and as a consequence you lose your hair ... and are vulnerable to infection. Where your doctor’s surgery and the hospital become your second homes ... and your GP and consultants become your new best friends.

So as I watched Ashes to Ashes ... I felt an affinity with Alex. No, not because Keeley Hawes is nearly six foot ... with legs up to here. Nah ... but because her character Alex Drake found herself in an alien cosmos ... a world that wasn’t hers ... and she desperately wanted to return to the life she had suddenly and shockingly left behind ...

And ... like DCI Drake ... this Wednesday I will be leaving my weird and not so wonderful parallel universe ...when my breast cancer care pathway comes to an end. Yep ... after 9 months of treatment which has included 4 bouts of EC, and a further 3 doses of Taxotere ... surgery ... and 20 sessions of radiotherapy ... I am finally done. That is it. There are no meds for me as I am Triple Negative. I was told that “taking hormone tablets would be like eating Liquorice Allsorts” ... worthless ... especially as I don’t like the black stuff ...

But ... unlike Alex ... I am not escaping my ‘other world’ by entering the Railway Arms ... though Mr Campbell has suggested a celebratory drink at our local ... No, my transition is via a ferry ... to France. My first proper holiday for a year. And where am I going? Back to the idyllic La Palmyre of course ... the place I visited exactly 12 months ago ... just before my diagnosis. The last time that I can really remember feeling happy and relaxed ... doing the things that I like to do ... cycling ... swimming ... photography. Eating some locally caught seafood ... oh and yummy cheese ... all washed down with more than a little red wine ...

But unlike last time I won’t be coming home bronzed and bonnie ... as I am under strict instructions to keep out of the sun ... so I will be sitting under a brolly ... liberally lathered in factor 50. Bitter? Nope. At least it will drastically reduce my chances of skin cancer ...

So is the Big BC all over? No ... of course not ... I am not kidding myself. I know this isn’t it. That there are still many more issues ahead. Of course there are. For starters I have been told I could suffer the side effects from my tough chemo for at least 12 months ... and that the consequences of the powerful radiotherapy could appear in many years’ time. I know I am still to face little challenges... like going out for the first time without my cap ... and the cosmetic surgery that I am have in the autumn.

And then there are the bigger confrontations... like my regular trips to see Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly and Dr Jordan, my Oncology and Breast Cancer consultants ... that will take place over the next ten years ... and where they will continue to do tests to make sure the cancer has gone away ... and not returned. And trust me ... every one of those visits is going to be darn right nail biting and unbelievably stressful ...

But for now ... I am packing for that long-awaited holiday. My clothes ... and shoes ... and swim wear. And of course there will be my books ... some in my suitcase ... oh ... and the one in my mind ...

Yeah, perhaps I could .. and should ... write that book. Mmm ... I’m thinking it might be about a girl ... and her diary ... She has legs “only up to here” and will “always be a little bit fat”. She often says the wrong thing ... at the wrong time ... because her mouth goes into gear before her brain can stop it. She falls off her exercise bike ... and skis down mountains backwards. Mmm ... a bit like the endearing Bridget Jones ...

But ... unlike Bridget ... she unexpectantly gets told she has breast cancer. So she talks openly and frankly about the consequences of that. What it is like to hear the news ... how she cries hysterically when she goes for her first chemo ... how she talks about ‘Cogs’ over a pub lunch with her pal Bubbles ... and describes the afternoon she sits in My Little Friend’s garden as her hair falls out. She shares how she is the only patient her consultant has seen who is pleased to hear that she has a lump ... because it means a breast conserving procedure. Oh ... and how she manages to inadvertently flash her silky covered arse to more than twenty patients sitting in the waiting room just before surgery ...

And she also talks frankly about the trials and tribulations of her treatment. That there are very bad times ... along with much better spells ... and the special people that help and support her through both. That she makes wonderful new friends ... but sadly loses comrades along the way ... and that all these things that give her the strength to get through the crap and think positively about the future ...

Anyway ... I am off now ... I am not saying I won’t be back ... but it will be a while.

Maybe time out to write that book ...

Storms and teabags in my D cup ...

I'm feeling hot ... hot ... hot ...

2010-05-16T20:38:00.016+01:00

“I am thinking about buying this green top and matching shoes, what do you think?” asked Cornish Cous. “Very nice” I replied. “I don’t usually wear green ... do you think it will suit me?” she questioned. “Oh yes”, I assured her, “and green is very 'this season'. In fact I have never worn green before, but I have bought a few bits lately in various shades.” “Oh, perhaps I should go for them....” she trailed off. “Definitely”, I responded. “everybody needs a treat now and again ... and we have just been paid.” “You are right!” she exclaimed. “Will you be wearing green to our pub grub evening?” “I might”, I replied “but it is complicated .....”

Just before I went on long term sick leave, a colleague of mine enquired “You have so many clothes and shoes, do you have a walk in wardrobe ...?” And I confirmed ... slightly tongue-in-cheek ... that in fact I do. “I knew it!” she said. And I laughed. “I have a walk in wardrobe but sadly not like the one that Mr Big built Carrie. I wish. No, my walk in wardrobe is the tiny nursery room which Little Tinker moved out of a few years ago and where the laundry basket and ironing board live ... along with my piles of clothes waiting to be pressed!”

So what issues can I possibly have when deciding what to wear ... when, I must admit, have such a vast choice? Mmm ... there are three very good reasons actually ...

Well ... for starters I am still wearing my little caps and array of scarves. We have now moved from the thicker heavy cloths of the Autumn/Winter range ... to the lighter bright Spring/Summer numbers. My hair is growing ... but obviously not at the rate that I want it to ... a watched pot and all that. The good news is that it has returned dark ... in fact even darker than it was before. I was born a brunette and it is now bordering on black. It has a few sprinkles of grey ... but hey I had those before it fell out so I ain’t gonna grumble about those ... and, like them pit hairs, they will also magically disappear sometime soon.

So what do I look like?  Well for those of a similar age to me then think Lisa Stansfield ... you remember ... All around the world Lisa ... And for my younger readers you need to think of recent pics of the model Agyness Deyn ... though I need to point out that although the party prom dress and Doc Martin boots would not be at all out of place in Funky Town ... I would really need to lose two decades and three stone to pull it off ...

Having said that, I guess I don’t look too bad ... I even got one of those infamous not-quite-compliments from My Little Friend a little earlier. Yes .. My Little Friend, who I haven’t seen for nearly two months (partly because she unintentionally ended up in Florida for almost half of that time), so it was lovely to go and see her and The Silverback for a spot of Sunday lunch today.

“Oh my”, she exclaimed as I walked in the door and removed my hat, “I always thought you looked a bit French ... you certainly do today. In fact, you look almost chic.” Mmm ... what’s that saying ... who needs enemies ... bless her ...

And so what else do I need to consider on getting dressed each morning? Well ... there is something I haven’t mentioned before ... I wasn’t really sure whether I should talk about it ... whether it was too much info ... But then I thought before I finally wrap up my blog in a few weeks time that I should ... after all ... my mission over the last nine months has been to talk about cancer ... raise awareness ... talk about the trials and tribulations of treatments ... and their side effects ...

“Can I ask you to read this and sign under my signature at the bottom?” We have returned to last August and I am meeting my Oncologist, Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly, for the very first time. He has suggested that we go for neoadjuvant chemotherapy ... chemo before surgery ... and I have to sign a consent form to confirm that I understand what this entails ... and what side effects I could encounter. Doing as I was asked, I signed on the line and put the pen down. “Oh no”, said Dr Oh. “Oh, I am sorry”, I said and glanced down at the form “have I signed in the wrong place?” “No, no. My fault I forgot to mention something”, he said apologetically. “I should have told you ...the chemo ... it might stop your periods. Permanently. Is that a problem?”

No, it wasn’t, and in fact I didn’t think much about it ... until the following month ... when I realised that he was right. Then ... in November ... out of the blue ... I experienced my first hot flush ... on the M6 ... in road works ... just outside Birmingham ... on the way back from Wales. Suddenly I had my head out of the window ... despite the noise ... and the dust ... like an over excited dog ...

So what did I do when I finally got home?  Switched on the PC ... and googled “Symptoms of menopause” ... obviously ... you really should know me by now. And this is what I found ....

1. Hot flashes, flushes, night sweats and/or cold flashes, clammy feeling
2. Irregular heart beat
3. Irritability
4. Mood swings, sudden tears
5. Trouble sleeping through the night (with or without night sweats)
6. Irregular periods; shorter, lighter periods; heavier periods, flooding; phantom periods, shorter cycles, longer cycles
7. Loss of libido
8. Dry vagina
9. Crashing fatigue
10. Anxiety, feeling ill at ease
11. Feelings of dread, apprehension, doom
12. Difficulty concentrating, disorientation, mental confusion
13. Disturbing memory lapses
14. Incontinence, especially upon sneezing, laughing; urge incontinence
15. Itchy, crawly skin
16. Aching, sore joints, muscles and tendons
17. Increased tension in muscles
18. Breast tenderness
19. Headache change: increase or decrease
20. Gastrointestinal distress, indigestion, flatulence, gas pain, nausea
21. Sudden bouts of bloat
22. Depression
23. Exacerbation of existing conditions
24. Increase in allergies
25. Weight gain
26. Hair loss or thinning, head, pubic, or whole body; increase in facial hair
27. Dizziness, light-headedness, episodes of loss of balance
28. Changes in body odour
29. Electric shock sensation under the skin and in the head
30. Tingling in the extremities
31. Gum problems, increased bleeding
32. Burning tongue, burning roof of mouth, bad taste in mouth, change in breath odour
33. Osteoporosis (after several years)
34. Changes in fingernails: softer, crack or break easier
35. Tinnitus: ringing in ears, bells, 'whooshing,' buzzing etc.

Wow ... a list that made the cancer and chemo look like a breeze. I won’t go through them one by one and tell you which ones I have or have not experienced ... that really would be too much information ... but I can thankfully say that to date it isn’t many, and that other than saving at least 50 quid on monthly essentials ... the most obvious one is the hot flushes. Oh ... and the cold ones. I am not sure if mine are particularly nasty as my menopause is chemo induced ... and is not part of the natural aging process that most women experience... but it does mean that when I am considering what to wear that layers are good.

And thirdly ... the final impact on my wardrobe choice ... well, there is currently radiotherapy to consider too. Every day I have to go to the hospital at 1pm for my daily zap ... which, if I am truthful, I still don’t like. The actual treatment is literally two minutes ... but I usually have to wait for 20 minutes or so ... and then it takes I guess about ten minutes to carefully align me so the radiation is hitting the necessary area ... and not sensitive areas ... such as my lung.

My lovely new booby is currently standing up to the powerful treatment ... but is a little red and warm ... a bit like sunburn ... so I have been told to keep the aqueous cream in the fridge and slap it on at any opportunity ...

Rather than get changed on arrival for rads I usually wait until I am called to the treatment area and then quickly whip off my upper garments and slip on that fetching flowery gown, so I need to ensure I wear something that can be easily removed and put back on.  And, as I did on Friday, if I wear a dress I need to remember to take skirt with me so that I am not lying on the couch half naked. Once treatment is done I grab my bag and items of clothing and then pop back to the changing cubicle to put on my usual attire.

One of the positive aspects of radiotherapy is that you attend the same time each day ... which means other patients do too ... and you get to know others who are going through a similar care pathway as you. Bea, who comes along with her husband Jay, started her five week course of radiotherapy the same day as me. She is much older than me ... in fact her children are older than me ... but she too is very upbeat, open and frank about her illness, which is very different to mine. It has been interesting to learn about someone else’s treatment ... and lovely to be greeted by a pair of jovial faces each day.

On Friday, I walked into the waiting room, a little late as always and a little puffy from running down the corridor. “Hello Bea ... Jay ... how are you?” “Fine, fine” they grinned. “Ooh ... Bea ... you have had your haircut ... it looks very nice.” “Thank you”, she responded, and smiled broadly “it is lovely isn’t it?” “It is indeed” I replied. “I liked yours so much” she went on to say “that I asked my hairdresser to cut it the same”. I paused ... I was going to explain that I hadn’t actually had mine styled ... and that it wasn’t a cut that I had by choice ... but stopped ... and smiled back ... “great choice, suits you too.”

Here’s hoping for a long warm sunny summer ...  'cos us gals in the know are aware what is hot ... and what is not ... and will be looking and feeling pretty cool ...

I am sure Agyness would agree that short is pretty damn sweet ...

Can’t be ...

2010-05-10T19:45:00.008+01:00

“A woman can’t be too rich or too thin”

Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor

Well ... it has been a pretty momentous week ...

Tuesday ... and for the first time in nearly nine months I returned to work. It was lovely ... back at my old desk ... working on my computer ... answering the phone ... and best of all seeing my wonderful friends and colleagues. Honestly ... it felt as if I had never been away ...

Wednesday ... my first session of radiotherapy. It was OK ... it doesn’t hurt ... but it is daunting. You lie there in a darkened room ... alone ... with the red “Radiation on” sign flashing ... and the machinery clunking around you. I will admit that on that first day I got a bit low ... there on my back ... knowing that this was the inaugural session of 20. It has been two months since surgery ... where did that time go ... and four months since my last chemo ... and there I am ... back to being a patient again. But ... as always ... I turned my situation around ... remembered that the consent form that Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly had asked me to sign had said “precautionary treatment”. That he thinks the Yukky Lump has gone away and that this is a belt and braces job ... to make sure it doesn’t come back ... and I need to be grateful for that.

Then on Thursday I jumped on the scales and was delighted to see I had shed the final couple of pounds to get me back to my pre-chemo weight. OK ... I am not suggesting that I don’t need to shed some more ... ‘cos I do ... but at least the scales are saying the same as they were last August before I went off work ... and I can now comfortably fit into my clothes.

And finally ... Friday. I popped into Marksies to buy some sausages for the boys ... yep my life has returned to that level of normality ... and I bought .... mmm .... a copy of Hello magazine.

Now ... I have never purchased a copy of Hello before ... though I am not saying I have never read it ... if it is loitering on top of the coffee table in the hospital waiting room then I will take peek and flick ... but it is not something that I actually buy. Why? Because it is usually full of slim and bronzed young soap actors and actresses ... that I don’t even recognise ... let alone name ... and who generally make me feel very old and frumpy ... heck I don’t need to pay for that privilege ... so what swung it on this occasion ...

Last weekend I was really quite shocked to read a small newspaper article which reported that the actress Sally Whittaker, who plays the character of Sally Webster in the TV soap, Coronation Street, had been diagnosed with breast cancer back in October ... a case of life imitating art when she discovered she had the disease after a plotline in which her character underwent treatment for breast cancer. So when I caught sight of her picture on the front of Hello ... with the subtitle “My battle to beat breast cancer” ... my curiosity got the better of me.

Now ... I have mentioned Kylie before. Yes, that Kylie. Cute, sweet, girl-next-door Australian Kylie with the gold lycra hotpants ... who was diagnosed with breast cancer back in 2005. And I have admitted that the announcement and media coverage floated past me ... not really hitting my radar ... even though we are exactly the same age. Probably because I didn’t think it would ever happen to me.

Well ... over the last nine months I have thought about Kylie quite a lot. Mostly during the dire time of chemo ... when I felt really rough ... and looked really ill. As I lay in bed ... contemplating whether I had been transported to a living hell ... I would think of Kylie ... reminding myself that although she was rich ... famous ... pretty ... with a hot-totty-botty ... that she had to endure exactly the same as me. Similar treatment ... comparable sickness ... the loss of hair ... and eyebrows ... and eyelashes ...

Some years on Kylie described her treatment. “It’s like a prison sentence. I can’t quite articulate it. It’s a bit like being in an atomic explosion and people asking you to describe it: ‘ So, exactly how big is the hole?’ I don’t think anyone who hasn’t had it can understand it.”

So what did Sally Whittaker have to say in Hello? Well ... she explains that she discovered the cancerous lump in her breast herself, prompted by her storyline. "If I had not been researching this storyline, I may not have discovered the lump in my breast and had it looked at so quickly. I had never properly checked my breast before because I thought this wasn’t going to happen to me. It’s a stupid thing to think, but I think a lot of women are like that.”

Sally was diagnosed with a 1.8cm grade 1 tumour. "We got into the car and I cried like I’d never cried before in my life. It was uncontrollable sobbing. I didn’t want to die. I said to Tim, ‘I’ve got three children, I can’t die’. I would hate to be sat on a fluffy cloud looking down on them. I couldn’t cope with that. I had to be there to see them grow-up."

Despite the coincidence Sally agreed to continue filming her soap scenes in a bid to raise awareness about the condition. “Those were the hardest scenes I’ve ever had to film,” she explains. She undertook her cancer plotline scenes in a month’s block then took a break to undergo surgery, chemo and radiotherapy.

Sally says she now has a new outlook on life. "It’s made my appreciate life more and I feel humbled. Everybody I love, I love a million times more."

The photos of Sally in the mag are great ... but as someone who has been there ... the first things I notice are the painted eyebrows and false eyelashes ... And although she is pictured with her little blonde prickles she admits “I would love to go around with a bald head, but sometimes I wear headscarves because I don’t want to draw attention to myself and I don’t want pitying looks.”

She received no payment for her interview and instead asked that a donation be made to The Genesis Breast Cancer Appeal and The Christie Hospital Appeal, the hospital where she has been receiving treatment.

And that is the first article that I read this week and I wanted to tell you about ... the second ... was the announcement by her publicist, that actress Lynn Redgrave had this week “passed away peacefully after a seven-year journey with breast cancer.”

After she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2002, Lynn asked her daughter Annabel Clark, then a photography student at Parsons School of Design, if she would photograph the course of treatment and recovery. Following her death, at the age of 67, these intimate and emotive photos are now displayed on the New York Times website.

I must admit that I find some of them difficult to look at ... especially the post-operative ones ... particularly the one with the drains ... perhaps it doesn’t feel like such a short time since my own surgery ...

And then, under the picture of Lynn doing her recuperation exercises, there is an inscription taken from her diary which rings so true. It says: “I have my moments of such sadness. They hit me quite suddenly. My loss of innocence. The innocence that made me feel that cancer couldn't happen to me.”

There are a number of events taking place over the next few weeks ... including the many Run for Life races, organised by Cancer Research UK, as well as the Playtex Moonwalk in London, which a number of my friends and colleagues are participating in. I would like to wish all those that I know, as well as those I don’t, the best of luck with raising awareness and attracting funds to improve the treatment of cancer. Sadly it is too late for the likes of Kylie ... and Sally ... and Lynn... and me ... and the many millions of people who have already been diagnosed with cancer ... and who have already had to endure the horrid side effects of chemotherapy ... and radiotherapy ... and surgery ...

But we don’t know who will be next ... you ... a family member ... or a friend ... or a colleague ... or a neighbour ...

You can’t be too rich or too thin ... or too old ... or too young. You can't be too famous ... or too pretty ... or too popular ... or too talented ...

Cancer ... it doesn’t discriminate ... so never think “It couldn’t happen to me”.

One small step ... one giant leap ...

2010-05-03T21:06:00.009+01:00

Work like you don’t need the money
Love like you’ve never been hurt
Dance like no one’s watching
Sing like no one’s listening
Live like there is no tomorrow

Mark Twain

Friday ... and the Sloane Ranger came over to Funky Town and we strolled into the high street. After a spot of lunch (thank you Hun) we had a bit of a wander around the market and the cute little shops. It was in one that I pointed out a little plaque, you know the sort, brightly coloured, a bit kitsch, the type that people hang in their kitchen. The verse on it was the one above. “I think I should buy that and hang it on my desk at work” I joked with the Sloane. “Oh yes ...” she laughed appreciatively. I am sure she feels some camaraderie with my current colleagues ... and empathy ... and sympathy ... after all she spent a number of years listening to my 'beautiful' dulcet tones ...

Later that evening, tucked up in bed, I was reading a magazine which featured an interview with Joseph Fiennes ... the actor ... best known for wearing breeches and doublets ... When asked “What do you think is the most important lesson that life that has taught you?” He quoted the exact same poem ... surely someone somewhere is trying to tell me something ...

It has been a busy week ... my diary has been so full even Bridget J would be envious. On Monday I met with Mr Campbell to discuss my return to work ... before meeting up with over a dozen of my girlie friends from work for a pub grub evening (thank you Lindyloo for organising). It was great fun ... lots of giggles and raucous laughter, in fact as if we could neither be seen ... nor heard. No, Cornish Cous, I am not going to repeat what happened at that Divorce Party you attended and what you actually did to those vodka jellies! Then on Thursday I had lunch with Hoops and Margarine ... before attending the staff awards ceremony ... where I boogied for hours ... like no one was watching.

Wednesday was the day that I went into work ... to discuss my return with HR. My half hour meeting was followed by cruisin' around the office getting up to speed with my friends and colleagues ... which took four hours. Yeah ... I know ... four hours ... but I had a lot of catching up to do!

Whilst meandering around the building I bumped into PG, a colleague who I haven’t seen since I was at work back in August. We started chatting and she asked after my health, what treatment I had received (chemo and surgery) and what further treatment I am to receive (radiotherapy). She went on to say that a friend of hers had been diagnosed at a similar time as me, but that the chemo had no impact on her tumour so they terminated that treatment and undertook radical surgery instead. I said that I empathised ... that I know of women who had received chemo and that their tumour hadn’t shrunk ... or even continued to grow. I explained that I appreciate that the treatment worked for me ... that initially things were definitely not looking good ... a 6cm grade 3 stage 3 tumour ... but thankfully the chemo had reduced Yukky Lump to less than half its original size ... and fortunately it appears it has been caught before it ventured any further.

PG said that her friend had not felt a lump but had made an appointment to see her GP after seeing a dent in her breast ... and that she didn’t realise that this was something to look out for ... that when she checks her own breasts she is only looking for a pea-sized lump. Which, of course, was an opportunity for me to give my little spiel ... so I explained ...

You need to feel your breasts for changes... any lumps ... small or significant. Look in the mirror ... for any dimpling ... puckering ... or indents. Inspect the nipple for discharge. Some women do experience tenderness and soreness ... either immediately before their period ... or during the middle of the month ... and this is sometimes accompanied by ‘lumpy breasts’. Breast cancer doesn’t usually hurt ... though I should point out that mine did as the Yukky Lump was so large it was pressing on a nerve. And ... at the end of the day ... anything that does not go away after a week or so should be followed up.

Thanks to my friend MackieC who has recommended the Embarrassing Bodies website where there is a great video demo on the best way of examining your breasts. Sermon over.

After I had finished my health promotion talk PG leant forward and whispered “Can I ask you a personal question?” Now, as I am sure you appreciate, I am a pretty upfront kinda girl ... yeah, in more ways than one ... but that request does unnerve me slightly. “Go ahead”, I responded, wondering what she was going to ask. “Well ... having said all that ... how come your lump was so big by the time you found it?” And that is a very good (personal) question.

Right, for those of you that have just joined me this is a potted history on how the Yukky Lump and I became reluctantly acquainted. I woke one Saturday last summer ... and as I lay in bed ... I could feel a funny tingling in my breast ... like one of the first signs of pregnancy. I knew that definitely wasn’t the case ... so wasn’t too concerned. However, a few days later my breast felt solid ... and then a few days after that I started experience some pain ... so I called my GP. To be truthful I wasn’t too worried to start with ... because the mass was so large ... sitting right along the cup of my breast ... I didn’t think anything so big could be that suspicious. I too, at that stage, naively thought that nasty lumps were petit pois sized. Sadly ... I was proved wrong. Very wrong. And for a long time I kept kicking myself ... beating myself up for not seeing it ... nor feeling it ... much earlier. How could someone who is usually pretty in tune with their body allow a lump to grow to 6cm before spotting it?

Now, I have told you about them infamous red shoes. Yeah the ones I used to wear to work and that everyone loved. “They are chilli red, with peep toes, a Cuban heel and shiny buttons. A bit sexy, a bit cute but def not OTT. When I wear them I get at least half a dozen comments. I often say that if I had a pound for every compliment that I have received then I could have bought another three pairs ... or more”. But what about their less glamorous and more practical cousins ... my little pink crocs?

Just before I found the lump, and whilst I was still at work, I had one of those late Friday afternoon chin wags with The Poet. We were talking about our plans for the weekend. “You know if people could see me at the weekends they would be horrified” I confided in her. “I don’t wear a scrap of make up ... I just wear something that is comfy ... no heels ... just my crocs.” “Don’t worry” she said “I am just the same.”

And that is how I was ... that afternoon in June. Saturday ... the day I spend most of my time doing household chores ... cleaning ... tidying ... washing. On that oparticular day the weather was warmish ... with a breeze ... a great opportunity to empty the laundry basket and peg everything up outside ... which is what I had done. It was about 5 or 6 o’clock and I had just started cooking supper, when I heard a tapping on the window. I turned around to see it had started raining. “Oh no, my washing!” I exclaimed. So I grabbed the wash basket, ran out into the garden and up the steps. But I didn’t make it ... just as I got to the top step my croc hit the damp surface ... and I slipped. But, because I had the basket in my hands I couldn’t put them down to protect myself, and instead I fell, very heavily, onto my chest. No kidding, it was full pelt. I lay there for a few seconds ... shocked ... and in pain. It is probably the closest, as a female, that I will get to understand what it is like for a guy to be kicked in the b...s

I thought such a heavy impact would, after a day or so, leave me with multi-coloured bruising ... but it didn’t. And in fact I didn’t think much about the incident until I was referred to the Breast Care Unit. It was only at that point that I thought that maybe the thickening in my boob was in fact internal swelling as a consequence of the battering ... but of course it wasn’t.

However ... it may still be relevant as I have since learnt that cancer can feed on inflammation ... inflammation that is fuelled by our environment. This maybe what we eat, drink or smoke. The amount of exercise we take and the amount of stress we endure. It is also believed that a number of cancers that develop are directly linked to a chronic inflammatory state ... for example cancer of the colon and rectum is linked to inflammatory bowel disease ... ovarian cancer is linked to pelvic inflammatory disease. Not only that, but studies undertaken as far back as 1863 showed that patients developed cancer where a shoe or tool had rubbed repeatedly, or at the exact spot on their body where they had received some kind of trauma, such as a blow.

Now I am not saying that my fall was the cause of my breast cancer – but what I believe may have happened is that the inflammation, which was a result of my fall against the step, fuelled a small but malignant tumour that was already there. A tumour which otherwise may have grown at a slower pace, which would have been less noticeable, and so possibly a greater opportunity to roam to more vulnerable places. Mmm ... perhaps I have a lot to thank those practical but unflattering little pink crocs for.

So what is in my diary for this week? Well ... Tuesday 4th May says ... “Return to work”. Yes! After nearly nine months of horrid gruelling treatment and its nasty side effects ... the nail-biting angst ... and lonely solitude ... I am about to take a significant step to resuming normality.

Live like there is no tomorrow.

I did.

But I sincerely hope there is a tomorrow ... ‘cos my red shoes are sitting here ... polished and shiny ... ready to dance around the office ... whilst I sing a little song ...

It really has been far too quiet there ... for far too long ...

Oh ... oh ...

2010-04-24T20:16:00.015+01:00

I lay in the semi-darkness ... strapped to the bed ... and looked around the room ... noting first the bright lights ... and then the camera which was pointing at me. A voice beside me broke the silence. “It won’t take long. And it shouldn’t hurt. It is just a small prick. Then I will untie you ... we’ll be done ... well for today anyway...”

My very first porn film. It is a remake of that raunchy 80’s classic ... 9½ Weeks ... but this time called 4 Weeks ... as twenty years on Mickey Rourke no longer has the stamina that he once had.

O ... kay ... so I am joking ... teasing ... pulling your plonker. It was in fact just my infamous vivid imagination during this week’s radiotherapy planning session. But hey, it got your attention didn’t it ... and the thought kept me amused.

So it was back over to the hospital on Wednesday. I wasn't really looking forward to my appointment ... nor was I worried or concerned about it ... I just couldn’t be bothered. The end of treatment is in sight and I am getting impatient.

“Hi, my name is Looby Lou, I am an Assistant Radiographer, and will be doing your planning session today.” I peered up at the beaming friendly face ... gosh I was definitely old enough to be Looby Lou’s mother ... I quickly tried to mentally calculate if I could be her grandmother ... she looked so young!

“Today we are going to work out your treatment so that your breast receives the most radiation and the healthy tissue and organs, such as your lungs, receive the least. Are you OK with us doing some small tattoos so that we can easily see which area is to be treated?" I nodded my head ... I knew they were going to be tiny. “It means that when you come in for your four weeks of treatment we will be able to line up the linear accelerator quickly and hopefully you can be in and out within 20 or so minutes ... of that the actual treatment will only take a few minutes. Is there anything you are worried about?” I smiled at her. “After seven sessions of chemo ... and then surgery ... this is the part I am least concerned about.” Now, I have been told that this bit is ... quote ... “compared to the rest radiotherapy is a walk in the park.” But as I was the person who used to insist that my dental records were marked with Nervous Patient ... and that I used to greet my dentist with my stress ball ... I am not using that phrase quite yet ... after all we are still talking health professionals and medical equipment ...

“I have read the booklet that I was given ... and I think that explained most things” I said to Looby Lou. “Oh good”, she nodded ... and grinned. I wanted to tell her about the bit which made me smile... but there was no point ... she wasn’t old enough to appreciate my comical thoughts. It was under the paragraph Reactions to Radiotherapy. It said .. “External radiotherapy doesn’t make you radioactive. It is safe to be with other people, including children, throughout the course of treatment.” Which made wonder whether some patients think they are going to walk around with a fluorescent silhouette ... like that 80's TV advert for Ready Brek ... with the slogans Central Heating for Kids and Get Up and Glow ...

“I have some pressies for you”, said Looby Lou. Oh goodie ... I like pressies. “Here is a gown for you to take home and bring in each day. It is yours. Well, until treatment is finished anyway.” I can admit to you now ... I wasn’t at all disappointed by that last bit. Quite frankly, the gown would have ended up in the same drawer as those fetching DVT stockings ... and at least the DVT stockings might be of some use if I jump on a plane. “And ... some aqueous cream.” Hey ... I bet Looby’s colleagues hope she doesn’t draw their name out of the Secret Santa hat ...

“Some people get a mild reaction during treatment so there are some things we recommend you do and don’t do”, continued Looby Lou. “Firstly, we recommend using this cream at least twice daily to keep your breast moisturised. You shouldn’t shave or use a hair removing cream on that armpit ... and no deodorant.” I looked at her quizzically. “I know I shouldn’t put deodorant on before treatment ... but I can apply it afterwards ... right?” “No”, smiled Looby Lou back, "we don’t recommend using deodorant at all during the four weeks ... unless it is aluminium and perfume free ...” Well folks, I know I was pretty excited about the arrival of them pit hairs ... but what I didn’t go on to say was that they didn’t hang around for long ... and although I didn’t admit it to Looby there and then ... there is no way that I can endure four weeks of smelly pit hair ... and for those of you who personally know me ... I don’t suppose you could either ...

“Now, I will give you a few minutes to change into your gown and then I will take your down to the treatment room. We will ask you to lie on the couch and then we will work out where we need to make the treatment marks. It can look a bit scary with the green laser lights ... a little like that James Bond film ... but I promise that unlike that, this definitely won’t hurt.”

Oh yes ... I know what she is talking about ... which film was that ... err ... ah ... Die Another Day ... with Halle Berry... as Jinx. Now there is a girl who looks good with very short hair. Very short hair and in a bikini. Not just that ... very short hair ... and in a lurid orange bikini. Pah. Just as well I don’t do orange ... I say tongue in cheek and with no bitterness ... ha ha ...

“Don’t worry,” interrupted Looby Lou, “we are there all the time so if you are concerned or feeling uncomfortable then you can just say. We do have to leave the room twice ... just quickly ... but we are watching through the CCTV so you just indicate if there is a problem."

I changed into my blue flowery gown and Looby Lou took me down to the treatment room and introduced me to Nicola ... and for 20 minutes or so I lay on the couch, with my arm strapped above my head, as it moved up and down ... left to right ... and light beams flashed across my torso ... Then Looby Lou finally made two tattoo marks ... one between my breasts and another on my armpit ... so tiny they are smaller than my freckles.

As I walked out of the Oncology department ... back into the bright sunshine ... I grabbled for my sunglasses in my bag ... and had a flashback. I suddenly remembered the time a couple of years ago when I was delivering my canvases to the hospital for the annual art exhibition. I had dropped them off and was getting back in my car ... I was feeling a bit low and gloomy. As I went to start the car I looked up and saw a woman leaving Oncology ... she had a book in her hand ... and a scarf on her head ... she had obviously had chemo and was now having radiotherapy. ... but her face was bright and smiley. I recall looking at her and thinking “If she can be happy ... with all that she has been through ... then so can I ... what have I got to be so down about?”

Little did I know that exactly two years later ... that woman would be me ...

As I strided down the hill to the car park I bumped into a friend of mine, F1. “You look really well” she said. I thanked her and said that I felt great. “Honestly, you look really well”, she repeated. It wasn’t until later that I realised what she was saying. That not only do I look OK physically, but that I look OK mentally. She could see that sparkle in my eye and a spring in my step.

And things are feeling good you know ... in fact this week I am meeting with my manager, Mr Campbell, to discuss my return to work ... part time to start off with.

“I guess you will want to take it easy at first ... especially if you are still having radiotherapy?”

Yeah ... there is that ... but then there is this new thespian avenue that I want to pursue. Perhaps a small role in the next Bond movie ...

... with Daniel Craig as 007 ... in his DJ and dickie ... I could be tied to the bed and be shaken and stirred by him anytime ... in fact I am getting that Get Up and Glow just thinking about it ...

Oh oh dear ... I really am back on form aren’t I ...

"Say fromage .... "

2010-04-18T18:54:00.021+01:00

A great photograph is a full expression of what one feels about what is being photographed in the deepest sense and is, thereby, a true expression of what one feels about life in its entirety.

Ansel Adams

A while ago ... actually sometime ago, long before the Yukky Lump appeared, I asked my friend Bubbles a favour. “If I was to die ... would you arrange an exhibition of some of my photos ... perhaps just a dozen of them ...?” “Of course!” she replied. Then after a moment of two of consideration she said ... “but does the death bit have to be part of the equation ... I would much rather help you do one whilst you are alive and kicking ..."

After I had recovered from my diagnosis in August (well sort of recovered ... I don’t think I will ever really come to terms with it), I decided to make the most of my involuntarily time out and set myself two goals, and one of them was to do that photography exhibition. Ironically, my new vulnerability had given me the confidence to go ahead with it ... but I didn't appreciate at the time that my photography mojo was going to take a serious bashing.

Photography is one of my true passions. I remember the very first time I was allowed to use a camera. I went on a school trip to the Roman baths in Bath and my mum let me take her Box Brownie. I got on the bus and everyone else had one too ... and I recall being really fascinated by the fact they came in different styles and colours. Since then photography has always featured in my life ... though at some points more so than others. In my early twenties I purchased a 35mm Canon EOS ... but then some years on the children came along and didn’t have so much time ... then I bought a cheap and cheerful digital to record their early days ... before I later invested in some more heavy weight equipment.

My pals are use to me constantly carrying my camera in my hand or around my neck. My bike even has a pouch on the handlebars so I can easily pedal around and whip it out at a moment’s notice. I remember me and My Little Friend cycling around Poitou Charentes a couple of years ago ... at the beginning of the holiday she would look at me and then out at the landscape to where my lens was pointing and wail “I can’t see the picture ...” but after two weeks of observing me ... literally watching me take hundreds of photos ... she got the idea ... and would get really excited as the shutter clicked and would exclaim “I can see the picture!” She and her family even have a special term ... “Oh it is very Paula-resque” ... which they use to describe a photo ... or something that I might take a photo of.

So what has happened with the photography over the last few months? Well not much really. I am not sure why ... probably because I haven’t being getting out and about much ... and on top of that, because of treatment, two of my proposed French holidays were knocked on the head ...

When I went to Wound Clinic a few weeks ago Nurse G asked me when I was due to see Dr J again. I said I didn’t know and so she logged on to the computer and checked. “Oh ... next Wednesday” she said. “No”. I replied. “I am not coming in next week. I am going away next week. Since August I have cancelled two holidays and I am not giving up another one.” “That’s OK” she assured me “it is only a check up we will postpone it a week. Where are you going ... somewhere nice?” “Only Cornwall ... but it will be an overdue break.” She nodded and replied “Cornwall can be lovely ... especially if the sun shines ...”

The first couple of days were a bit grotty weather-wise. Grey and damp ... but on Wednesday I woke to glorious blue skies and sunshine. We drove into Padstow ... now jokingly nicknamed Padstein ... and actually saw the renowned chef walking up the hill ... though it was funny not to see Chalky dancing at his feet. We met up with Lil’sis, her husband and That Ruddy Dog, who had chosen a great day to join us, and we all jumped on the little ferry and rode over to Rock. Once there we walked along waterfront, admiring the beautiful and impressive houses, before settling down at a restaurant for a little alfresco lunch.

Just after our food was served I turned to Lil’sis and said “I had to laugh on our first morning here. Tinker woke and asked if we had bought some pain au chocolat. He thought we were in France! We obviously spend too much time there!” “Well ... you can hardly talk” jibed S, “sat here with your mussels and glass of wine ... anybody would think you were there too.” And I could have been ... I could have been in Cornwall ... or Poitou ... or even Cape Cod. The sun was shining ... the sea was glistening ... and I closed my eyes and sat back ... relaxed ... feeling happy and content ...

The weather remained good and the following days we did more of the same ... packing picnic bags, books and various bats and balls and went off to Polzeath and Constantine Bay. And ... it was there ... at Constantine ... that I decided to pick up the camera and leave the beach and wander over to the rocky cliff. The huge waves were pounding into the cove ... spraying high into the air ... and ... for the first time in ages ... I was captivated. Which is one of the reasons I enjoy photography so much ... I just lose all my senses ... I become totally ignorant of what is around me ... my mind become totally focussed on what I am attempting to capture ... I enter a world of my own. And, it was there, as I waited for each wave to break, and I sat with baited breath, staring through the view finder, with my finger on the shutter, that for the first time in ages I felt that old familiar photography passion. Later, as I walked back to the beach I thought about a newspaper article I read earlier that day...

Now, even before the arrival of the Yukky Lump, I wasn’t a save-it-for-best kind of girl. I couldn’t understand the point of buying a shiny new car but never driving it just in case it might get dirty or scratched ... or accepting a beautiful solitaire but never wearing it, because of fear that the rock might fall out ... so to me the thought of owning a camera and never using it is unbelievable.

According to the morning paper, camera king Leica has teamed up with fashionistas Hermes, and are going to sell a special edition M7 camera. Just a hundred of them. I must admit they are cute ... clad in special orange calfskin ... delivered in special silk lined and linen covered boxes. But the cuteness comes at a price ... £8,735 ... to be exact. And, what is so sad, is that most of these M7s will remain in their designer boxes ... as just breaking the seal could mean a four grand depreciation. Of course, the fact it is actually a camera is totally irrelevant. It could be vase ... or a picture ... it is a collectable ... something to be admired and not used. What a waste.

Just before my operation I hunted down my friend Caerphilly who works at the hospital and who organises an annual art exhibition. I have entered twice before and have sold a number of photo canvases. It is obviously nice when people say that like your pictures ... but when someone actually chooses to buy one ... and voluntarily displays it in their home ... it is a real compliment. Last year a hospital consultant was so pleased with his purchase that he even sent me a photo of my photo hung in his living room.

“I take it you are running the exhibition again this year? What date is it?” I asked Caerphilly. “Oh ... I am sorry ... we are not doing it this year ... I have just sent a note out.” “Oh no ... I was just considering my entries” I said disappointed. “I tell you what” she replied. “the current exhibition at the Chapel gallery is due to come down ... would you like to do your own exhibition there? Your photos would be suitable for such a sensitive environment. There is room for about a dozen pictures. I'll take you down there”. So me and Bubbles followed her and took a look.

So it is happening. My very own exhibition. And not only that ... an exhibition at my hospital ... at the hospital where I was born ... where my mother sadly died ... where I tragically lost my first baby ... but went on to celebrate the birth of two healthy sons. The hospital where I was told that I have a huge Yukky Lump ... and where the wonderful health professionals have shrunk it ... removed it ... and got me back on track ... to enjoy the things I love doing ... like taking photos ...

So it looks like I am to achieve one of the goals that I set out to do last Autumn. The other one ....? Well ... maybe not ...

So what was it?

Well ... it was to learn French ...and I admit ... I am not progressing so well on that front. I still can’t enquire “What time is the next train to Lyon?” ... or “Do you have this shoe in a size 5?” .... but heck ... I can I get by with the important stuff ..

“Je voudrais des moules ... et une bouteille du vin blanc, s'il vous plait ... oooh la la ...”

To see the Cornwall pics come over to mine - click here

Lovin’ and livin’

2010-04-10T10:16:00.026+01:00

Love – what is love?
A great and aching heart;
Wrung hands; and silence; and a long despair.
Life – what is life?
Upon a moorland bare
To see love coming and see love depart.

Love, What Is Love?

Robert Louis Stevenson

You know people often say nice things to me – complimenting and praising the way I have been dealing with the Yukky Lump and everything else that comes with it. They tell me that I am “brave” ... and “courageous” ... and “inspirational” ... and although the comments are well meant ... I must admit I treat them like water off a duck’s back.

Now ... don’t get me wrong ... if someone says they are reading the blog and enjoying it then I am absolutely delighted. If it means that I am succeeding in promoting breast cancer awareness, and sharing what it is like to go through the trials and tribulations of treatment, hopefully in an informative (and perhaps in a sometimes humorous and witty) way, then I feel I am making a difference ... and that is an achievement. But to be honest most of the time I don’t make a conscious decision on how to get through this crap ... I was dealt this dire card ... and my attitude is that I will grit my teeth and get on with it. Then, once it is over and done with, I will draw a line under it and get on with the rest of my life. Or will I ...?

Thankfully I don’t have too many days where I feel really depressed ... my sad bad moments tend to last only minutes or very occasionally hours. My last grey day was ironically just after I was told the Yukky Lump had been successfully removed, that no more surgery would be necessary and I could move on to radiotherapy. Isn’t that ironic? The very day that I had longed for ... for over seven arduous months ... the day I should have been celebrating ... whooping for joy ... but I wasn’t. I was depressed, sad, angry ... and resentful. Though I wasn’t surprised by this. You see I have read that these are common feelings for people who have been diagnosed with cancer and have been successfully treated. Their friends, family and colleagues, expect them to be happy and buoyant ... but in reality they are often left shocked and traumatised ... and embittered.

I am not sure why I woke on that particular day and felt so bad ... maybe it was the aftermath from the general anaesthetic ... or the side effects frm the huge amount of painkillers ...but whilst I sat back and thought “yeah, it looks like I have cracked it ... for now anyway” I then went on to consider that I hadn’t made it to this point without battle wounds. The lump may have gone but what had I endured to get that far? I had been robbed of nearly a year of my life ... no job ... no social life ... no holidays! Surgery that has left me permanently scarred. The physical mutilation after the seven sessions of chemo ... the chemo that made me really feel sick ... and left me fat and bald ... like a little Buddha. And, more than three months after the final poisonous cocktail, the chemical burns are still visible on my hands and wrists ... and a number of my fingernails are about to dramatically drop off. Yeah ... I had got to where I wanted to be ... but boy I paid a bloody price for it.

For those of you who are reading this and are fortunate not to have cancer then you are probably unaware of a secret cyber world that exists in this malignant parallel universe. Until last August I had absolutely no idea of its being ... but it is there. People, who like me that have been told that they have a Yukky Lump nestling somewhere in their body, silently communicating electronically and supporting each other through blogs like this, or chat forums on sites such as MacMillan or Breast Cancer Care, which are a bit like Facebook for cancer sufferers.

A couple of days ago I “popped” over to say hi to my friend Debby. Debby lives in the States and went through what I am experiencing now about a year ago ... and, like me, she tends to wear her heart on her sleeve and tells it like it is. In her blog this week Debbie described her latest trip to the Cancer Centre. She detailed how, whilst waiting to be seen, she met a younger woman with two children – aged 8 and 10. Yep, a lady that is a similar age to me ... and whose kids are exactly the same age as mine. But what Debby found out from chatting to this lady was that she doesn’t have breast cancer ... she has metastatic breast cancer ... cancer in her liver ... and her lungs. She had breast cancer five years ago, and was thinking that she was in the clear... but then out of the blue these secondaries appeared. She told Debby "I didn't know. I thought that because my mammograms were good, I was okay. I did not know that if it came back, it would probably be someplace else."

You see ... breast cancer rarely kills. We often hear that women (and sometimes men) die of breast cancer ... but that isn’t strictly true. The breast is not a vital organ and so if you can remove the cancer from the breast there is a much improved chance of living. But sadly cancer likes to roam ... and with breast cancer it tends to break out and venture into the brain, spine, liver and lungs. This is serious big-boy-cancer ... demise of those crucial parts of your body can be fatal.

In her blog Debby points out that health professionals talk about getting rid of the breast cancer ... however patients are rarely told that the chances of the cancer returning to the same area is not the concern ... but that it might reappear in a more threatening location. Debby also explains how witnessing the stark reality of the cancer coming back to haunt this younger woman, a mother of two primary school aged children, has really shocked her. And, as I read her admission of fear, I could empathise with her angst ...

A few days after surgery, I sat in bed and checked out a number of my favourite blogs. I wondered if my cyber friend Pash was around, as she hadn’t updated for a while. Pash – real name Sarah but known as Pash due to her passion for life – was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of months prior to me. She had the same chemo regime as me, then a mastectomy just before Christmas and everything seemed to be going fine ... until January ... when she started complaining of vision problems and went back to the hospital for a scan, “just in case”. Sadly, Pash was told that the cancer had metastasised and that she had 8 lesions on the brain. Her prognosis was possibly up to five years ... but she was told in reality it was more likely to be 18 months to 3 years. However ... what should have been devastating news didn’t knock Pash ... nope, renowned for her postive mental attitude she kept striding on with life. She moved into the beautiful country cottage that she had always longed for ... with her new sweetheart Neil ... and was absolutely adamant that Mr Frodo was not going to stop her from doing anything ... she was going to get as much as she could out of every single day.

As her blog appeared on my screen I could see it had been updated. But unfortunately not by Pash. The latest entry explained how she had not really recovered from a recent fall ... had contracted pneumonia ... and although her mind was a positive fighter ... her poor body couldn’t cope. And, on the day of my own surgery, Pash’s friends and family had joined her at her hospital bedside and celebrated her wedding to Neil ... and were there an hour or so later ... when she sadly passed away ... only nine months after her initial diagnosis ...

As I read the devastating news the sorrowful words blurred as my eyes filled and I cried. There were tears for Pash ... and Neil ... and her family and friends. But ... if I am honest ... there were also tears for me ... for my own fragility ... vulnerability ... and mortality...

And then the tears stopped ... something made me dry my wet face ... rise from my bed ... venture out ... and enjoy the beautiful sunny spring day.

What I want to tell those folk who say I am “brave” ... and “courageous” ... and “inspirational” ... is that there isn’t always a smile on my face ... there are definitely grey down days. But what I think of ... and what I reflect on ... when I have those horrid grotty spells ... or tearful times ... is the likes of Pash ... and the lady in Debby’s waiting room. Yeah, I was handed a dire card ... but there are people out there that are even less fortunate and have been dealt two, or three, or four crap cards. I don’t know what is around the corner ... none of us do ... but I feel I owe it to those guys, as well as myself, to try and make the most of what I got now.

As the feisty little angel whispered into my ear the other day ...

“Don’t just live the moment, love the moment. Get up. Go out. Kick ass.”

R.I.P. Pash.

A puppy is for life ...

2010-04-04T20:21:00.010+01:00

“You were audible from here” Bubbles scolded gently, as I returned to the waiting area. “You are the only person I know that I could escort to Wound Clinic and hear you laughing from the consulting room. What on earth was going on?” “Oh, it is Nurse G, she is a right one” I responded matter of factly. Bubbles looked at me, her eyebrows slightly raised, her facial expression silently saying “That didn’t answer my question.” So I continued “Well ... after she checked my breast she tried to preserve my privacy and dignity by covering it with the gown. However, I pulled it right back and said “Oh no, don’t hide it ... I am rather proud of my new boob ... I like to show it off at any opportunity". I went on to explain that Nurse G laughed and said "Well, Dr J has done a very good job so I don’t blame you. Though I wonder what will you be like once he has done the other one?!" Then we both had a chuckle at that thought.” What I didn't admit to Bubbles was my laughter was a possibly a little too hearty ... through slight embarrassment ... ‘cos I am aware Nurse G asked a very good question ...

That was the first hospital appointment of the week ... as my sooper-dooper consultants are having a little game of Paula Ping-Pong and my wonderful breast surgeon, Dr J, has just batted me back over to my oncologist, Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly, who greeted me at my second appointment with his usual beaming smile. “How are you feeling?” he enquired. “I am alright. The breast is OK but I am getting some pain in my arm. I went to Wound Clinic on Monday and they said this level of discomfort is to be expected. It could continue for the next few days or weeks, but it is something that I may unfortunately have for years. It is nothing abnormal.” Dr O smiled sympathetically.

“I expect someone has gone through the outcome of the surgery with you?” he probed. Now, Dr Price did say a little bit about it but I was more than happy to hear it again, and perhaps glean more information so I replied “Mmm ... not really”. So he launched into his appraisal “Well ... the lump was 2.5 cm ... and the margins were excellent. They removed 11 nodes in total and although we didn’t expect to find any cancer in them, as the chemo should have probably killed it off, the good news is that we couldn’t find any evidence of there ever being any malignancy there.”

A bit of good news and not such good news then. Good news that there doesn't ever to appear to have been cancer in the nodes - but a bit of a blow that the lump was actually bigger than the scan had indicated, as Dr Ultrasound said he thought it had shrunk to only 1.5 cm. Having said that, this news didn't surprise me as I know ultrasound scans are not very accurate. Dr U had also said that my tumour was believed to be about 5cm at diagnosis – but Dr O had previously indicated it was more likely to be at least 6cm – and I am going with him on that as the Yukky Lump lay along the cup of my breast and even I could tell it was pretty big.

My musing was interrupted as Dr O started talking again ... perhaps he had read my mind ... “You know I am very pleased with your treatment ... things have gone very well. I know we cancelled your last chemo and I comfortable and confident that was the right thing to do. We are on track and I am now going to refer you for radiotherapy." “Four weeks ... three on the breast ... and one on the skin?” I butted in. He chuckled a little at my rude interuption ... I guess not all patients have the awareness and understanding of their care pathway like I do. “Yep, exactly!” he said nodding his head.

“Now before you go, can I just take a look?” “Oh yes” I replied just a little too heartily and eagerly stripped and jumped onto the chaise. “Can you put your hand over your head?” and I obediently did as I was asked. “That’s great as you will need to be able to do that for radiotherapy.” He inspected my new, rather yellow and orangey, but rejuvanated breast and concluded “Ideal. It looks very good”. “I know” I said and smiled proudly as I admired it too.

Now I am aware that you are probably thinking ... she has spent months crapping on about how much she didn’t want surgery ... how much she loved her ample boobs ... and that she didn’t want some breast surgeon let loose on them. I know ... I know ... the only way I can explain is ...

Imagine you have a pair of old faithful dogs ... something hearty like a couple of labs or retrievers ... and then suddenly and sadly one dies. And whilst you are upset and are grieving, your well meaning friends and family suggest that you get a new doggy to replace your previous one ... to fill the emotional and physical gap. But you are adamant ... no, nothing will replace your old trusty companion. Then one day someone turns up at your house ... with a cute little woof woof ... and although you initially resist ... after a few days you have fallen for its charms and enjoy its company. It ain’t the same as your old pet ... but you start to warm to it ... it is new, novel and fun ... it has an endearing youthfulness and is sparky and alert. Yeah I know it is ironic ... but that’s how I feel about my new boob. OK it might be a bit swollen and discoloured at the moment but give it a few weeks, once it has resumed its usual tone, I think I will become quite fond of it ...

In fact I am seriously thinking of exhibiting at Crufts this year ... yep, my new puppies ... Pinky and Perky ...

It ain’t over until ...

2010-03-28T13:40:00.019+01:00

Bridget Jones: I read that you should never go out with someone if you can think of three reasons why you shouldn't.

Mark Darcy: And can you think of three?

Bridget Jones: Yes.

Mark Darcy: Which are?

Bridget Jones: First off, I embarrass you. I can't ski, I can't ride, I can't speak Latin , my legs only come up to here and yes I will always be just a little bit fat.

There is no doubt about it ... Wednesday was a pretty momentous day. The morning started with my new obsession ... lash adoration. Now, I have always really liked my long dark eyelashes ... almost as much as my boobs ... and absolutely hated it when they fell out. They and my brows were the last things to go ... and unfortunately this coincided with those truly horrid side effects from Killer Chemo. This meant I not only felt awful but I looked pretty ill and grotty too.

OK ... they are not quite as lengthy and luscious as they were before, but they are getting there, and will a little help with some ‘scara they are looking pretty darn good. On top of that, I have spent the last couple of weeks looking as if someone has gone to poke two fingers in my eyes ... and missed ‘cos my little legs make me so short ... and they have ended up jabbing me just above the sockets instead, leaving two dark bruises. This is because my brow hairs have been nestling just under the skin waiting to push through... like little tadpoles beneath the surface of the water waiting to burst out of their captivity ... which they have finally succeeded in doing and are now sprouting nicely.

As I stared into the mirror I contemplated the afternoon ahead. I had called Dr Jordan’s secretary as he had told me to. “Hi Tania. Dr Jordan said I should call you to make sure my pathology results were available and that my case was going to team meet this morning?” “I’ll check and call you back”. Which she did. “Yes, your case went to MDT so you can come over this afternoon.” “Good” I replied, nervously. “By the way, it is not Dr Jordan this afternoon, it is Dr Price.” Oh ....

Now I have met Dr Price. Just the once. He came along with Dr Jordan to my pre-op meeting. That was where Dr Jordan merrily doodled all over my torso with a black marker pen whilst telling Dr Price what he was planning to do during surgery. After which Dr Jordan took a photo of me so that I could join his infamous photo gallery of patients he has performed surgery on. “Make sure you don’t get my head in this pic” I demanded. “No, of course not” he promised me. “Well, I am not bothered about the boobs ... it feels like everybody has copped a look at those ... I just don’t want anyone to see me in this rather fetching outfit ... NOT!” Well ... the hideous surgery gown, matched with the revolting white DVT surgery stockings and my fluffy slippers were so not a good look ... though my friend Bubbles did say she couldn’t believe I will still colour co-ordinated ...

Now ... Dr Price seemed like a jolly nice chap ... but if there was going to be negative news ... they hadn’t got clear margins and that I would have to return to the hospital in the next week or so for further surgery ... this time for a full mastectomy ... then I would rather hear this from Dr Jordan. After all these months he knows what I am like ... that I will need lots of comforting and reassurance. Surely, he wouldn’t let me lose on the poor innocent Dr Price?! Then my heart skipped a beat. Perhaps that was it? Maybe that is why I had to ring in prior to my appointment...‘cos if it was bad news then Dr Jordan would postpone my visit for a week ... so that he would be the one to advise on the bad news ... but it is not bad news ... which is why I am meeting Dr Price ... or is all that wishful thinking ...

My first appointment of the afternoon was to have the drain removed. Now, for those of you who have never seen one I will explain. The drain was put in during surgery and is a tube about a foot long with a clear see through bag at the end. Blood and other bodily fluids flow down the tube to the bag, which needed changing each day. I hated it. It looked horrid ... it was cumbersome and uncomfortable ... and I was worried that I would pull it out ... particularly during my sleep. It was a bit apprehensive the removal was going to hurt but it was fine, probably helped by the fact I was still on the painkiller combo. However, I was pretty shocked when Nurse C said she had removed it and then pointed out that the spaghetti like tube inside my body was about 9 inches long ... urrgh! As a consolation she let me keep the funky little linen bag that I carried the drain about in ... I am thinking I might dye it and hang on to it as a little keep sake ... along with them fetching DVT stockings which came home too ... mmm ...

“Well we have some good news” said Dr Price cheerfully, “All went well and I am going to refer you back to Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly so he can discuss radiotherapy with you". “It was clear margins?” I stammered nervously and held my breath. “Oh yes” he smiled broadly, “excellent margins ... this type of surgery is renowned for being successful. Do you mind if I take a look ... and can I bring my student?” Oh ... some things are don’t change, I smirked to myself.

“I’ve waited seven months to hear that news”, I confessed in hushed tones to Nurse J as she helped me undress behind the curtain. “I know” she said reassuringly. “You can cry now.” I looked at her and chuckled knowingly. Then I paused and wondered ... have these guys got so used to my delicate emotional state that they have set a sweepstake on how far into my appointment the tissues come out! If so I must have disappointed on this occasion ‘cos most surprisingly ... probably for the first appointment ever ... I didn’t cry. That is the honest truth ... really ... and I haven’t since ... though I am not sure why ... it is almost as if I can’t quite believe that Yukky Lump has finally gone ... that the light at the end of this breast cancer tunnel hell is getting bigger and brighter every day ...

You know that saying ... that really famous one ... yeah ... it ain’t over until the always-just-a-little-bit fat lady sings ... well you’d better brace yourselves ...

"Climb every mountain,
Search high and low,
Follow every highway,
Every path you know.

Climb every mountain,
Ford every stream,
Follow every rainbow,
Till you find your dream.

A dream that will need,
All the love you can give,
Every day of your life,
For as long as you live.

Climb every mountain,
Ford every stream,
Follow every rainbow,
Till you find your dream ..."

Stop press!

2010-03-22T10:48:00.002Z

Happy Monday morning everyone! Just a very quick update between naps and daytime TV ....

The lumpectomy/breast reduction op on Friday appears to have gone OK. Dr Jordan came to see me on Sat and he said surgery went to plan and that he was pleased. He is optimistic that he got clear margins around Yukky Lump but can't be sure until the pathology results come in - so fingers crossed!

I am now at home - taking it easy. Emotions keep swinging around - I guess from the stress, drugs and tiredness - and worry that they might end up calling me back in for further surgery if they didn't get the clear margins. But hey ... you know what an emotional little soul I am at the best of times!

I was really surprised how hard it was to walk to car from ward yesterday .. and a gentle cruise around the supermarket was a nightmare ... I was very weak and dizzy. I am feeling better today having had a good night's sleep. I am not in pain due to pain killers but absolutely hate the drain that is coming out of my armpit and which have to lug around in a bag. I have to change it in a minute ... urrgh ... shame they have stopped the morphine ....

Can I just say a special "hi" to my new pals who welcomed me to the "Girls Too Loud" hospital ward ... their cheerfulness and support meant a lot ... best wishes to you ... I hope you are all doing well!

Yawn ... I guess my 10 minute keyboard allocation is up ... time for another snooze ... catch you guys soon ...

Un soupçon sojourn

2010-03-14T20:21:00.022Z

Peaches and I have this little joke ... that we are going to write a book called Soups of South Devon ... ‘cos each time we go for one of our ‘walks’ we pop into an eaterie for a warming bowl. Well at least I thought it was a joke. I must admit I was little taken aback this week, when we had settled down for a leisurely lunch, and she announced with much authority, after a couple of slurps, that the celery and apple concoction was “very nice though it doesn’t have the subtle undertones of the turnip and sage”. I glanced up, smiling, but then realised she was being totally serious ... That was Friday ... a pleasant outing following my series of hospital appointments the previous day ...

The envelope hit the door mat with a thud. The franking machine mark told me it was from the hospital even before I opened it. Inside there was half a dozen letters inviting me to various appointments ... my pre-op briefing; my pre-op one-to-one; my pre-anaesthetic review; my bloods and blood pressure; surgery and then, finally, the post-surgery meeting. I give it to my hospital ... they are co-ordinated ... and economical ... though it may have been a little less daunting if they had arrived separately ...

So on Thursday I toodled off for my first four appointments ... picking up Lil’sis on the way ... armed with her snack and drink we could have been going for a day out in Scarborough. First appointment was the pre-op talk. There were three of us there ... me ... Gloria who was in her 60s and Gladys who must be 70-odd. The nurse handed out some info and talked about the surgery ... to be truthful she didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know ... but then again I have been hanging out in this parallel cancer world quite a lot longer than the other gals. Though ... having said that ... I was a bit shocked when she moved on to the post surgery stuff ... typical me, trying to run before I can walk, quite literally ...

“Now, after surgery and before you go home we want you to put a bra on. It is important that it doesn’t have underwire in it.” She must of caught the look on my face. When it comes to bras I don’t do two things ... padded ... what is that all about ... and non-wired. “You don’t have to buy one if you don’t have one” she assured quickly, “You can just remove the wire from an old bra. Alternatively a sports bra is ideal.” Well, I guess it would be, but even my sports bra is underwired.

“Talking of which, for those of you who are sporty you will need to refrain from activity for quite some time after surgery.” I glanced over at Gloria and Gladys who, quite frankly, didn’t seem too bothered by this news. “How long exactly?” I chipped in. “Three months”, she replied. “Three months?!” “Yes”, she responded. “What, including cycling?” “No cycling.” “What about swimming?” I asked, almost pleadingly. “No swimming.” “Walking?" I was now sounding desperate. “Oh walking is fine. We like walking”. Just was well I have them little red walking boots ...

"There is a fine line between doing your exercises and over doing it” she went on to say. “For example, you will need to limit your time on the computer keyboard to ten minutes.” Neither Gladys nor Gloria showed any emotion at this news ... whereas I gasped and let out a shocked and hushed “No!” “I guess you use a computer?” she enquired. “Oh yes” piped up Lil’sis, taking advantage of my state of shock. “Facebook. Oh and her blog.” “Oh, you have a blog?” enquired the nurse. “Oh yes” chattered Lil’sis, quite merrily, "she has people all over the world reading it." I would have kicked her if I could ... but it wasn’t possible without everyone witnessing it. Yep, that is true ... guys from the US, Canada, France, Hong Kong ... even the Philippines ... but I wasn’t proposing to tell the people at my hospital, those who are treating and caring for me, that they are featuring in a weekly narrative ...

Done at the Breast Care Unit we then pottered off to outpatients for the other two appointments. “Hello, I am Staff Nurse A ... I need to get some info off you before your surgery ... it will take about 20 minutes ... is that OK? Right, can you jump on here so I can weigh you?” I grimaced. Between August and and December I did really well and managed to remain the same weight, but Killer Chemo not only had an impact on the lump ... but my scales too. It is what my friend Debby rather endearingly calls Chemo Chub. Now, people often think that if you have cancer then you will lose weight ... and if you are very poorly this is the case ... but for the likes of me ... and many others... it ain’t. That’s because of a number of reasons .... for starters there are the ruddy steroids ... then due to the chemo you look and feel rough so you are nowhere near as active as you were ... so you are stuck at home ... with your head in the fridge ... trying to find something you can eat which doesn’t taste like cardboard ... And then you have surgery and are told that you pretty much can’t do anything for three months ...

Staff Nurse A was right chirpy, breaking the monotony of the form filling by putting down her pen and telling little ditties. "Have you had general anaesthetic before?" asked Staff Nurse A. "Yes. I started talking rubbish as I went under" I admitted. “Well” she replied, “I have a funny story about that” putting her pen down once more. “A while ago an elderly lady came in ... she was really posh ... well spoken ... pearls ... quite prim. We were talking about her previous surgery and she gripped her clutch bag, which was resting on her lap, and leant forward and told me in hushed tones what had happened when she was coming out round from the anaesthetic.” “I don’t know what came over me. Apparently I shouted: Right Mr P, all done you can now ‘eff’ off home.” Staff Nurse A said “I was quite shocked. I didn’t even think Mrs Windsor would know the word. Apparently Mr P was not offended and left a note next to her bed which said: Dear Mrs Windsor, I have now effed off home like you told me. I will see you in the morning."

Staff Nurse A picked up her pen and wrote some more before going on to describe what will happen on surgery day. “Now, you might be able to keep your knickers on during surgery.” Err ... I didn’t realise that I might not. “So make sure the ones you are wearing don’t have any studs or sequins.” Studs ... or sequins ... nah ... I don’t do padded or non-wired ... nor studs or sequins.

So ... with only a few days to go until surgery ... how do I feel? Surprisingly, not too bad ... though admittedly I am not thinking about it too much. When I do ... I console myself that I am having a breast reduction ... just like thousands of other women do each year ... and who do it voluntarily. But of course in reality my situation is a bit different ... as my breast reduction also includes the removal of the now grape-like-sized Yukky Lump ... and some nodes under my armpit ... which probably means I will be carting a fluid drain around for a while. But then again ... for the first time in seven months I will ... touch wood ... be able to say that I am cancer-free.

However, to be truthful, rather than surgery I am probably more apprehensive of my follow up appointment with Dr Jordan, which is to take place a few days after surgery. That is when and where he will tell me whether he has successfully removed the lump and enough healthy tissue around it. If that is not the case then I will have to return to the hospital and he will operate once more ... but would do a mastectomy ... and remove the whole breast ...

A meeting that might be rather embarrassing if I start talking under anaesthetic ... ...

“Dr Jordan ... well you are Dr Jordan in my blog ... 'Jordan' because you are my boob man ... can I have your opinion ... knickers ... surely lacy is preferable to studs ... and hospital lunch tomorrow ... would you go for cream of mushroom ... or French onion ....”

Can you make it a double ...

2010-03-06T19:17:00.005Z

I heard some really good news this week. Someone got a job that she was after ... and I was absolutely delighted for her.

"What's so unusual about that?" you might say ... OK so even in this awful economic climate that is no great shakes... but what might surprise you is this person lives far away ... I have never met her ... I haven’t even spoken to her... and I could sit next to her on a bus and she wouldn’t know me from Adam ... or Eve, for that matter.

I am not exactly sure when I ‘met’ CK ... but it was just after my diagnosis in August. That awful foggy time ... when the shock of the news has left you numb and bewildered. I spent a lot of the time surfing the net to find out more about breast cancer ... what are the side effects of chemotherapy ... what kind of surgery... what is the long term prognosis ... why me ...? I was looking for information, reassurance and empathy. And that was when I found the Macmillan website. A brilliant resource that on a daily basis unfortunately ‘welcomes’ hundreds of just-diagnosed cancer patients, and their friends and family, like bees to a honey pot. And magically ... amongst the thousands of people who log on .... and within the maze of forums ... that is where I electronically bumped into CK ... doing the same as me.

Now ... CK and I have a number of things in common ... we like photography ... and animals, particularly cats ... walking ... oh, and a little wine with supper ... but the majority of our e-mail conversations over the last six months have been about breast cancer ... and getting rid of it. As CK and I were diagnosed at about the same time our treatment has often coincided ... and we have had long rambling discussions on how we have tackled the different challenges. CK started her chemotherapy the day before me and so a lot of our initial discussions were about how we were each coping with the side effects. CK is much more grounded ... far less dramatic ... which is good for me. For example, as you probably remember, I hated losing my hair and both the anticipation and the seeing it dropping out was quite traumatic for me. However CK was quite matter of fact about it all ... I remember her telling me hers was dropping out whilst she was decorating ... and that she was laughing at the fact it kept sticking to the wallpaper she was putting up ... which made me smile too ...

Now that we have finished the chemo our more recent e-mail exchanges have been about scans ... and surgery ... and radiotherapy. That was until she sent me the note to say that she was pleased as she had been for a job interview and had been successful. Obviously I read the news and was delighted for her ... but then I sat back and realised it meant a lot to me too. I felt uplifted ... but why? Why did I feel excited about someone, who I have never even met, getting a job?

Because ... for the very first time ... CK and I were celebrating something that wasn’t to do with cancer. We weren’t patting each other on the back for getting through another session of chemotherapy ... it wasn’t wishing good luck with the surgery ... or congratulating the birth of stubbly eyelash growth. No ... this was a new job ... a promotion ... we were celebrating something that ‘normal’ people do. And that made me happy ... for her ... and for me. Together we were embracing the future.

So tomorrow, whilst my friend is sitting in her kitchen ... the kitchen I have never stepped in ... celebrating her birthday ... I will be here ... many miles away ... celebrating mine ... and raising a large glass of fizz to my new found ‘twin’.

CK ... it has been a tough old journey ... and we still have a way to go ... but we are getting there.

Many happy returns to the both of us!

One egg ... or two?

2010-02-28T17:54:00.023Z

“Paula?” called a very slim lady in a blue suit, clutching a clipboard. “Apologies for keeping you waiting but you are next to see Dr Jordan", she said in response to my upheld hand. "Which unfortunately means you are last” she admitted, as she turned on her heels to face the patient sitting opposite me. On hearing this news the woman grunted and retorted “Every time I have been here I have had to wait.” “I am sorry about that, but it is a very sensitive clinic”, replied Miss Clipboard diplomatically.

I thought back to a conversation that I had with my friend Bubbles, just after I had my ultrasound. “Until you got this I have never really appreciated what it is like to have cancer and what people have to go through” she said. “You know one of the things that has struck me is the waiting.” “I know”, I replied. “Waiting at all levels. Waiting to be referred; waiting for tests; waiting for results; waiting for treatment ... waiting to be seen ...”

My appointment to see Dr Jordan was at mid-day on Friday. Aware that the clinic commenced at half eight I knew that it could now be running over quite substantially and that I might be kicking my heels and twiddling my thumbs for at least an hour. And although the hanging around can be a pain, especially when you are there for news or results, I appreciate that there is good reason for this. It is because like my oncologist, Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly (I am sure you remember him), Dr Jordan, my breast surgeon, treats every patient as an individual. It really matters to him that you understand what is going on, what the recommendations are, and that you are totally happy with proposals. He gives you all the time you need.

“Did someone explain the ultrasound scans to you?” asked Dr Jordan, after he had greeted me warmly and offered me a chair. “Yes. The ultrasound chap got the scans out and put them up on the light board and he gave me the new dimensions of the lump.” “Are you OK with the results?” he enquired. “Well ... yes”, I replied. “I know that sounds odd, but now we know there is a small lump remaining I am hoping that you are going to be able to offer me the surgery I want?”

He grinned at me. “Yes. I can now offer you breast conserving surgery.” “A lumpectomy?” I asked. “No” he replied. “No?” I repeated looking at him wide eyed. “No, I am going to suggest a breast reduction.” “A breast reduction?” I looked at him quizzically. “Yes. We will reduce the breast as we would with cosmetic surgery and take the lump at the same time. It will mean the breast will look much better and we can do the same to the other breast to match them.”

“Sounds good to me”, I smiled. “You know how I feel about surgery, could you do them both in one go?” “I can do, but I would much prefer to wait and do the other one at a later date, as that will give the first breast the opportunity to settle down after surgery and radiotherapy. For the sake of waiting six months I would rather you had something that you are happy with for the rest of your life ... but it is up to you. You have right up to the moment that we sedate you to decide.” Mmmm ... one or two. Do I get it all over and done with all in one go ... tempting ... but am I putting all my eggs in one basket ...

“What about your nipple?” he asked in a matter of fact manner. "Do you want to keep it, or not? And do you want chips with it?” OK ... so he didn’t ask about the chips but it wouldn’t have sounded out of place. “I would like to keep the nipple. Thanks.”

Dr Jordan pulled a form from a file. “Now I will go through some potential risks of surgery and then I will ask you to sign the consent form. One of things that I need to forewarn you about is that if we go in and find more mischief than expected then we would need to make a decision there and then to do a mastectomy. Are you alright with that?” I smiled at he him wryly ... he knows that I desperately didn't want a mastectomy. “Yes”, I replied honestly. “We would have given the lesser surgery a go. If at the end of the day there is more cancer than we think then I would respect your clinical judgement to remove the breast.” And with that I signed the form ...

“When are you looking to do the surgery?” I enquired tentatively ... after all he had previously indicated that it wouldn't take place until April. "What about Wednesday? Are you free on Wednesday?" I gulped and nodded my head. Oh God, it sounded as if he was just inviting me out to dinner. “No. Wednesday is good for me”, I stuttered. “OK. I will get them to check theatre availability." Or should that be table availability? "If it is not possible to fit you in this Wednesday then it will be a fortnight Wednesday.”

So I am sat here ... in anticipation of a telephone call telling me which day the surgery is to take place. Maybe in a few days ... or within the next couple of weeks ... either way ... I ain’t going to be waiting long.

That was the week that was

2010-02-21T19:37:00.046Z

The only thing that should surprise us is that there are still some things that can surprise us.

François de La Rochefoucauld

Surprises are weird things aren’t they? Unexpected events which can make you ... or others ... feel happy ... sad ... lucky ... unfortunate ... or maybe optimistic ... Some have an impact that last only a few moments ... but others can be hugely dramatic ... life changing ...

Let’s take Nigel Page for example. He woke up at his home in Cirencester last Saturday ... as I expect he has done on innumerable occasions ... though he probably won’t for many more ... ‘cos on that morning self-confessed “white van man” Nigel logged on to his National Lottery account ... to discover he was Britain’s biggest ever lottery winner ... with a cool £56 million sitting in his piggy bank.

Recalling events Mr Page said: "I'd already checked my National Lottery account and had seen I'd won £55 on Wednesday’s Lotto when I decided to buy two Lucky Dips for the big EuroMillions jackpot on Friday. I didn't think about it again until Saturday morning when I was watching the news with my daughter and saw that there was one UK winner who shared the jackpot with a ticket in Spain. I logged on to my account and saw the Lotto win for £55 in my account and just below it was the £56m EuroMillions prize. I started shaking and couldn't speak." At a press conference later in the week, his partner Justine said: "It's an amazing amount of money. We could never have wished for this."

And, usually that probably would have been the most awaited press conference of the week ... but it wasn’t ... because a couple of days ago Eldrick Tont Woods, better known to you and I as Tiger, decided to stand before the world’s media and, for the first time, make a grovelling public apology for cheating on his wife Elin. During the rambling 13½ minute public confession the shame-faced sportsman admitted his behaviour was "selfish and foolish". “I thought I could get away with whatever I wanted to. I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. I felt I was entitled. Thanks to money and fame, I didn’t have to go far to find them. I was wrong. I was foolish. I don’t get to play by different rules.”

Now, let’s face it, although the reports of an incident, which took place a few months ago, where top golfer Tiger was found lying unconscious outside his mansion in the early hours of morning, after smashing his vehicle into a fire hydrant and a tree, all sounded pretty odd ... the fact it resulted in claims that for years he has been playing away from home was an unexpected revelation for most us. And then ... what went on to be even more startling ... was the news that it was not just one infidelity ... but that he had been victorious with at least a dozen birdies ... including a Las Vegas model, an Orlando waitress, a Manhattan socialite and an LA porn star. You gotta admit ... he’s got an awful lot of tiger in that tank ...

Soooo ... what made our world renowned pro-golf swinger so very appealing and attractive to possibly a vast number of different women? Eldrick Tont, the poker–faced, mono-syllabic maverick ... it certainly wasn’t his witty sense of humour and smooth charisma ... or his penchant for wooly tank tops and dodgy caps. Perhaps it was that array of golden trophies ... and that billion dollar fortune from winnings and endorsements? Mmm ... just possibly.

And despite his huge wealth and fortune, as Tiger walked with confidence and assurance to the podium, in front of hundreds of journalists, photographers and cameras, who were in turn going to relay his babbling confession, his every word and gestures, to millions across the world, there must have been, even if for just a fleeting moment, a point when he thought to himself “Surely, this isn’t real. Not in a million years could I ever foresee this happening to me.”

And whilst Tiger was beating his breast ... to emphasise the sincerity of his apology to his fans and sponsors ... oh and his wife ... I was lying semi-naked in a darkened room with a tall, dark, handsome man staring intently at mine ...

Yes, Friday was ultrasound day. From the moment they called me on Tuesday with the date and time I was dreading it ... for a few reasons. Firstly, it was at my initial ultrasound scan back in August that I realised that the huge Yukky Lump in my right breast was indeed malignant ... and not “probably just a cyst” which everyone kept repeating. That visit started off OK with Dr U, the consultant sonographer, being very polite and courteous and the assistant nurse chatty and cheery ... but as the examination progressed the atmosphere in the room completely changed. Dr U stopped talking and became very quiet and appeared really concerned ... I clocked how the nurse’s face dropped when she glanced at the screen ... and then she insisted on holding my hand ... even though I had said she didn’t need to. Nobody said anything ... my whole body started to involuntarily tremble with shock. Oh my God ... it is cancer. “Say something!” I barked loudly at Dr U “You are scaring me.” He replied matter of factly “I am going to numb your breast. I need to do some biopsies on the lump.”

After that first scan I walked out of the ultrasound room to where my friend Nit Nat was patiently sat waiting. "It is cancer" I whispered. “Why? What did they say?” she asked. “Nothing.” “Nothing?” she repeated. “Nothing, but I know.” And I was right.

Now, another reason I was anxious about this second ultrasound was that everyone – especially Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ley and Dr Jordan – has been telling me how pleased they are with the way the Yukky Lump has responded to the chemo cocktails. It went from something that basically filled the bottom half of my breast – about the size of small orange – to something that could not be felt between treatments 2 and 3. However, as I have not been scanned since that first time back in August ... nobody could be 100% sure what has really happened ... I was afraid this ultrasound might reveal something unexpected ... show that the lump had only shrunk a little; or maybe not at all ... or perhaps it had even grown ...

“Hello again,” said Dr U in a friendly manner. “Hello”, I said. Again? Oh dear does he really remember me? Why? Because I was the girl who had previously strolled in with what she thought was a little harmless cyst but walked out with a grotesque and aggressive malignant lump? Or is it because there are not that many patients who end up shouting at their sonographer ...

“I see from your notes that things seem to have gone well?” I explained that it has not been possible to feel the lump since October. “Well, if you could lie down we can take a look.” I took the familiar position on the couch, as I did before, with my right arm crooked above my head, nonchantly observing the ceiling. Dr U was studiously silent as he rolled the probe across my gelled breast – every now again stopping and typing something and then starting again. Then he got up and walked across the room ... he flicked a light on to see or read something ... and then switched it off ... and returned to his seat. Oh God, no. This is it. He has gone back to check my notes. Something must be really wrong ...

“You can sit up now,” he said. “Well, there is a lump.” “Oh right,” I croaked. “But it has shrunk dramatically,” he smiled. “I want you to go and have a mammogram and then when that is done you can come back here and I will write the old figures and the new measurements down so you can take them away with you. It is good news.”

I did as I was told and sure enough when I returned he had written down the measurements of the Yukky Lump. “The figures on the top are the original measurements back in August, the largest being nearly 5cm. The figures underneath are today’s measurements, the biggest is now only 1.5cm.” “Where is it?” I asked, “is it deep into the breast?” “No, not at all, it is quite near the surface. Look I will show you.” And he eagerly pulled out images from the first and second ultrasound and mammogram scans and secured them against the light board. He pointed to the two on the top, “These are from August – you can quite clearly see the lump. And these are from today.” “Is it behind the nipple?” I asked. “No”, he replied and pointed to one of the latter scans “it is below.” “Why can’t I feel it then?” “Basically it has been beaten down by the chemotherapy, it is now just a small palpable mass.” “Will it be possible to do a lumpectomy?” I asked rather pleadingly. “We will all gather on Wednesday to discuss your results and then you will meet with Dr Jordan to hear what we feel are the next best steps.” “I am meeting with Dr Jordan next Friday,” I chipped in. “Excellent” he replied as I opened the door and thanked him for his time.

“You are going to have to help with this one,” said My Little Friend, when I spoke to her on the phone a bit later. “I don’t feel comfortable congratulating you on finding a lump.” “Well, the thing is”, I explained, “if they couldn’t see anything on the scan it didn’t necessarily mean that I no longer had cancer. Instead we would have to assume that it had fragmented, what Dr Jordan illustrated as ‘hundreds and thousands’, and if I that was the case then I would definitely have to have a mastectomy. However, now there is a definitive lump he may be able to do breast conserving surgery, a lumpectomy, so although it sounds a bit odd, for me it is good news.”

So I am currently sitting on tenterhooks until I find out on Friday what Dr Jordan and the posse think is the best way forward for me. Now, I don’t like to describe myself as a half-pint-empty kind of girl, ‘cos that makes me sound negative, and I don’t think that is necessarily true. But I do tend to curb my optimism ... to protect myself from mind blowing disappointment. So I am not assuming that because they have found a lump that Dr Jordan will say that a lumpectomy will definitely be possible ... after all it might be the wrong size, in the wrong place, it could be the wrong shape, or have the wrong flavour ... just the wrong ruddy something ...

But on the other hand this is what we were aiming for in the first place ... for the Yukky Lump to shrink from the size of a lemon to that of a small grape ... a little lump that could be easily removed. So surely it isn’t wrong for me to have an open mind and positive thoughts that things might go plan?

Isn’t life about weighing things up and trying to tailor your hopes and expectations accordingly? For example, you wouldn’t do the lottery if you really felt you had absolutely no chance of winning ... and let’s face it someone has to.

However, on the other hand, you might want to think carefully before putting a sizeable wager on Wicked Woodie’s willy not going a-wandering once more ...

Though ... as we all well know ... life is full of surprises ...

With ... or without you

2010-02-13T09:20:00.025Z

I keep thinking back to my last holiday - my final BBC vacation – a week in France in May. Once again we stayed in La Palmyre, near Royan. It is a village on the Atlantic coast about half way down on the left hand side (yes I did get my geography O’level ) about an hour below La Rochelle and hour or so above Bordeaux. I have mentioned it before ... in the Pigeon Poo story ... which apparently is one of the most popular blogs on here ... and you call yourself friends ...

La Palmyre is a wonderful place ... early on in the season it is quiet and quaint. At that time of the year the weather can be delightful, but it can be a bit temperamental ... which is why we left it until the last minute to ensure we weren’t going to endure seven days of wind and rain ... which we didn’t. The sun shone and I enjoyed doing all my favourite relaxing things ... reading, bathing and taking photos. I watched the boys jumping in and out of the warm swimming pool. I cycled lots ... along the maze of tracks which follow the great stretches of desolate golden beaches. Sometimes these were planned intentionally longer trips, which incorporated lunch, eating freshly caught moules at a restaurant overlooking the sea, and then there were other trips which weren’t supposed to be quite so long ... but we got lost. At least twice I cycled a minimum of 20 miles ... and had no idea that I was so poorly. I returned from my short break relaxed and re-energised ... with some colour in my cheeks ... and absolutely no inkling that within weeks my world was going to be blown apart ...

As I drove to the hospital on Wednesday I saw a single magpie. I was so disheartened and apprehensive of my appointment that I couldn’t even be bothered to swear or make a rude gesture at it. It was exactly six months to the day that Dr Jordan, my breast surgeon, had informed me that the lump in my breast was indeed cancerous and that I wasn’t going back to France, on the holiday that was due to commence the following day. It was mid-August and on that occasion the waiting room was heaving ... full of nervous patients ... all perspiring from the stuffy humid heat ... and from the anxiety of waiting to possibly hear absolutely devastating and life changing news. And on returning once more that was one of the things I was dreading the most ... the waiting ... As it turned out this time I was the only patient there to see him ... and I went in punctually.

“How are you?” said Mr Jordan holding out his hand. “O ... K... ,” I said hesitantly. “You don’t seem too sure about that?” he enquired. “Well I am nervous.” “Of what? Of me?” he asked somewhat surprised. “Well ... not you ... but being back here ... bad memories ... and we are going to talk about surgery ... I have never had surgery before ...”

"I have looked at your records and Dr O is absolutely delighted with the response you have had with chemo.” “Yeah” I replied, “it disappeared really early on ... between the second and third chemo.” “Brilliant news” he said. “Now, we are not sure how the lump has shrunk. “It may have ...” and he pulled a piece of paper across his desk “shrunk like this” and drew a series of decreasing circles across the page ... “or it may have done this” and he drew lots of little dashes which looked like ‘hundreds and thousands'. I nodded ... I knew what was coming. I knew from the moment, way back in November, when Dr Gillies said “They can only do a lumpectomy if there is a definitive lump.” From that point I was pretty sure that a mastectomy was probably on the cards.

“Now”, said Dr Jordan, “I think we have three options and they are ... do nothing. Absolutely nothing. We just monitor you to make sure it doesn’t return. Or ... the second option is that we do a lumpectomy ... but it is going to be pretty radical to remove the whole area of the tumour ... and I can’t guarantee that I will capture everything that is sinister ... it will be hard to identify clear margins. Thirdly ... a mastectomy.” Yep ... he said it ... the dreaded ‘m’ word ...

I sat back and considered the options. Jeez ... wasn’t the first one tempting ... just swanning out of that consulting room ... into the sunset ... no surgery ... no rads ... I could cancel my sick note and strut back into the office on Monday morning; I could plan for the rest of the year ... book holidays without worrying that they are going to coincide with treatment or recovery ... just go back to my lovely ticking-along-life. But realistically ... no ... as tempting as it is ... I know within a few weeks I would start to worry ... every little bump and ache would be threatening and scary. And, even if they monitored me, what would happen if that Yukky Lump reappeared ... even if it was quite diddy in comparison to the original orange-sized one ... then I would have to go through all this again ... the testing ... the diagnosis ... giving up work and my social life ... because of chemo and surgery ... the hair loss ... the weight gain ... the horrific side effects. Nope, no action is seriously appealing ... but I am going to resist temptation.

“Do you mind if I take a look?” asked Dr Jordan. I nodded. “Do you mind if Alison, the student medic, has a look too?” I looked at Alison and shrugged. “No problem. Quite used to stripping off these days ... come along ...” Honestly, if I had charged a £ for everyone who has a look or has copped a feel of my boobs over the last 6 months then seriously it would have paid for me to have the treatment done privately. Now, understanding how the system works I fully appreciate that although it would have cost me several thousand it could still possibly be Dr Jordan doing the surgery ... as consultants often swing between the public and private sector ... the only difference would be that he would be wearing posh scrubs ... probably with a colourful hand-embroidered crest on the chest ... rather than the standard NHS issue. Oh ... and that I would be served up a copy of a Tory tabloid with my brekkie ... probably the Daily Tale ... and if I was good girl a little red wine with my dinner.

We walked through to the examination area of the consulting room, along with the Breast Care Nurse, and all three of them inspected my rather impressive cleavage. “The impact of the chemo looks really good. Do you mind turning around?” asked Dr Jordan, and then proceeded to pinch an inch of flesh on my back. “Mmmm .... do you mind if I take a look at your tummy?” So I twirled and unzipped my skirt. He poked about about a bit and said “Nah ... not enough fat there.” “Jeez, are you joking? You ain’t looking hard enough!” I laughed. “Well, we could be talking about reconstructing a pretty big breast,” he replied. Ooh ... touché ...

I dressed and returned to the seat beside Dr Jordan’s desk. “Now .. I would recommend that you go for the third option, a masectomy. With delayed reconstruction. If you agree I can’t offer you an inplant ... as they don’t make them large enough”. I smiled weakly. “So ... I would suggest that we do a Latissimus Dorsi where we ...” I nodded my head and mumbled “I know.” He stopped and looked at me quizzically. “You seem despondent”, he said, really concerned. “Well ... it just seems ironic ... the chemo has killed off the cancer ... but because the lump has fragmented or disappeared then you are recommending a mastectomy. Surgery where I will wake and be faced with only one breast.” Dr Jordan picked up his pen again and pulled his earlier drawings across the desk. “I wish all my patients were like you. The important thing is that the tumour looks like this” and pointed to the smallest circle on the page “or like this” and gestured towards the ‘hundreds and thousands’. “I know”, I replied. “I totally appreciate that. I really do.”

And I do ... let’s face it ... six months ago I walked into that consulting room with a 6cm grade 3 stage 3b malignant lump . That is as grim as breast cancer can get. The next stage? Stage 4 ... secondaries ... maybe a life threatening tumour in my liver or brain ... To be honest I was really dancing with big-bad-boy cancer. And, although the ultrasound won't take place until next week, when we will get to know what is going on with Yukky Lump for sure, everybody seems to believe that things have gone well.

But ... as much as I am totally grateful for all that ... I am never ever going to be in a position of waving my hands in the air ... and hooting a huge cheer at the news that my surgeon has told me that he recommends three lots of surgery. A mastectomy in April ... coming around from surgery and only having one boob ... rads in May ... reconstruction in the autumn ... and reduction on the other breast maybe before Christmas.

You know what really gets on my tits is when people flippantly say to me “Ooh a free boob job ... lucky you” as if I am going to come out of this with some kind of gratuitous perk. ‘Cos I am certainly not. With the best will in the world, and Dr Jordan would totally agree with me, if I go with his recommended surgery triathlon I will end up with two completely different shaped and much smaller heavily scarred breasts which won't be symmetrical, one of which is going to have no nipple and very little sensation, and on top of that gashes across my back and under my armpit. Sadly, I ain’t gonna suddenly look like some kind of super model.

The other thing from my appointment on Wednesday is I just didn’t realise or appreciate that my life would still be on hold for so long. Naively, over lunch back in October or November, I said to my manager, Mr Campbell, that I was hoping to go back to work in April. I think I now have to make it clear that it could be April 2011 ... and am wondering if I can get a season ticket for the car park at the hospital.

As I got up to leave, Dr Jordan shook my hand and said “We will meet in a couple of weeks. In the meantime I want you to think about your options and work out what you want. It is really important to me that you are totally happy that you have made the right choice before surgery. I will also put some thought to you ... see whether I can come up with other options which would suit you better.” Hey, what a trooper he is. Let’s face I can’t ask for any more ... why would I want to be treated privately?

For a long time I have wanted to return to La Palmyre. I had this dream of going back there in the early summer, thinking that by then my treatment would have been all done and dusted, and I could draw a line under the previous twelve months. In my vivid imagination I felt I had a great holiday last year ... but afterwards I had taken the wrong turn. My vacation had finished ... and as I departed I had veered right ... down Breast Cancer Care Path, instead of taking the left fork towards Nicely Ticking Along Life Lane. But ... if I went back this summer I could rectify that ... say that was the year that was ... and move on, along the correct track. But I was adamant that I wasn’t going to return before my treatment was complete, especially if I needed to have a mastectomy with delayed reconstruction. If I went with only one boob then the consequence of this would be me sitting on the sun lounger dwelling on the fact that “This time last year I had two boobs. Look at me now ... sitting here with only one ... this year has been totally crap ...”

But ... having spoken to Dr Jordan, and taken on his comment that he wishes all his patients were like me, I have thought about this some more. You know, I could return to La Palmyre this May or June ... and there would be nothing to prevent me having the relaxing and re-energising holiday that I so totally deserve. If I end up with the mastectomy, which is looking pretty likely, I might temporarily have only one boob but I can still do all the things that I enjoy so much. I can still play with the boys, swim, cycle, read and take photos.

Yes, I could sit there on that lounger and mull over the fact that my body is not the same as it was on my previous trip. And I could mourn my loss ...

But then again ... I could savour the moment and say “Yes, this year I do only have one boob ... but this year I don’t have cancer.”

Which is something I had last year.

I just didn’t realise it.

Everything in moderation

2010-02-07T19:29:00.012Z

Once again, my wonderful friends have come up trumps as I have received a lovely flurry of DVDs to entertain me during my periods of convalescence. However, looking at the selection in front of me I wonder whether they were worried that my Sex and the City box set was leading me astray... encouraging my Samantha-like flirtatious quips and inciting my already developed shoe fetish ... and that I needed to indulge in a more sophisticated and cultural viewing experience as most of them are bodice ripping romantic classics. I know they mean well ... but if I really am that impressionable I am not sure of the consequences of me indulging in hours of films featuring bosom heaving women in frilly garters and long flowing dresses and men running around in breeches or jodhpurs .... I might have to ration my viewings ...

Anyway, I decided to kick off my movie marathon with The Duchess. Now, if you haven’t seen the film then that is OK, as I am going to provide one of my infamous RSGP quickie summaries. Here we go:

Starring Keira Knightly and Ralph Fiennes, The Duchess is set at the end of the eighteenth century, and is based on the true story of Georgiana Cavendish, the Duchess of Devonshire. From a moderate background, at the age of 17 Georgiana married the Duke of Devonshire, who was much older than her. She was a much loved fashion icon, but society also mocked her as a ‘failure’ for reproducing girls and not giving her husband the male heir that he so desperately wanted. He was a cold and distant man and who was blatantly unfaithful throughout their marriage, and although he wouldn’t allow Georgiana to leave him he happily moved his mistress, who happened to be her best friend, into their home. She in turn had a passionate and doomed affair with Earl Grey, who went on to become Prime Minister. Bright, intelligent and witty, her beauty and charisma made her name, but it was Georgiana’s extravagant tastes and appetite for gambling, politics and love that made her infamous.

There are positive and negative aspects to the film that I won't detail, but what I will say is that it does make you reflect on how times have changed, how the opinions and views of society have altered so much over the last couple of centuries.

There was a particular scene in the film which I found both enjoyable and thought provoking. The Duke and Duchess were hosting a banquet for the political party that he supported. After dinner a member gave a party political speech on freedom which Georgiana listened to with some interest. Afterwards, he sat down and asked her what she thought. She replied that if she were to vote – not that she could – that the Whig party would not get her support. He asked her why and she said that she didn’t believe that they were fully committed to the concept of freedom. He replied that the party would like to see the vote extended and she retorted “To all men?” and he laughs “Heavens no. But certainly to more men. Freedom in moderation.” To which she replies "Freedom in moderation? Either one is free or one is not. The concept of freedom is an absolute. After all, one cannot be moderately dead, moderately loved, or moderately free. It must always remain a matter of either or.”

Which got me thinking. Like cancer. Surely, you either have it or you don’t?

Well, according to the February 2003 edition of The New England Journal of Medicine that is not the case. An article which appeared in it describes the following. In May 1998 a woman with polycystic disease received a renal transplant at a hospital in Scotland. The operation went well, but in November of the following year she had a routine mammography which showed a lump in her left breast. A biopsy specimen was performed and breast cancer was diagnosed – though the tests showed that this and another lump found near the transplanted kidney were secondary tumours related to skin cancer. However, none of the health professionals that saw her could find the primary site, the melanoma, and sadly six months later she died.

Shortly afterwards a second patient who had had a kidney transplant in the same hospital developed the same symptoms ... and once again no original tumour could be found. The doctor, which had cared for both patients, could not believe the coincidence and decided to do some investigations, including checking the register of transplanted organs. From this she was able to identify that the two kidneys given to the patients had come from the same person. The records showed nothing untoward and the donor’s general health had met all the usual requirements – no HIV, hepatitis or cancer. Still puzzled the doctor decided to check the Scottish database for patients with melanoma ... and sure enough eighteen years earlier the donor had been operated on for a tiny 2.5mm skin tumour. She had received follow ups for fifteen years and had been declared ‘completely cured’ a year before her death – from an accident – not from cancer. However, although she had been deemed ‘cured’ of cancer she continued to carry micro-tumours in her body but her immune system kept these suppressed and they did not grow. Though when her kidneys were transplanted to people whose immune systems had been weakened, so their bodies would not reject the new organs, the micro-tumours rapidly grew. Fortunately, due to the investigative work of the doctor, the second patient had the kidney removed and he survived.

I am off to the hospital on Wednesday ... and I will admit I am not looking forward to it. I am returning to the Breast Care Unit where Dr Jordan, my breast surgeon, hangs out. It was there, exactly six months ago, that he told me that I had breast cancer. I am not really sure what will happen at the appointment but I am assuming that he will once again send me for an ultrasound so we can see for sure what effect the chemo has had on Yukky Lump. We know it has shrunk dramatically since diagnosis – going from 6cm to something that couldn’t be felt after chemo number 2 – and that was well before Killer Chemo went in on the attack - but I am still feeling nervous. I am not expecting it to have disappeared totally ... and ironically if it has then that in itself causes problems with the surgery. However, if it has reduced in such a way that I can have the lumpectomy that I so desperately want, rather than a mastectomy, then that would be good news. Maybe down to a cm or so. Now that's what I would call cancer in moderation.

Climb every mountain

2010-01-31T20:03:00.023Z

“Right, we are going to go down here. Walk across the field. Then we are going to climb up over there”, I said in a rather bossy manner. Our eyes gazed over at the enormous hill in the distance, with a steep diagonal path carved out of its side. “But don’t expect me to converse at the same time”, I laughed.

I was talking to my friend Peaches. Now ... to say that she and I chatter is an understatement. We wouldn’t talk the hind leg off a donkey ... we would decapitate it. On Thursday she arrived at my house at half ten ... we managed to scrape ourselves off my squidgy sofa by about half twelve. What did we talk about? Absolutely no idea.

We were going to go for a walk up on the moors but it was a grey old day so I suggested that we go down to the coast instead. Once I found out that she had never been to Bantham then my mind was made up ... and we jumped in the car and headed south.

We popped into The Sloop, as is customary when I go down to Bantham with friends. We arrived just after one and for a weekday lunchtime it was very busy, which gave the place a nice atmosphere. We decided to have mushroom (super food!) soup served with some chunky bread ... and kept talking. At about half two I looked up and realised the pub was totally empty and suggested that we had better make a move ... after all this was our fourth attempt at going for a walk ... and this was the day that I felt we should fulfil our intentions ... rather than natter all afternoon ... drinking endless pots of tea ... nice as it is. I wanted to get some fresh air and exercise ...

We walked down the track adjacent to the pub and crossed the field. Things started off well ... until we hit the swampy corner ... which we needed to contend to reach the bottom of the hill. Now this might surprise you ... but I do actually own a pair of walking boots ... OK so they are red ... but I can assure you that I don’t mind getting them dirty. Which was just as well as the mud was thick and gloopy and we ended up getting stuck ... laughing hysterically more like four year olds, whose mum had momentarily turned her back, rather than 40 year olds who really should have known better.

We eventually reached the base of the steep incline and started climbing at a steady pace. We only made it about of a third of the way up and I had to admit to Peaches that I needed to stop. I had flippantly said that I wouldn’t be able to talk whilst walking up the hill but in fact I was joking. Normally I can walk and talk up there ... though perhaps a bit puffy. My infamous 'cocktail parties' may have come to an end ... but up until that point I really hadn’t taken on board the warnings that the effects of Killer Chemo could last for up to nine months. Yeah ... you heard right ... I went to see the lovely Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ley on Wednesday and he said no more chemo.

The afternoon didn’t start off so well. Just before leaving to go to the hospital I went in to the garden to put some flowers into the recycling bin. As I turned around I saw a flash of black and white ... and there on my lawn was a magpie. Typical ... where is his partner ... one for sorrow ... two for joy ... but there was no wifey in sight. I dismissed it ... until it happened again ... on the way to the hospital ... a second single magpie flew in front of the car. Once more I saluted my feathered friend and wished him a good afternoon ... and tried to shrug off any thought of a jinx ... Until I got to the entrance of the hospital and a third, single magpie flew across my path. By this time I was really fed up. Instead of wishing him a good day I said something rather naughty which began with an ‘f’ and ended in an ‘f’ and instead of tapping my cap I gave him a two finger salute. I wasn’t in the mood for three dollops of bad luck.

As it turned out the afternoon went swimmingly. The waiting room was surprising empty and I was called to see Dr O punctually. He walked in to the consulting room and smiled and said: “Last chemo then.” I looked at him quizzically. “Do you mean that I have had my last chemo, or that I will be having my last chemo tomorrow?” He shook his head and said: “No, that’s it. I am cancelling the chemo tomorrow.” He went on to explain that he was now going to refer me back to my breast surgeon, Dr Jordan, who would arrange an ultrasound so as to determine what kind of surgery will be necessary.

“I know you want a lumpectomy, and that is of course what we will aim for if we can”, said Dr O. “But if that isn’t possible then we will be looking at a mastectomy.” I nodded and replied “Mmm ... I think that is where me and Dr Jordan might have words ...” It was Dr O’s turn to look inquisitive. I went on to explain “Well, if I have a mastectomy then I want immediate reconstruction but I know that there are clinical reasons for not going for this option. But psychologically I couldn’t handle only having one breast ... you see I am rather big busted ... it would be a significant issue for me ...” I looked up at Dr O and he was nodding ... I tailed off .... I realised I was trying to convince somebody who knew full well that I am rather well endowed ... after all he has firsthand experience ...

“Actually,” he interrupted, “it is us oncologists who tend to be against immediate reconstruction. But ... Dr Jordan makes a very good case for doing it ... and if he recommends that for you, then I will support it, as long as you are aware of the consequences of taking that option.” I smiled at him appreciatively ... and thought how lucky I have been to have such a luv-ver-ley oncologist.

As I walked out of the hospital and into the car park I cried. Not hysterically, just little tears of relief. The pressure and the worry of another round of chemo had been swept away. I could now recuperate. My white blood count will now have chance to come back up so I will no longer be at risk of infection. No more steroids ...so my bloaty moon face can deflate. My hair, brows and lashes will return. I will start to look normal again. There are three stages to my care pathway trek ... chemo, surgery, radiotherapy ... I had finally completed the first and most arduous part. One gargantuan mountain down ... two to go ... Dr O had been so upbeat with my progress that his positivity had rubbed off ... as I got into the car I felt optimistic and buoyant.

Peaches and I eventually made it to the top of the hill ... slowly and steadily ... and as is often the case with challenges that face us and which we overcome ... the reward made it well worth it. “Wow, look at that view!” she gasped. I nodded, glad that she appreciated it as much as me. I have stood and looked at that beautiful seascape 100s of times and it has never failed to impress me. Making me stop and stand back and acknowledge that I am so lucky to live where I live.

Or should that be I am so lucky to live ...

Alive to take on my next challenge ...

Twin Peaks ...

One man’s ....

2010-01-24T17:50:00.005Z

OK ... I am a bit late with my blog ... and you may be thinking that I have gone away for a few days ... I wish. In fact it is the opposite, since Christmas, which I can’t believe is already a month ago, I have been in self imposed exile. I can count the number of days I have left the house on one hand – and on two of those occasions it was to see a GP and another was to go to the hospital for what was hopefully my last Killer Chemo.

I want to go away. I love holidays and travelling. I am still really miffed that the discovery of the Yukky Lump meant that I had to cancel my trip down to the south of France, way back in August. So where do I want to go? Well ... anywhere really. You could blind fold me, whizz me round and ask me to put a pin into a globe and I would pack my bags accordingly ... except one place ...

I have these friends. Almost-life-long friends. And I guess that we are almost-life-long friends as we have quite a lot in common. We have comparable backgrounds, share similar interests, values and beliefs. We can sit for hours ... putting the world to rights over a leisurely meal, washed down with wine ... here or in France ... yes, they are one of the couples from the Pigeon Poo story. But despite all this ... there is one thing that we just don’t agree on ...

Many years ago, before kids, my almost-life-long-friends use to go to Disneyland. They went three or four times and loved it. And, over the last decade, have talked about returning, once their children were old enough ... and have tried to persuade me and my family to go along too. Now, I joked in my very first blog that I don’t like roller coasters ... and it is true. Literally. I have never been to a theme park in this country. I have not been to Alton Towers ... or Thorpe Park ... it is just not me. So I ain't the least bit inclined to get on a plane and fly thousands of miles half way around the world to visit one. Lots of people, not just my almost-life-long friends, have said I should give Disney a go. Some have said that they didn’t think they would like it ... but the Disney magic is just irresistible ... that it would win me over if I gave it a chance. But I am digging my little red heels in ... and accepting that me and my almost-life-long friends are similar ... but not the same. And ... in a few months time they will be off on their much talked about and longed for holiday ... with some friends ... but it ain’t me. I obviously hope that they have really lovely and enjoyable time. But if it was a toss up between going to Disney and having surgery then obviously Mickey would win. But only just.

I have just finished a book – Anticancer: A New Way of Life – written by Dr David Servan-Schreiber, who does quite literally believe that “One man’s meat is another man’s poison.”

David Servan-Schreiber is a clinical professor of psychiatry at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine. He is in a position to talk about cancer because he has had it. Twice. He was diagnosed the first time sixteen years ago, finding out by accident. He and some colleagues were doing some research which included observing brain function using magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), something that was relatively new back then. One day, one of the student ‘guinea pigs’ who was assisting with the research failed to attend and so David volunteered to take their place – to jump on the MRI and have his brain scanned. The process started. And then it stopped. He called out to his colleagues – asking what the problem was. And their response was “We can’t do the experiment. There’s something in your brain.” By accident they had discovered a brain tumour. It was operated on, and David was fine for a while, but routine checks a few years on showed that it had reappeared. It was at that point David decided to pull together research to identify what he could do stop the cancer from returning again and this is what he talks about in his book.

A lot of what he suggests is common sense (to see a summary of the book click here). Eat well ... organic food where possible ... meat where the animals have been grass fed as they were years ago ... little dairy products ... lots of fruit and vegetables ... oily fish. Reduce the amount of white carbohydrates you consume. Drink only one glass of red wine a day. Take regular exercise. But he also talks about very specific things which can prevent cancer from appearing or reappearing – the power of turmeric, pomegranate juice and green tea. Mushrooms ... in Japan they actually give medication produced from mushroom extract to patients receiving chemotherapy.

David goes on to say how psychological wellbeing is vital in conquering cancer. How support, both mental and practical support, has a direct impact on a person’s health and recovery. That friendship plays a major role, in terms of positive impact on both morale and physical, biological condition. For example, an American study has shown that women with breast cancer who could name ten friends were four times more likely to survive their illness than those who could not. I am sooooo glad I can name at least ten friends … whether they would call me a friend is another matter…

David also stresses the importance of positivity ... removing stress and anger … relaxing … doing things that you enjoy … how these help you in the fight against cancer and could help prevent recurrance.

So back to that holiday ... ‘cos let’s face it … that is what the doctor has ordered. Yeah … I could do the States … I haven’t been before … I don’t think an hour at Maine airport for a fuel stop really counts. But where? When I want time-out … to relax … and think positive thoughts … what am I dreaming of ?

Well, the sun is shining … I am healthy … and fit (in more ways than one). I have hair, lashes and brows … and two boobs. Obviously my camera is in my hand. I am cycling alongside a long stretch of golden sandy beaches. I am sitting at a seafood restaurant and looking out on the blue ocean. Or swimming, boarding, sailing … or whale watching. Cape Cod. That is where I want to go. And … touch wood … one day I will. It won’t be this year, and possibly not even next … but one day …

Disney.

Cape Cod.

One man’s mouse is another man’s fish …

Love to hate you

2010-01-14T19:14:00.023Z

Juliet: Banoffee pie?
Mark: No, thanks.
Juliet: Thank God. You would've broken my heart if you'd said yes.
Mark: Oh, right. Well, lucky you.

Love Actually - 2003

Now for those of you who tune in on a regular basis, and there are a few (special warm wishes my friends), then you will be more than familiar with Dr O, so can I just ask you to bear with me for a moment whilst I get any newbies up to speed – thanks.

Now, for those who don’t know, Dr O is my Oncologist – my cancer-chemo-chap. I call him Dr O, not ‘O’ because he is my 'O'ncologist, but because he is Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly. Now, I should point out that this is not just solely my opinion but lots of others too ... though admittedly ... most of these are women ... And I should confess ... I luu-urve my Dr O. No ... no ... not in that kind of way ... but in a healthy-professional-Health Professional-Patient kind of way. I luu-urve him because he is kind and compassionate. He is really interested in your wellbeing, your concerns ... he listens ... and is just a jolly nice kind of guy.

But ... having said all that ... if Dr O was lying here ... right now ... alongside me in my sick bed ... obviously in a healthy-professional-Health Professional-Patient kind of way ... I am not sure what I would be sorely tempted do to him. Would I pick up one of those accumulating bottles of medication, which seem to have magically mushroomed on my bedside cabinet over the last few weeks, and bop it over his head? Or ... would I take a stick and pin a Kleenex to it ('cos health professionals recommend you use disposable tissues these days rather than cotton hankies) and declare “I am a Cancer Patient ... get me out of here.” Yeah ... you’ve got my drift ... I am fed up ... I don’t wanna play ball no more ... and if I could I would pick it up and stomp off home ... except I can’t ... ‘cos I am already at home. And besides I wouldn’t have the energy to pick up the ball ... let alone stomp.

Chemo number seven went ahead last Thursday. Yes ... before you ask ... another new chemo nurse ... CN H. Very nice chap ... talked about his cholesterol issues and poppy vein problem. After he had 'dripped' me up I went into the lounge and spent my hour reading my magazine and half listening to the ‘professional blood transfusion crew’ chit chatting. It was all quite upbeat and cheerful actually. And, as I sat there, I obviously mulled over whether it would be my last chemo session – when I see Dr O in a couple of weeks would he follow through his earlier suggestion of knocking the last treatment on the head? Part of me concluded he will ... surely he wouldn’t cruelly get my hopes up ... but then again he might not. And ... whatever he suggests ... I will go along with it.

Yes, unbelievably as I sit here moving from the usual wave one of side effects – the achy joints, tiredness, grotty eyes, steroid rage – to the second wave of hacking cough, swollen throat, horrific internal and external chemo chemical burns – I will totally accept whatever he recommends. So is it true love after all? No. No, although all this gruelling treatment is an extreme endurance, which would push the limits of the physically and mentally fittest athlete, reality dictates that if Dr O believes there is still a single little iddy diddy cancer cell remaining in my body, only one, which could be paralysed by that final treatment, which would prevent the tumour returning to my breast, or even worse allowing a new one to sprout up elsewhere, then I will grit my teeth and sweetly nod my little head at him.

OK ... so you can probably tell ... things do feel a bit grotty at the moment ... but on a positive note ... every cloud and all that ... literally ... the weather over the last week has been so totally dire I haven’t felt too resentful about holing myself in bed with my books, iPod, computer and TV. I have consoled myself by imagining how torturous it would be if it was summer ... sunny, warm and balmy ... daytrippers taking to the beach, friends merrily flitting off on holiday ... the smokey odours of bar-b-qs drifting through my bedroom window. Nah! Let's face it, I think a lot of people, given the choice ,would have done the same and tucked themselves in bed with a nice cuppa and a hot water bottle. The difference is that I have a full-blown guilt-free pass to do so. Which is probably just as well as the 'pitty' outburst might have been really embarrassing if I was out in public. “Err ... the pitty outburst ....?”

Yep, it is official. The hair is on the way back!! Yes, yes, yes! Now, once more I don’t want you to get too excited about this ... when I say 'hair' ... I am talking about a ... err ... presence. On the one hand it is not a lot to write home about .... but then again girls you wouldn’t want this tufty stubble stuck to your thighs. The little prickles have been joined by a definite dark five o’clock shadow. Actually ... the prickles are now more wiggles ... it looks like it might be coming back curly. Not sure where this leaves my desire for the return of the little urchin-pixie-crop-thing which I had before it fell out. I might end up with a very dodgy Kevin Keegan 70’s permed style barnet ... not what I really had in mind ... but heck at the moment I am grateful for anything ... even pit hair.

Yep ... you heard ... pit hair! That is why I am so confident that it is growing back. My arm pit hair was the first thing to cleanly evaporate and has not made an appearance since ... until a few days ago. There I was, sat in the bath ... as you do ... doing things you need to do ... and something caught my eye ... a hair ... no two ... maybe three! Yes! It must be coming back ... I have pit hair ... hurrah! How ironic, one of things that I used to hate ... a bain in my life ... became a cause for celebration. I now need to apologise to all those people who had misfortunate of being in the wrong place at the wrong time ... i.e. at my house ... and had to witness me whizzing down the stairs, semi cloaked in a slightly wrapped towel, and had to endure the vision of my underarms within two inches of their faces ... and pretend they could fully appreciate my hysterical euphoria of three little pit hairs ... all I can say is that you can get away with quite a lot when you are having treatment for cancer.

But then if you have to put up with cardboard mouth then probably anything is forgivable. “Cardboard mouth?” Yeah, cardboard mouth. Of all the side effects I think it is the one I that detest the most. It comes on just a day or so after chemo and lasts about ten days. Basically your tongue is really sensitive and sore – waxy - the first time I got ulcers too – and your palate is just well and truly buggered. Everything tastes weird, or nasty ... or of nothing. And of course the ironic thing is that you are pumping all these ruddy steroids ... to prevent the horrific side effects from the chemo (well, that is the idea) ... and this ... along with the boredom factor ... and comfort eating factor ... gives you this incredible urge to eat.

Now, I ain’t a 'sweetie'. I can’t remember the last time that I indulged in a Victoria Sandwich, or wrapped my chops around a Hob Nob. Me? I am totally and uttterly savoury bird. A pure carbohydrate kind of girl. Pasta, potatoes, pizza, olives, bread, cheese, risotto. Ooooooooh ... myyyyyyyy ... God ... yes, yes, yes! Cheesy risotto ... mmm ... think ... When Harry met Sally ... in the restaurant ... no, not the hot/cold apple pie and hot/cold custard bit ... the more 'expressive' scene ... ten minutes later. Ooooh ... that is what cheesy risotto does for me ...

I can hear you saying: “Oh well, at least you are losing those few pounds that you have been moaning about for ages?” But ... err ... well ... sadly, probably not. Because I have gone over to the dark side. “The dark side?” Err ... yes. The one thing that I have found I can eat ... issssssss ... my sister’s banoffee pie. Can you believe it? No, not that it was made by sister and that I like it ... but that my new unabashed-can't-get-enough-of-it craving is sickly sweet, creamy caramel, crunchy bottomed banoffee pie. And you should be forewarned ...woe betide anyone who comes between me and my pie ...

I can safely say that if Dr O was lying here ... right now ... in my sick bed next to me ... obviously in a healthy-professional-Health Professional-Patient kind of way ... his dessert fork heading towards my bowl of yummy banoffee would certainly disappear pretty rapidly ... in a very NON-healthy-professional Health Professional-Patient kind of way ...

OK, so this ain’t me ... but I am thinking of printing it out and pinning it to the fridge door.

Food for thought.

Can’t buy me love ... or trust ...

2010-01-07T22:04:00.017Z

To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.

George MacDonald

“So how’s it going?”

“Totally crap”.

Yes, it is that time again. The third week. Bloods with my GP on the Tuesday, to check that all is OK to have the chemo on the Thursday. I had to wait, as always, ‘cos my doctor runs this “open surgery” thing where you turn up without an appointment and wait to be seen. I didn’t mind too much this week as I am still feeling quite upbeat and OK. I sat in my favourite seat in the corner and rummaged through the magazines. Ooh, Psychologies, I like that one. I got nice and comfy and started browsing through it. I read a couple of articles and became puzzled ... when was this published? I flicked back to the front page to check ... mmm .... August 2005. Now, I know we are pretty laid back in Funky Town ... but a four year old magazine?! I continued reading it and an article lit up as I turned the pages. The title was something along lines of “I was told I had cancer ... then heard even more shocking news.” Of course, I was glued ... oh God if they call me now I am going to have to put the magazine in my bag ... I know that is a bit naughty but it has been there for four years ... surely anyone who has wanted to read it has done so by now ...

So, what could be worse than being told that you have cancer? Now, when I was diagnosed I did think back to a friend and colleague who I worked with many years ago. Her son was about to go on holiday to France with his grandparents, but a day or so before he complained of tummy ache ... which got worse and worse ... so she took him to the doctors. It turned out that at the age of about 7 or 8 he had a cancerous tumour. But thankfully he hadn't gone to France and it had been caught just in time. And I thought about this, and although I didn’t want to have cancer, obviously, at least I could console myself that it was me and not one of my children. Me, who was bigger, stronger ... someone who had had 41 years to live a life ... do the things that I wanted to do ... though whether I had actually done them all was another matter ...

“Not good then? So what has been happening?” asked Dr C. So I told him about my side effects. The fact that I get two waves. The first with the “normal” side effects ... the achy joints and pains and the cardboard mouth ... and then the second wave with the swollen throat, loss of voice, the hive-y rash. “I know I like to feel special, but on this occasion I could really pass it up”, I said. “I’ll prescribe you some cream and anti-histamine. I think that might help”, he replied.

As he took my bloods I said: “I don’t want you to take this personally but I won’t miss my little visits to see you.” He chuckled softly and said “I don’t want you to take this personally, but I won’t miss seeing you either.” We laughed.

I stepped out of the surgery and did something that I have done previously ... back in the autumn ...I walked ... Forest Gump style. And ... I did as I did before ... I strolled through the town ... out to the railway station ... along the cycle path ... to Dartington ... and up to the Gardens. One of my favourite places. It was different this time, on the first occasion it had been warmer, the canoeists were on the river, the trees were dropping their amber and yellow leaves ... and when I arrived at my resting spot, the bench on the Sunny Border, I removed my coat and I sipped my bottle of water and enjoyed the sun warming my face. This time it was cold and icy ... though the sun was still shining ... a beautiful winter’s day.

As I walked I thought about the article that I read in the magazine whilst I waiting to see my GP. It was about a woman who had worked as a presenter for Channel 4. Some years ago, whilst she was still in her 30s, she had found a lump in her breast. She had been told that “it probably isn’t suspicious” – well a few of us have heard that – but like me nobody was complacent and she was sent for further checks. She went on to be told that in fact it was “suspicious” and that it was indeed malignant. Initially she had a lumpectomy, breast conserving surgery where only the lump is removed, but was later told that the cancer was more prolific than they had previously believed and that it had spread to the other breast too. So she returned to the operating theatre where she had a double mastectomy – in other words she had both of her breasts removed. This was followed by chemotherapy and radiotherapy ... no walk in the park by any means.

Following her treatment she and her husband made the decision to move house to be closer to his parents, so if she should become ill again would be someone on hand to support her physically and mentally. Though this decision meant her giving up her job. She was also told that her cancer was hormone driven so she should not become pregnant again as this would massively increase the chance of the cancer returning.

However, one of the cruellest things about cancer is the fact that once you have it, it lives with you forever. It never totally goes away – it is always in the back your mind that it will return, or reappear somewhere else. People talk about those who have suffered from cancer being given the "all clear" ... but there is no such thing. You can be tested ... mammograms, MRIs, ultrasounds ... and the results are only relevant for the day that you are assessed. For that day only. There is no guarantee that tomorrow ... next week ... next year ... that it won't reappear. And that is what she talked about ... the fear ... as many do ... the worry that every ache or pain could be a sign of a new tumour ... that it is back. So, what was the twist? What could be worse than being told you have cancer?

Well ... some years on she had been for some routine check ups ... and then called back to the hospital to hear the results. She described how she walked into the room and came face to face with “lots of important people”. Consultants and managers. Her heart dropped ... it must be very bad news ... they must have found something terrible. But they hadn’t. She was in fact told she had did not have cancer... and that she never had. That the locum that she had seen had been investigated for misconduct and that she, and a number of other women, had been misdiagnosed.

She described her immediate reaction and the feelings that followed in the days after. She talked about the fact that she wanted to feel pleased, that she knew that thousands of women who have, or have had suffered, from breast cancer would be elated to receive such news. And of course she was pleased in some ways ... but felt bitter about having to go through the physical and mental gruel of treatment, and the aftermath. The removal of her breasts, giving up her job, the constant worry that it might return. She didn’t talk about compensation but I am sure that there would have been some. Maybe, running to 5, probably 6 figures. Enough to pay for some beautiful new cosmetic breasts ... but of course, money doesn’t buy everything. She went on to have the little girl that she had always wanted, but grieved that she couldn’t breastfeed her daughter as she had her sons.

As I stood and admired the tranquil view - the river with the delicate cold mist hovering over its surface – I wondered how I would feel if was to be told such news. If I was called to the hospital and told that there had been a mistake ... that I don’t and have never had cancer. There would be no doubt that I would be pretty cheesed off. Robbed of several months ... or even years ... of a normal life ... having to endure the chemo and the painful side effects, surgery which could never be reversed. But to have this shadow ... the permanent shadow that I will have to endure for the rest of my life ... the threat of cancer returning to my body to be magically erased .... money can’t buy everything ....

As I got up to put my coat on Dr C said “I see from your notes that Dr O says he saw you before Christmas and is really pleased with the apparent impact the chemo has had on your tumour.” I nodded, “Yes, so much so he is talking about cancelling the final treatment". “That would be brilliant”, he said. “Yeah, it all sounds pretty positive, except they are still talking about a mastectomy, when I had my hopes on a lumpectomy.” He was surprised and shocked. “That is a blow. I thought the whole point of neo-adjuvant surgery was so you could have breast conserving surgery”. I went on to explain what Dr O had said to me. That the priority was to get rid of the lump ... that chemo, surgery and rads are all I have available to me. That in the long term there are no meds for me to fall back on.

“At the end of the day I know that Dr O and Dr Jordan are going to recommend what is clinically best for me. They are not going to do surgery which is not necessary. More drastic surgery is additional time and expense with greater chance of complications and long-term care. Minimal surgery is better for them as well as me. If they can do a lumpectomy then they will ... if my longer term prospects are better if they do a mastectomy then they will recommend that ... and I will go with what they say ... I trust them.”

I pulled my coat off the back of the chair and put it on. As I turned back to say goodbye to Dr C I closed the conversation by explaining: “I just have to accept that I have to patiently sit and wait to hear what is the best way to go forward ... my life ... and my boobs ... are in their hands ....”

As I opened the door and left the consulting room I heard Dr C let out a loud hearty guffaw. I know that he wants me back on the road to recovery too - which is why he made the comment about how he will be pleased not to see me - but I am pretty sure he is going to miss my little visits.

Move over Dorothy

2009-12-31T12:28:00.013Z

YES! Yes, yes,yes, yes. YES! YES! YES! (Does a little Michael-Flatley-tiptoey-dance and punches the sky) Yes! I have only ruddy gone and done it. I even have a signed certificate from BBC’s Record Breaker’s Norris McWhirter to prove it.

"Done what exactly?"

Well, you know a little while ago I got a Golden Gong – or rather a Beige Bong – for “2009 – Crappiest Year Ever”. Well, I knew I was in with a good chance of winning that one. Come on, let’s face it, the year I was told that I had a 6cm-stage3-grade3 breast tumour ... out of the blue ... it was pretty much a sure thing. Though the judges did admit to me afterwards that the fact I was diagnosed the day before my three week hols down in the south of France really tipped it for me.

Anyway .... I have now been an awarded a second Beige Bong. Yes, I am the proud owner of not one ... no sireee ... but TWO Bongs! Yes, two. I have just got my second Bong for .... drum roll please .... “2009 – Crappiest Christmas Ever”. They look cracking. My Bongs, that is. They are now sitting here beautifully symmetrical on my mantelpiece. A fine, stunning imposing pair. Here’s hoping that Dr Jordan, my breast surgeon, can do an equally impressive job on my boobs in a six or so week’s time...

So ... back to Christmas ... I had my number two Killer Chemo exactly two weeks ago. As before, the achy joint and muscle pain kicked in over the weekend. It wasn’t too bad ... on the Sunday we had a little bit of snow and I managed to go up on to the moors and take some pics. The next day or two I felt alright, other than the horrid cardboard mouth which I hate, but then I started to dip a bit. And a bit more. Then it hit. Right on Christmas day. I woke with a cold, a hacking cough ... and a very very sore throat ... with left me with no voice ... absolutely nothing ...

I spent the morning in bed and got dressed to have some Christmas dinner. Now, I don’t want to over egg this or anything ... I am not going for the sympathy vote here ... honest ... but I felt terrible and looked pretty bad. I think this is backed up by the fact that I walked into the kitchen and two rellies, who admittedly I haven’t seen for a little while, took one look at me and both burst into tears. Merry Christmas ... here help yourself to one of these Piggy-in-Blanket-Thingies ... oh, and a Kleenex ...

I made it to Sunday. Sunday at 8am. Then I knew I had to take action. I wasn’t getting any better. Now, I have this thing about NHS services ... ‘cos part of my job is to encourage people to access services appropriately. Now, before this BC thing I wouldn’t see my GP from one year to the next .... those were the days my friends ... And so I had a bit of an issue calling the out-of-hours GP ... on a Sunday ... a Bank Holiday Sunday. Then realised how stupid this was .... I’d just had my sixth chemo ... my throat was so sore I could hardly eat or drink .... I was whizzing on painkillers ... and barking like an orphaned sea lion ...

“Yes, I would really like to see you,” he said over the phone. Oh good. “You may need some antibiotics”. Just what I thought. “But if that is the case then I can’t prescribe them. You will need to go in to hospital for them to have them administered there.” Not, what I thought .... I hadn’t bargained on that.

I rummaged through the magazines whilst I was waiting to see the doctor. There was a supplement from a Saturday newspaper so I flicked through that. Aaah ... Lori Reid ... “Britain’s Best Astrologer” ... mmm ... so what has Britain’s Best Astrologer got to say about my future .... Pisces ...

With all the hard work you’ve been doing lately, you’re physically in great shape. You love parties and you’re ready to let you hair down on New Year’s Eve! Call my starline to hear which is the best day to hit the sales.

Err ... I have never been in such a worse shape. I have no hair to let down. And the last bit is the most ridiculous ... every day is the best day to hit the sales ... obviously ... doh ...

Dr H was really nice actually. Young charming chap. If my usual GP was like that then I probably would have gone to see him a lot more often ;) He had called the hospital prior to my visit so that he could find out more about my medical history and the treatment I have been receiving. He was very patient as I whispered my symptoms and my concern that I might have an infection. He checked my chest and my throat and said no, there was no infection. Basically, I had internal burns ... chemical burns from the chemo. There was nothing that he could prescribe, I just needed to keep taking the cough medicine, painkillers and Strepsils. Which I have.

So a week on how am I? OK. Better. I still have the hacking cough but thankfully the sore throat has now gone. Unfortunately, the hideous rash which I got last month, which I thought was as a consequence of an allergic reaction to the eyedrops, wasn’t. And, once again, I have chemical burn on the outside too, with my face and chest covered in severe itchy and inflamed hive-y bumps.

The good news - for everyone else that is - I still have no voice - so I won't be joining in on Band Hero or singing Auld Lang Syne tonight.

I bought myself a camera for Christmas. I know, I already have a camera. But the camera I have is big and bulky ... in your face ... so I decided to purchase a little cutie which I can pop in to my back pocket. And it is pink! Yes, how girlie. Now, I am usually very practical with these things. Normally I would buy one in black ... or silver ... with view to the fact that once I have outgrown it then I can pass it on to one of my boys ... they are both broad minded and level headed but they don’t ‘do’ pink . But I didn’t this time. I just thought sod it. I want pink. I am having pink.

So far I have taken one picture with my new pinkie camera. Yep, just the one. Of what? Of me. Yes, rather surprisingly of me. Me, who hates having my pic taken at the best of times ... and this definitely ain’t the best of times. Now, don’t worry I am not gonna post it anywhere. Not yet anyway. I think the description above probably gives you a pretty good idea of what I look like at the moment. Perhaps the word ‘pretty’ isn’t the most appropriate word to use ...

You know the last week has been really tough. The worst in terms of feeling physically poorly. I won’t lie ... there have been tears. But not that many really. Yeah, I got cheesed off ‘cos I wanted to enjoy Christmas Day. I didn’t want my children to wake up on their special day and see their mum looking and feeling so God damn awful. And all the nice things I had planned ... meeting up with my friends for brisk walks and leisurely lunches ... a Christmas party with colleagues ... have all been knocked on the head ... I was really disappointed about that. But mentally I could have been worse ... and am not quite sure why I wasn't ... why I haven’t dissolved in the middle of the kitchen floor. And the only thing I can put it down to is that I have felt so physically poorly that I couldn’t slip mentally ... ‘cos my mind and body would not be able to cope with both. Or perhaps when you feel so so bad that you know that the only way is up ... I dunno. So what has kept me going? Next Christmas. Yeah, I know, it sounds a bit odd. Especially from me ... who doesn’t really ‘do’ Christmas.

You know I mentioned that red silk dress of mine ... the one that I wore to the Christmas party last year. The one where my Little Friend said that I looked like Jessica Rabbit. Well, I have been thinking about that. Thinking about it a lot. And I have made a promise to myself ... that next Christmas I am going to be back in that dress ... and I ain’t going look like I did for Christmas 08 ... no, that is because for Christmas 2010 I am going look even better.

I am going to have the little pixie crop, just like I had done a week before my hair dropped out, and which everyone loved. My brows will be back ... and hopefully my beautiful long black lashes ... Oooh ... and as a treat ... I think I might buy some new cracking killer heels ... red of course. Then I will take a second photo with my little pinkie camera. And I will be able to say ... that was last Christmas ... poorly, blotchy and hairless ... but I made it ... just look at me now. I am back ...

The future is bright you know. It ain’t orange ... ‘cos I don’t do orange. It ain't black. Nor grey. But it might be pink. It could be red.

The future is bright. And it is mine all mine.

Somewhere over the rainbow

Skies are blue,

And the dreams that you dare to dream

Really do come true.

Someday I'll wish upon a star

And wake up where the clouds are far

Behind me.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops

Away above the chimney tops

That's where you'll find me.

Somewhere over the rainbow

Bluebirds fly.

Birds fly over the rainbow.

Why then, oh why can't I?

The Bad, the Ugly ... and the Good

2009-12-24T20:07:00.013Z

I like to think that I am a modern, up-to-date, finger-on-the-ball kind of girl ...

"Girl?!"

Mmm ... I guess that is one of my problems ... at the ripe old age of 41, I still consider myself to be a ‘girl’. Note to oneself – New Year’s Resolution to find and adopt new and appropriate description ... mmm ... babe ... chick ... err ... maybe not ...

I love IT. No, not it .... I.T. Information Technology. It never ceases to amaze me that as a child, armed with my two penny pieces, I would have to run along the road to the smelly public telephone box to make a phone call. That we only had one TV in the house ...with three TV channels ... which didn’t broadcast all day, everyday. That the highlight of my week was watching Top of the Pops on a Thursday evening ... and trying to record the weekly number one on the Hit Parade. You know, pressing the play and record simultaneously ... and being desperately annoyed when Bruno Brookes spoke over the beginning or end of the song.

I embrace everything to do with new technology. Texting ... instant messaging ... e-mailing ... surfing the net. Google! I just lu-u-r-ve Google - the answer to everything. I have two ... no three ... no four websites ... two photography sites, Facebook and this blog. Photoshop, Pagemaker and Powerpoint, I adore them all. Internet shopping ... isn’t it wonderful? iTunes will never cease to amaze me ... you can find, pay and download an album in two and half minutes ... sod ruddy Bruno Brookes ... what happened to him anyway?

But ... there is just one little diddy thing that I have yet to adopt ... that I resist ... an electronic calendar ...

I can do it. I have the means to do it. I have the skills. I have a laptop. A mobile. An iPod. All those things would keep an electronic diary ... and to be frank if I used one of those then I wouldn’t have forgotten the wedding anniversaries of two close family couples this year ... I can’t even blame my turmoil for that, as they were both BBC ... formal apologies to those guys. But the thing is, I love my diary ... and that is OK ... after all ... who has heard of Bridget Jone's Blackberry ... or Raspberry as my former Chief Executive use to call hers ....

I don’t actually have a diary. It is a filofax. It is a lovely rich chocolately brown. And it is leather. Each time I get it out of my bag, before unpopping it, I surreptitiously raise it to my nose and take a discreet little sniff. Now ... you have got to admit I would pretty darn stupid sitting in a meeting doing that with an electronic device? Not only that, but my filofax is comfy and friendly. It is jammed with bits of paper, notes, things to do, photos, vouchers. It just kind of represents me ...

At the end of the year, before putting in the new, freshly laundered cotton-white clean pages for the next fifty two weeks, I enjoy opening my filofax and flicking through my diary just gone. A time for remembering and reflecting on the year of birthdays, celebrations, events, meetings, appointments. Though of course it was a bit different this year. It started off OK. Just fine. Then I got to July ... and it said Dr’s appointment. Then there were a couple of hospital appointments. Then it went rather quiet. With pretty much only bloods, oncologist and chemo scheduled every three weeks.

But then, on the other hand, I discovered a new game this year. Honestly, I did. It is called WOW. Yes ... WOW! WOW stands for “When O’ When?”. It is a bit like Patience or Solitaire ... it ain’t a team game. In fact it is a pretty exclusive game. Pretty exclusive to me that is. My starting block is the beginning of my diary and involves me going through the pages and wondering when exactly the Yukky Lump came in to my life ...

So when did the breast tumour appear? Was I sat at the Christmas table last year ... champagne in one hand ... a cracker in the other ... and the Yukky Lump in my breast ...? Was it bouncing up and down with me to Auld Lang Syne ... mocking me for little realising what the year was going to bring? Was it laughing at me as I tried to ski down that Alpine mountain in March? Was it lying there in my breast enjoying the warmth of the sunshine as I relaxed on the lounger and cycled the coastal paths in Royan in May? Of course the ‘game’ never ends ... as these are questions that I will never be able to answer. I still sit here and ponder how a 6cm tumour could flourish in my breast without me having even a little inkling. It just seemed to appear overnight. I only can only ‘comfort’ myself that I took action straightaway ... and ... although my health practitioners didn’t think that it was anything “suspicious” they took it seriously ... and the rest ... as they say ... is history ...

So does that summarise 2009 for me? "How was 2009?" Oh, I got breast cancer ... that is about it actually ... Well, no, that isn’t it. Yes, I did jump and down at a New Year’s Party last year ... happy ... a bit merry ... little knowing what horrific, life changing news would hit me within a few months. But I didn’t know something else either ... that I would get through it with the love, care and support from an army of people ... some I personally know ... others I don’t ...

Breast cancer is hell of an experience ... hell being the operative word. You really really wouldn’t wish it on anybody. There is of course the painful and scary parts ... the news, the treatments, the side effects. The slog of attending appointments ... being pricked and poked about ... powerful chemical cocktails that make you feel terrible ... both mentally and physically. Then there is the worry ... the unknown aspects about lots of things ... for this week, next month, next year ...

And I would have found all this totally impossible without an amazing mass of people who have supported me in so many ways. I have had friends and family who have sent me good wishes – regularly via text messages, e-mails, cards, telephone calls, comments on my blog. There are those who provided practical help - they have shopped, cooked and taxied me to and from hospital appointments. And then those that have whisked the children away for the weekend; who have picked me up and have emptied my head of worry and filled my lungs with fresh air by taking me to the moors or the beach; others that have organised jolly soirees and held lovely Sunday lunches, where I have chatted and laughed and forgotten my troubles. There are very special people who take my hysterical calls in the wee hours of the morning and still manage to sound as if they are pleased to be rudely awoken by my howling. And then there have been gifts ... flowers, chocolates, cakes, fruit boxes, wine, spa days, books and magazines, angels, stones, keyrings, DVD box sets, bundles of Fingers of Fudge ... the list is endless.

And there is more. There are still the people that don’t even know me. Comrades that I have not even met. Those who have been through this journey ahead of me. Who ring me regularly and tell me that I will be OK. Tell me that what I am feeling is normal. And those ... like me ... who weren’t expecting to be on this journey ... but sadly are too. Who offer me reassurance and comfort even during what is an incredibly worrying and stressful time for them.

OK – so this time last year the diary didn’t say that 2009 would bring me breast cancer. But it didn’t tell me other things that I have learnt too. That good can come out of bad.

To all of you ... my husband, my children, my family, friends and colleagues ... I want to wish you a very Merry Christmas and safe, healthy and happy New Year ... and show my appreciation by saying a huge thank you and sending you a big big festive hug!

Here’s to 2010! Px

PS - I think the festive celebrations may have started a little early. I sat down to watch a film last night. It was called Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason. For some unknown reason a number of my buddies sent me a text to say that they were watching it too and thinking of me. Now ... don't get me wrong ... Bridget seems like a lovely 'girl'. But she can't ski; swears like a trooper; gets stoned and stands in the sea; has legs 'only up to here' and will 'always be a little bit fat'; opens her mouth before her brain cranks in to gear; wears big knickers ... and definitely can't sing. I suspect a bit too much mulled wine may have been consumed by my friends.... cos I can't for the life of me understand why I came to mind ...

"Like a W...iii...r...g ...i...n ... Like a W...iii...r...g ...i...n ... touched for the very first time ...."

Can’t get used to losing you

2009-12-18T22:14:00.013Z

Can’t get used to losing you, no matter what I try to do, gonna live my whole life through .. loving you. Jerome "Doc" Pomus and Mort Shuman - 1963

It was Sunday supper. I decided to talk a little bit about the progress of my treatment to the boys. They don’t ask many questions and don’t talk about it too much so I try to subtly drop tidbits into day to day conversations. “This week I am going to the hospital to have some more medicine. And then it will be Christmas and then New Year, and then I will only have to two lots of medicine and hopefully that will be it. That’s good isn’t it?” I looked at them for agreement and there were little nods. “Hopefully it means that I my hair will grow back properly so that by the summer I won’t need to keep wearing my hats and scarves.” My little Harry-Potter-looka-likey stared at me intently. “I don’t think of you with hair now, I have got used to you not having any hair.” I smiled at him gratefully – then poked my Brussels sprouts around my plate – I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. I couldn’t work out whether he was saying that to make me feel better – he is very thoughtful for someone of such a tender age. If he really doesn’t mind, if he doesn’t find it worrying, scary or embarrassing, then I am pleased. But I felt slightly mortified that if I was to be hit by a bus tomorrow his lasting memories would be that of me going to my grave resembling Shooting Star's George Dawes, not how I have looked for the previous ten years of his life. He has managed to get used to me losing my hair – better than I have.

Now, don’t get me wrong, if you don’t actually know me then I ain’t going to pretend that I am an oil painting – and if you really do know me then you will certainly know that I am not. But, with a bit of time and a lot of energy I was previously able to scrub up OK. Now, if Susan Boyle scores a one and Martine McCutcheon a ten in the looks department, then on a good day I could possibly push a four, or even sometimes a five. Obviously if we were talking about our singing skills then the balls would be reshuffled with Subo on a ten, Teens on a five and me on a one – I will say that before someone else kindly points it out.

I didn’t cry at Sunday supper but I am going to admit to you that there have been lots of tears over the last two weeks. Not sad little tears welling in my eyes and slowly and deliberately toppling over my cheeks and down my face. No, this crying has left me lying hysterically on the kitchen floor ... and cowering in the corner of my bathroom like an injured animal. My world has felt deep and dark. Why? Lots of reasons – none of which I can blame on the steroids on this occasion.

It started about a week after my first session of Killer Chemo. Killer Chemo was not too bad – I got aches and pains for about four or days, but they were manageable with some pain killers. I think the thing that got me more was a horrid swollen tongue and throat which lasted for about ten days. But after these side effects wore off I got a cold ... and swollen glands ... and a tickly cough which turned into a hacking chesty cough. It got so bad that at one point I lost my voice - the kids thought it was great. On a bad day I sounded like Whisper in the Bond films ... on better days I acquired at Demi Moore rasp. Two weeks on I still haven’t managed to totally shake all the symptoms off.

Now nobody likes being poorly but in my mind I started getting anxious about two things. One, that my white blood count must be dipping so low that my next chemo was bound to be postponed for at least week – and with three more sessions to go that means my treatment pathway could actually get extended by three weeks. In fact my chemo might not be done and dusted by the end of January, but flow well into February. Secondly, as someone who is prone to chest infections I was becoming paranoid that I could end up with bronchitis, or even worse pneumonia, that would result in me being admitted to hospital, which again mean delays in my treatment. I was so sure it would happen I took myself off to Marksies so that I could prepare an emergency overnight bag. Now, I might have been ill but I couldn’t consider going in to hospital without new matching nighties, dressing gown and slippers. I call it my After Eight Collection. Nah .. not because it is risqué ... but because of the mint and chocolate colourway ... so this season dahling.

Then on top of all my grotty cold and cough symptoms I then developed a really itchy red hive-y rash across my chest – very fetching – not. I wasn’t sure if this was a late side effect from the chemo, as the steroids had worn off, or whether I was allergic to the eye drops I was taking for the conjunctivitis ... yep, I had an eye infection too. Oh, and on top of all that, my swine flu jab decided to double the size of my arm ... and hurt. Oh, and top of that ... and on top of that ... my fingernail pads started to feel sensitive and I was conviced that the chemo was going to leave me nail-less and unable to type my pleading e-mails and texts to my wonderful army of supportees which are helping me get through this.

Then, in addition to this vast number of physical ailments I then got mentally low too. As my mind was coming to terms that my chemo could finish in about six weeks, it then started to consider the next step – surgery. Now, I am going to be very honest with you and tell you that I like my boobs. No, that is an understatement – in fact I love my boobs. In the past I have read articles of women who have had to have a mastectomy – some even choosing to have double-mastectomy proactively due to a strong history of family breast cancer – and I have recoiled at these stories. It could never happen to me – I could never imagine life without my boobs. I can't bear the thought of them scarred, frazzled, disfigured or ... removed.

Some women say "Why on earth do you want to hold on to a breast that is trying to kill you?" But my response is that it is the tumour - the horrid Yucky Lump - the thing that was certainly not invited into my body - that is trying to kill me - not my beloved boob.

Last year I went to a Christmas party ... aah ... those halcyon days. My little friend – the one who has one glass of wine and is suddenly no longer backward in coming forward in saying what she has on her mind – walked into the room and said “It is a shame it is not fancy dress, you look like Jessica Rabbit.” I looked at her quizzically and realised she was glaring at my heaving bosom in my red silk dress. I laughed. Even my late mother, who was also rather well endowed, but also quite conservative (with lower and upper case Cs) used to say “if you have got it flaunt it”.

And I am not the only one to admit that my boobs are part of my character. A few months ago a former colleague and old friend – who will remain nameless - rang me and we had a long discussion about my diagnosis. First of all we talked about the practical stuff – no longer being able to go to work – going for treatment – my hair falling out – then we moved on to the mental stuff. Missing the social contact – the lack of daily routine – my long term outlook – my boobs. “The problem is my boobs are so me,” I complained. “Paula ... the dark one ... big brown eyes ... curvy with boobs.” “I hear what you are saying”, he replied diplomatically. “Having sat beside you for a number of years I wouldn’t say your boobs are the very first of your characteristics that I recollect ... but I will admit they do come to mind.”

He is back in my life!! I thought after I made the flippant remark about turning up for my next appointment in my red and black lacey corset that he was refusing to come out from behind his desk. I thought I had lost him. Yes, I am talking about Dr O ... the oh-so-luv-ver-ly Dr O ... my Oncologist. I went to see him Wednesday. He kept me waiting again ... at least an hour ... but ... don’t tell him ... I would have waited two or even three hours to see him. Cos he is so luv-ver-ly. Now this was just a checkup appointment and as I waited to see him I wondered if I would be whooshed through to make up time - but I needn’t have worried. Cheeko has Cheeko Time – Dr O has Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly Time – you walk in to that consulting room and all his attention on you. Making sure that you are receiving the right treatment, that you are not suffering from horrid side effects, that the medication is working. He listens, reassures and cares.

He first asked me about the Killer Chemo and the side effects I had endured. I explained and said they were bearable. I could live with the joint pain if it lasted only three or four days. I said that it was my sore throat and swollen tongue which I found the most distressing and most uncomfortable. He said that he could prescribe some mouth washes to help with those which was cheering. He then went on to say that Dr Gillies had noted in my file from at my previous appointment that the lump had appeared to have shrunk dramatically. I explained that this had happened early on – between chemos number two and three. “That sounds really encouraging. I think we might look to cancel your eighth and final chemo.” I could have hugged him – but he suggested that he take a look – so I stripped and jumped on the chaise instead. “Yes, that looks really positive,” he said. I then decided it was moment to go through the mental list of questions that I wanted answers to. I knew I had probably established the answers to many but I had built up the courage to hear the details from the expert. In hindsight, my timing was not ideal. I ended up having an intense conversation, lying half naked on my back, with a man I had only met on two previous occasions. After ten minutes I decided that I should get up and get dressed ... but that was probably not a good move ... I didn’t feel any more comfortable doing that. But hey, Dr O’s job is boobs ... in his mind boobs are probably two a penny ... though quite frankly you don’t get too many of mine to the lb.

“So, what percentage of neoadjuvant chemotherapy treatments result in lumpectomy instead of mastectomy?” “Quite a few”, he replied. So I pushed “But does it depend on how the lump shrinks? I can’t imagine that they all shrink in the same way?”. He replied “No, they don’t. With you we may have to go for the mastectomy because your lump has shrunk so much that we may not be able to find where it was. If we can find dead cells or calcium particles then we could possibly go for the lumpectomy, if we can’t then we will have to go for the mastectomy.” I didn’t have to tell him I was crestfallen ... or chest fallen ... he could actually witness that. They may have lost my lump ... but that might mean a mastectomy ... just what I didn't want! “The thing is, there are many benefits for giving chemo before surgery. For me, as an Oncologist, my priority was to get the chemo in there to stop your large and aggressive tumour from growing, and hopefully make it shrink. By not doing the surgery first then we can see what progress we are making, we can hopefully see that it is reducing. It also means that if it is having an impact on a 6cm tumour like yours, then we also know that it blasting any lose cells which are floating around the rest of the body. For me, if we can offer the lumpectomy that is good but the priority will always be to get rid of the tumour.”

"Very, very occasionally we don't do surgery or radiotherapy but in your case I am sure we will. Because you are Triple Negative (a type of cancer I have) this is it - there is no further treatment or medication for you - we need to throw everything at you now to make sure that it is gone and to stop anything coming back."

I knew what he was saying ... and of course he was totally right ... though in fairness my concerns about having surgery, but particularly a mastectomy where all of my breast removed, rather than part of it is not purely cosmetic, I know that the more drastic the surgery the greater the risk of infection, extended recovery time and possible longer term complications.

You know, I have been kicking around this parallel-cancer-universe for some time and am not complacent. I know that in comparison to many many others I am ‘lucky’. I know that there are women out there on the same or similar aggressive chemo regimes who are not seeing the same dramatic results that appear to have happened for me. I know that there are women who are not seeing their lumps shrink and that for a few the lump continues to grow. There are also those who are experiencing horrific side effects from the chemo, who end up in bed for nearly the three weeks of their cycles, or become poorly through severe reactions and end up at A&E, or become chronically ill with life threatening conditions and end up in hospital. There are also people who have fought cancer to see it return, people with secondary cancers, people with terminal conditions who will not live to see this Christmas, let alone next Christmas. There are people who have every right in the world to turn around and say to me “You are a totally ungrateful vain cow. You have had treatment and it has appeared to have worked well. That is what matters. Yes, they may have to remove your boob but you could be cancer-free. You may have a pretty good chance of going away and leading a long and healthy life. I have a brain tumour – there is no option for me to have my head chopped off.”

“So what about my bloods?” I asked Dr O. He nodded positively. “They are absolutely fine. You can have your chemo tomorrow no problems.” For the second time I resisted giving him a big hug, but instead I gave him a beaming smile as I walked out of the door.

Chemo went fine. My veins decided to behave and we didn’t have the bursting problem that I had to endure before. “Right", said Chemo Nurse G - yes a different nurse again - “all done, you can move into the lounge.” Oooh, I wasn’t sure about that. Up to now I had enjoyed sitting in my little private consultation room. As I walked out to the main area I felt like a ‘real cancer’ patient ... hat on my head and pushing the large drip stand. I stood in the entrance and I quickly tried work out the best place to sit. Being attached to the wheelie drip meant I couldn’t move quickly and inconspicuously. I took at seat against the back wall and looked around. This was ‘professional cancer’ land. What you imagine when you think of chemo treatment. Very poorly people who have moved in for the day or even days. They come prepared with books and magazines, iPods and packed lunches and teas.

I looked across at the chap opposite me. He was sleeping. I was surprised. Not that it was particularly noisy in the lounge but it seemed out of place. Then I realised that he was indeed in a bad way. There were four drip bags on his stand, which were going through to some kind of port attached to his nose, one of them was morphine. A girl came along and woke him by saying “Morning Bob.” Bob grunted. You couldn’t blame him – after all who is cheerful when they are rudely awoken. She was a dietician. “How is the eating going Bob?” He turned away from her and went in to his bag. I watched nosily. What was he doing? He got a large crumpled writing pad out ... and started to write his response. It then dawned on me. Bob couldn’t speak. Sadly he had lost his voice through something like cancer of the mouth, throat or oesophagus.

I believe in coincidences. I am not weird or wacky or alternative. But I believe in fate. That some things are meant to be. Accidentally bumping into old friends ... making a new friend with a stranger on a bus ... whether you get that job or new house. And yesterday, I think that it was my fate to sit next to Bob. Bob, who due to his awful illness could no longer communicate verbally. Can you imagine what that is like? You can’t talk to your friends, you can’t call anyone on the phone, you can’t even reply to the offer of “tea or coffee?” What would be like for me to permanently lose my voice? My job has ‘communication’ in the title. I speak to lots of people all of the time. By phone, in person, in meetings, presentations at conferences. What about my home life? How wouldn’t be able to ask the boys what kind of day they have had, cheer them on at a football match ... or shout at them for leaving bags, boots or clubs at the kitchen door. What about my girlie chats ... about lovely girlie things. How would I order a meal ... or a drink ...? No more singing or witty jokes. What means would I have to ask where they have moved the toilet rolls for the sixth time in six weeks at Sainsbury’s? How would I tell the ones that I love ... that ... well ... I love them. The list is endless ... bringing a whole new meaning to whispering sweet nothings.

Fate? On Thursday morning there was my wakeup call ... sitting right in front of me.

Bob or no boob? If you need to ask me the question then you have lost it.

An A to Z of ABC

2009-12-11T12:28:00.006Z

"Well ... that was like attending a Help the Aged Christmas party", I declared, as I stomped into my doctor’s consulting room. He gave a wry smile, but said nothing. I am sure he was thinking “Oh thank God we don’t have too many like Paula".

Of course, if it had all gone to plan then it would have gone well. But of course, things don’t. It was Tuesday morning of my third week and I was due to have my bloods and flu jabs. The flu clinic happened to coincide with my bloods appointment and I worked it out that I should have been in and out in about half an hour .... Yeah right, two hours later ....

I turned up at my doctors’ surgery at 10.15 and asked to see the doctor. “Well, open surgery closed 15 minutes ago.” I know I shouldn’t but sometimes people just annoy me and I have to play my trump card. "Due to my cancer and chemotherapy I have a low immunity so I try to come as late as I can so that I am not around too many people", I said smugly. Unfortunately I didn’t know that she hadn’t yet played her trump card that morning and she responded with “You are out of luck today” and pointed to the waiting room. I spun round and the place was filled with elderly people who were waiting for their flu jabs. Lots and lots of them. I sat there for about ten minutes observing and listening to their conversations. Honestly, it was like being at geriatric kindergarten. If I had a pound for every time I heard one of them say “There’s no spare chairs, you’ll have to come and sit on my lap.” or, even worse, "Everyone else is having their jab in the arm, I've told the nurse to do yours in your arse." After ten minutes I returned to the receptionist. "I’ll stand outside", I said. Honestly, I want to get through this cancer crap. I want to grow old. But I really don’t want to be old.

I got my winter flu jab and the first of my two swine flu jabs about twenty minutes later but had to wait another hour to see the GP for my bloods. Once I got there I sat down with a bump and he said “How is it going?” "Oooo ... Kkkkk ...", I said, not very convincingly. “Fed up with going round the system?” "You’ve nailed it", I replied.

Now I like talking. OK, perhaps that statement is a little broad and I was probably asking for a bit ribbing on that one. Let’s start again ... I like communicating and dispelling myths. When I was at work at it was part of my job, now I do it talking about cancer and the treatment to my family and friends, and through this blog. There are probably three questions that I am asked the most. Where people sidle up to me and say “Psssst ... tell me ....” I call them the A, B, C Questions. A = Alcohol? B =Bare? C = Chemotherapy.

The first question is: “So, can you drink when you have chemotherapy?” Now, there are some things that I can’t have. I can’t eat shellfish, soft cheese, uncooked egg or live yoghurt, because of my lowered immunity these things could make me poorly, but I can drink. I guess the chemo chemicals are so poisonous that a glass or two of wine is no great shakes.

The second question is “Do you really lose your hair everywhere?” The simple answer is yes. With some people the hair drops out absolutely everywhere and they are as smooth as a baby until the chemo treatment stops. Then there are others, like me, where it drops out in stages and you have hair growing back whilst other areas are still losing it. My head hair dropped out a few weeks after the first chemo and is trying to grow back again but is struggling against the lethal cocktail that keeps getting pumped in to my body. I still need to ‘do’ my legs, but not as regularly as usual. And ... I now have to very reluctantly admit that my brows and beautiful long black lashes are just stubble.

And finally, the last question. “What actually happens with chemotherapy?” Well ... until a few months ago I had no idea. Like most people my image was of patients sitting there for hours on end looking really poorly. And, I suppose, at some point it was probably like that for a lot of people, and even now for a few, but my experience has been quite different.

My chemo takes place every three weeks, on a Thursday. On the Tuesday before I have to go to my GP and have my bloods taken. My bloods are then sent over to the hospital to check that they have returned to normal since my previous chemo three weeks before. All being well ... which touch wood has been the case so far ... I then attend the cancer/chemo unit on the Thursday morning.

Now I don’t know if you are aware of this but there are in fact 200 different types of cancer ... and over 50 chemotherapy drugs to try and kill them. Research shows that women with breast cancer may benefit from chemotherapy but its effectiveness depends on the type of breast cancer; the size of the tumour (in my case it was 6 cm); the stage of the cancer – the extent of spread (stage 3 out of 3 for me); the grade of the cancer - potential to spread (grade 3 of 3 in my case). Yep, the Yucky Lump was pretty big and aggressive so it is good news that the chemo seems to have already had a pretty positive effect on it.

Chemotherapy can be used before surgery to reduce the size of the breast tumour to make surgury less severe. It can make the difference between taking off the whole breast (mastectomy) or just removing the lump (breast-conserving surgery) which is hopefully what will happen for me. Chemo is also given after surgery to reduce the chance of breast cancer coming back or to reduce the chance that breast cancer will grow somewhere else.

Chemotherapy may be given in different ways, depending on the type of cancer and the chemotherapy drugs used. Most often chemotherapy is given by injection into a vein (intravenously) - which is what I have – but it can also be given as tablets or capsules or injected into a muscle or into particular body areas. Chemotherapy creams are also used for some cancers of the skin.

When I go to the hospital I go into a little consulting room and the Chemo Nurse (CN) puts a short, thin tube called a cannula into a vein in the back of my hand. A clear bag of fluid (a drip) is then attached to the cannula by a tube. When I was having my first chemotherapy drugs, EC, these were given manually by injection into a rubber bung in the tubing of the drip. What got me with the EC is that the drugs were in these huge syringes and I would sit there politely looking the other way, but because due to governance reasons, the nurses would wave these ruddy great syringes in front of my face saying “And this is your name, and this is your date of birth, and this is your hospital number and this is the expiry date ....” Thankfully with my new chemo, Tax, it is given directly from drip bag and with my first time the nurse even put a little cover over it so I didn’t have to watch it being administered.

Now, I have been through my fair share of Chemo Nurses. If the first one was “A”, then the last one I saw was “F”. I have never seen the same Chemo Nurse twice. The first one ... aah ... you never forget your first one ... Chemo Nurse A was very gentle ... just the sort of nurse you need when you are crying hysterically in the middle of the waiting room. She had just returned from her holiday cave home in Spain. Chemo Nurse B ... oh she also lives in Funky Town and we talked about the pros, cons and expense of that. Chemo Nurse C ... she had responded to the NHS’s international recruitment drive about ten years ago and we talked about returning to India ... oh, and holidaying in Scotland. Chemo Nurse D .... errr .. oh yes ... the perils of raising teenagers ... and gig racing.

The last time I went for chemo I met CN E. "I am starting to get a complex", I said, as we walked in to the little consulting room. "Oh yes", she said, "why is that?" "Well this is my 5th chemo and I haven’t seen the same Chemo Nurse twice. Perhaps I have earned myself a bad reputation?" "Well", she said, "I can assure you there isn’t a big sign up in the restroom saying Patient Paula Alert". "Oh ... well I do get a bit emotional", I explained ...

Like all the nurses she was very nice. Actually, she didn’t talk very much ... instead she asked me about me. Not just about the chemo treatment and the side effects ... but the mental stuff ... about my world ... my cogs. I told her that I had been OK on the EC but was scared about the Tax. About the side effects. That I get depressed on the steroids and vent my anger and frustration on doing the housework – going to war with the Hoover and mop. She empathised with what I had to say. She also wondered whether I might like to talk to the Clinical Psychologist. She wasn’t the first. Both Chemo Nurses A and B had suggested the same. I said I didn’t have a problem with talking to a CP and that I was still considering it. But to be truthful I am wondering if she could handle me. I think it might be only fair to forward her details of my blog – then, once she has read it – she can let me know whether she feels strong enough to take me on.

It was after that conversation that the fun started. CN E tried to put the cannula in so that the chemo could be administered. She put the first needle into my arm – pop! "OOOw!" I said, "that hurt". "I’m sorry, your vein popped", she said, "I will try again". "OOOw!" Yes, once again it exploded and again it really hurt. "I am usually really good at this", she said, "I am sorry". I knew it wasn’t anything to do with her competence. So she tried again ... and once more, it was my veins just saying no, no, no ... they just were not having it. "Look", I said, "in the last couple of days I have had bloods, two lots of flu jabs and my body is protesting at having a new chemo". "I can’t try again, three times is enough" she said. "I am off to get reinforcements". I looked out of the window ... through tear filled eyes.

“I hear you are playing hard to get?” I swung around as CN F walked into the room. Now, I have now made it to season 3 of Sex and the City and I think Samantha might be having a bad influence on me. My response just popped out without me thinking. “Well ... now they have sent a chap in, I might just change my mind.” Thankfully, CN F got the cannula in and I finally got my chemo. After he walked out, CN E was obviously a bit miffed. "He had the same problem", she said, "but he obviously wasn’t as compassionate as me". "Typical man. Wham bam thank you mam", I assured her.

I am now well and truly in the middle of my treatment. Depending on when you ask me depends on how I view my progress down my treatment pathway. On a good day I am celebrating the fact that my final chemo could take place in six weeks and six days. On a bad day, when I push my treatment timescale to the ultimate limit, I wonder if I will be absent from work for every day of the six month sick note that my GP has just issued. My white blood count has taken a battering and they had to ask Dr Gillies for the go ahead with the chemo last time. If my white blood count doesn't rise sufficiently then they will delay the treatment for a week - which means the chemo could go well into February rather than being done and dusted by the end of January. It will also be postponed if I become poorly ... and sadly one of the consequences of a low white blood count is that you are much more prone to infection or illness.

If the start of this BC journey was like a mad rollercoaster ride then I can now tell you that it now feels like I am sitting on the Magic Roundabout

“Time for Bed” said Zebedee. “Oh good idea” replied Samantha.

The train now leaving platform 5….

2009-12-04T22:04:00.003Z

At times like this, continuing with one's life seems impossible... and eating the entire contents of one's fridge seems inevitable. I have two choices: to give up and accept permanent state of spinsterhood and eventually be eaten by Alsatians... or not, and this time I choose not. I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect! Instead, I choose vodka. And Chaka Khan.

I had a party to go to this week. No, not one of my exclusive cocktail parties ... that was last week. This was a real party. You know the type - one with other people – guys in dickies, chicks in pretty frocks. There was a bit of food, some drink, celebrations and dancing. Not only that, it was in London! A party and the chance to get away for a couple of days. I’ll explain …

It all started back in July. What feels like eons ago for me. BBC (Before Breast Cancer) time … when I was still enjoying my tick-along-life … little knowing that the Yukky Lump had unsuspectingly started squatting in my warm and welcoming boob. In fact, by then it was probably so comfy I can imagine it was laid out in a gently swinging hammock, legs crossed, sun hat on and chewing on a grassy straw.

My organisation had been invited to nominate itself for a prestigious national award. I had been meaning to fill in the application for weeks but it was quite lengthy and it kept slipping to the bottom of my ‘to do’ pile. It got to 5 o’clock on the day of the deadline – the Friday afternoon of a long week. I wanted to go home and put my feet up with a glass a wine, but I had promised myself, and others, that I would give it a go. In the end I spent the evening glued to the computer and eventually submitted my application at half eleven – 30 minutes before the midnight deadline.

I received the call to say that we had been shortlisted during the horrid grey and gloomy ‘no man’s land’ between my Dr’s appointment and my diagnostic visit to the Breast Care Unit. It was probably the only occasion during that awful period to bring a smile to my face and a cheer to my voice.

A couple of months ago my director wrote me a letter to say that there were a handful of places at the actual award ceremony and that he had nominated me to go as I had made the original submission. I was delighted ... and touched ... but had to send him an e-mail to say that there was no possible way that I could attend. For starters it was only a few days on from the first cycle of Killer Chemo, just as the side effects were due to kick in. But that was only the beginning. If I was to go then I would have to get the train up to London – sitting with a hundred or so possibly infectious people – plus more coming and going along the carriage. Then, once in London, I would have to get on the underground. At rush hour. A definite no no. And then, once I had struggled up and down the escalators with my luggage I would need to get from the station to my hotel. In reality if I made it to Marble Arch then the chances are I would be found lying on my back asleep with commuters throwing their spare change at me, making comments that I would make more money if I adopted a dog or played an instrument.

If ... if I did miraculously make it to the hotel ... then I would for sure be asleep before the hors d'œuvre were served. However .... with the steroids I have been on ... I would be awake at 3am just as everyone else was sloping off to bed. I have this image of me going downstairs after my nap, and with renewed vigour, forcing the tired DJ who thought he was about to go home, to commence a little private disco. Me standing there isolation in my pinky jim jams, BJ style, singing “All by myself”

So of course I didn’t go. Mr Campbell went in my place – here he is letting his hair down. Beforehand I was quite benevolent ... I sent him a text saying “I accept I can’t be there so I hope you and the gang enjoy yourselves.”

Well ... that was until I found James Nesbitt was there. Yes! James Nesbitt. Cold Feet’s James Nesbitt! Now, I luuurr..vv..e JN. No … not in that kind of way … but he is such a cheeky chappy .. with an Irish accent to boot. Though … in hindsight … it is probably just as well I didn't go. Knowing me, I would have got tiddly on a glass or two or champagne and told him how much I cried when Rachel died and asked him to put a rose, or any kind of foliage to hand, between his “cheeks” …

So instead I remained at home waiting for my side effects from Killer Chemo to kick in. What one of my BC chemo cyber friends described as “a 125 hitting me”. And yes, my train arrived on Saturday night ... joint and muscle pain gripping my body. I had backache, then earache, tummy ache, then pains in knees and so on. In fact pains where you just can't imagine ... well, places that you are fortunate to know exist ... if you know they do ... As well as a sore throat, sensitive gums and cardboard mouth ... which I still have even now ... so food is tasteless and I can’t eat bread or pasta ... not even pizza.

I am gutted I couldn’t make it to the bash, but, like Bridget, I am adamant that I won’t be defeated. I think in the next day or two I might put my party frock on, pour a little vodka, put some music on and dance around my bedroom. Cos let’s face it ... it doesn't matter what I currently look like or feel like ... I am sure you will agree ... I'm every woman ... I'm every woman ...

Big C's little c

2009-11-25T15:52:00.010Z

I am not sure if you have noticed, but I haven’t spoken about ‘it’ in my last two blogs. ‘It’ being the Yukky Lump of course. This was intentional, on my part, though I am not totally sure why. Perhaps a bit of me thought you might be getting a tad bored with it by now and that I should lay off it for a while. Maybe it was my way of attempting to say that although cancer has taken over part of my body it hasn’t taken over my life. Though of course that sadly isn’t true ... I can’t even convince myself of that one.

I still think about ‘it’ every morning when I wake ... and every night before I go to sleep. I don’t get that horrid sinking feeling that I got at the beginning, after what would have been a restless night, but I do lie there and think sometimes: why me? Yes, I still say that. And, other times, I fantasise optimistically about the future. The day when people greet me and ask how I am and the day when I am not tempted to say: “Just fine. Fortunately, I managed to shake off that sniffly little cold I had. I just now need to get rid of this huge cancerous lump in my breast.” I lie there and ponder when the time will come when I will meet with friends and the BC will not come up at any point during the conversation. The day when I look and the mirror and am surprised because I have momentarily forgotten that I HAVE hair. When all the treatment and surgery is done and when I can go back to work and participate in crucial discussions on life changing decisions ... you know, like which new shoes to buy, which of the latest diets to try ... big drawers vs little knickers, Brazilian vs Hollywood ...

I hate the term ‘The Big C’. It makes it sound like a national favourite. You know, up there along with Big Ted, Big Ben and Big Macs. And I guess if cancer is the 'Big C' then chemotherapy must be the ‘little C’. I have this weird thought. Well, you know me ... that vivid imagination and everything. I wonder what responses you would get if you were to ask one hundred people what they think of when someone says ‘Chemotherapy?’. You know ... Family Fortunes style. Vernon is standing there centre stage, his two contestants with their hands on the buzzers, and then he says “We asked one hundred members of the public: What do you associate with chemotherapy?”

And what do you think? I reckon most people would reply sickness and hair loss. Funny enough, I don’t suppose many would say “It hopefully kills cancer”. I don’t think many would suggest that the side effects include diarrhoea; constipation; dehydration; heartburn; headaches; joint pain or pink wee ...

I know this will sound a little odd, but last time I had chemo I was really excited. In fact, I was counting the days down ... as if I was going on holiday. The reason? Because it was my fourth session. Four out of eight. A big milestone. After the fourth one I would be able to say I was half way through. Not half way through the whole treatment, only the mid-point of chemo, ‘cos after this the lovely Drs Jordan and O also have surgery and radiotherapy lined up for me. I give it to those guys, they are really keen to get rid of this Yukky Lump and any little venturous cells that might be looking to set up camp elsewhere in my warm and accommodating body. Either that, or they really don’t like me ...

But the fourth session didn’t turn out to be the mini celebration that I had anticipated – in fact it was a mighty anti-climax. Why? Not sure. I think part of it was that we turned up at the hospital on time, and they called me in about 20 minutes later, but I ended up waiting over an hour for the chemo to come up from pharmacy. I had been warned at the beginning that this can happen, but it hasn’t happened before and the waiting bit is the stressful bit. Once they are actually administering the drugs then I am OK but it is the hanging around that does my head in. The other thing is that I am having two lots of chemo. Four of one and four of another – and the second one is ‘more aggressive’ with possibly more painful side effects. I think that at the beginning I thought that getting through the first four would be like standing at the top of the mountain and looking down at the remaining four on the other side of the mountain. Actually in reality, once I had got there, it felt that I had climbed the first stage of the mountain and that I was now looking at the steeper, tougher ascent. The north face.

Each person's reaction to chemotherapy is different. Some people have very few side effects, while others may experience more. My first chemotherapy was a combination of two drugs called Epirubicin and Cyclophosphamide – EC – quite a common drug which a number of women with BC receive.

As well as the usual things that we relate to chemotherapy such as feeling sick or actual vomiting, tiredness and hair loss there are a number of other side effects. Like most chemotherapies, EC can reduce the production of white blood cells by the bone marrow, making you more prone to infection. It can also hammer your platelets, which help the blood to clot, so you can experience rashes, as well as bruising or bleeding, including nosebleeds or bleeding gums. A sore mouth or/and ulcers are also quite typical and a number of people say that they get taste changes and suddenly can’t tolerate their favourite foods, or get cravings for certain things. Diarrhoea and in particular constipation are also pretty common.

So far I have been quite “lucky” with EC and the side effects. Each of the four cycles have been different, but none of them really bad. The things I have experienced are varying levels of tiredness, as well as some nausea, a bit like sea sickness or morning sickness, but not actual vomiting. It also makes me a bit ‘spacey’ for about five days, so much so that I don’t feel safe to drive. This is possibly down to dehydration and I have to make a real effort to drink lots of water. The other problem is that when I have a cold, or a bug as I did a couple of weeks ago, then it take ages to shake it off. Oh, and Epirubicin is blood red and makes my wee a pinky-orange for a day or so. But all and all for the side effects from the actual chemo I would say 2 or 3 out of ten.

But now I am moving on to a to a second regime, a chemotherapy called Taxotere (Docetaxel). A number of the side effects are the same as EC but some are very different. When I saw the Oh-so-luvverly Dr O a couple of months ago he said that I would need to be monitored as Taxotere can effect on the nerves – including peripheral neuropathy. PN is a term used to describe damage to nerves that are outside of the brain and spinal cord. Symptoms can include pain in the joints or muscles. It can also cause burning or pins and needles, as well as numbness and sensitivity. Hands and feet are particularly vulnerable to this, and I have been warned that my nails may crack and discolour and may even fall off. Doesn’t sound great does it? But there is still more. On top of that my steroids have been increased – increased massively. Up to now I have taken steroids for a few days after my chemo. With Taxotere I have to start taking the steroids the day before. During my last visit to the hospital, whilst we were kicking our heels for the meds to come up, the chemo nurse mentioned that it so important to take them the day before that if I failed to do so then they would not administer the chemo and it would be delayed a week. Up to now the most I have taken in tablet form is 3mg ... which have caused me to have depression for three or four days of each of the cycles. I now have to take 8 tablets daily (which amount to a massive 16mg) for three days so God knows what I am going to be like by the weekend. The pharmacy guidance does say "If you feel suicidal ...."

Now the thing with my types of chemo is that more often than not you lose your hair. Everywhere. Upstairs, and downstairs, and in my lady's chamber. And the chances are I am going to lose my hair ... once more. Now, a friend of mine called a couple of weeks ago and said “I see from your blog that your hair is growing again. Is it like a crew cut?” Err ... no ... I had to tell him sadly not. I am actually being very possessive of very little. The hair on my head is more than a 5 o’clock shadow but it is very sparse. My eyebrows have thinned but still look pretty normal, as do my eyelashes though they are not as long and thick as they used to be. And Sod’s Law ... I had to shave my legs yesterday. But by next week it could be all very different ... when I start Killer Chemo ... a nickname my Ugly Sister Number One hates.

Now, if I am the ultimate Cinderella, banished to home with my lovely frocks and dancing shoes, then it is only right that my two younger sisters are the ‘Ugly Sisters’. Of course I can only get away with calling them that as they are of course far from ugly ... both prettier and thinner than me ... though we do have some similar features such as dark hair and dark eyes.

Many years ago I went to the local Indian restaurant on a Saturday evening, following a few Mad Dog 20/20s. Do you remember Mad Dog 20/20s? A horrid revolting concoction that probably had a worse impact on my body than the chemo. Three was the golden number. Why? One Mad Dog and I was tapping my fingers along to the jukebox. Two? Two and I was dancing on the tables. Three ... after the third one I would be on the floor admiring the ceiling. So returning to me sitting in the Indian. I was there one particular night and someone I used to go to school with happened to be sitting at the next table. “How are you?” Fine, I replied. Which was true ... at least I was until the third 20/20. “And your sisters?” Mmmm ... I faltered quizzically ... they are fine too. “That’s good”, he replied. “You know, you always used to remind me of The Corrs.” Oh yeah right. “I used to have this thing about The Corrs.” For goodness sake, how long does it take to get a prawn balti around here? “All three of them girls. Obviously not the brother. The bloke whose name nobody ever remembers.” Which got me thinking and temporarily forgetting my curry ... perhaps me and my siblings were missing out on a trick. We could make a bit of money from being a tribute band. ... I even have a brother to make up the complement and could pretend to be the 4th Corr ...“the bloke whose name nobody remembers”. We would call ourselves Hard Corr ...

Oh, I forgot to mention ... the biggest problem with Mad Dog 20/20 was that it wrongly led me to believe that I could suddenly sing ... at least chemo doesn’t do that. Well, it hasn’t yet ... and if it does ... then we are all in trouble.

So back to Killer Chemo. My response to my disapproving Ugly Sister is that it I call it that because hopefully it is going go in and finally finish off any of the cancer crap that is remaining in my body ... not because it is going to kill me ... though admittedly having read the possible side effects there is the chance that it might feel like it is having a go. In my mind I have this image of Killer Chemo storming in and kicking ten bales out of anything still lurking in there and terminating it. In fact, if the previous chemo was little soldiers charging in and atttacking Yukky Lump then we need to order them to step down. We are now calling in the Marines. As Aunty Gok would say ...

“Hey si .. s..ter! It is time to send those Big Boys in to go and sort them gorgeous Big Boys out”

If you don't know me by now

2009-11-20T22:31:00.003Z

"Natasha, this is Bridget Jones. Bridget, this is Natasha. Bridget works in a publishing house and she used to play around naked in my paddling pool."

Last night I went to some friends for dinner. It was lovely. We ate a lot and drank a little ... or was it the other way round ... whatever ... a good time was had by all. During the course of the evening the conversation turned to my blog – this blog – and I received some nice comments and lovely compliments. Well ... sort of. As the rest of the table moved on to another topic my long term friend and neighbouring dining companion carried on talking. “I knew you were bright, but didn’t appreciate you were that clever”, she stage whispered. Mmm ... I guess that was what they call a back handed compliment. She then went on to say something along the lines of “But I am not sure about some of the comments. I wonder if they are actually referring to you. They obviously don’t know you as well as I do.” Which kind of got me thinking ...

Life is a funny thing, isn’t it? You travel this path meeting various people in different guises. There is family; there are friends; then colleagues and acquaintances. Some are colleagues who become friends ... and friends that become family ... or as good as family. People come ... some go ... some go and then come back again. These are the people that witness and observe your personality and characteristics, as well as the numerous range of experiences that occur during your lifetime. The good times and the bad times. The happy times ... and the sad times. If you were to ask 100 of these people for their opinions, views, memories of you ... then you would receive 100 different versions, stories and tales. So I thought we would play a little knowing-you-knowing-me game.

Now, I appreciate that there are various people tuning in to my blog each week. Some people have known me for a while ... many for quite a long time ... and a few that would go to the extent of saying “far too long.” Now, whichever camp you fall into, I am challenging you to how well you really know me and if you are up to correctly answering the following - 'cos I don't think it matters how long you have known me I don't think there is anyone out there who can fully answer all of them. Are you ready?

Right, there are four questions. You need to go through them and simply answer True or False. Here goes ...

1. I have won a beauty pageant

2. I have appeared in a popular BBC drama

3. I have never been to Wales

4. I like fishing

Please check your name is on each of the papers before you hand them in.

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I won a beauty pageant – True.

Unbelievably, I did win a beauty pageant. It was back in 1981 – Joe Dolce was number one with "Shaddap You Face" It was purely by accident. Me winning that is – I can’t speculate on Joe Dolce’s success. There was a disco at our local hall and they said that if you entered the carnival queen competition then you would get in free. I wanted to save my 50p, but had no intention of entering with view to winning. After all I was wearing my jeans and rugby shirt – hardly ‘queen’ material. However, saving that 50p resulted in me spending at least a dozen Saturday afternoons sitting on a roaming throne and waving sweetly at roadside onlookers who smiled back ... who used me as target practice when throwing their spare change in my direction. The highlight of my majestic year was hosting an event with The Wurzels. Yes, The Wurzels. Jolly cider-drinking farmers from Somerset. Yeah right. They were the grumpiest old sods that I have ever met.

I appeared in a popular BBC drama - True.

Well ... a sort of true. The BBC drama was Down to Earth. It was shown some time ago on Sunday evenings. It was all nice and warm and fuzzy, you know, in that Heartbeat and Doc Martin kind of way. I suppose it was about ten years ago, before the answer to everything could be found at Wikipedia and Google, so researchers for TV programmes had to work a darn sight more harder. This is where I came in. Down to Earth was supposedly based in heavenly Devon and there were a number of references to day to day health services – GPs, dentists, hospitals. Now I am quite used to taking queries from journalists, including those working for national media, so a call from the BBC is not that unusual. However, my first call from the researchers for Down to Earth was a little unusual. “Can you tell me which would be the most appropriate name for a hospital – Postbridge or Okeham? I guess I was pretty helpful as they called back a number of times, asking for advice on things which you would only really know about if you lived in Devon and had a pretty good knowledge of NHS services here. As a consequence they named a character after me. Sadly, I missed the episode, which would have been quite amusing to watch, but lots of colleagues told me about it the next day. I liked the fact that 'Paula Wakeham' was young and attractive and drove a sports car. But of course she turned out to be baddie – as all of those one-off episode characters always are.

I have never been to Wales – True and False.

Yes, but. No, but. Well, but, both. I have been to Wales. Three times actually. Once on a Christmas shopping trip when I was about 13. Why on earth we went all the way to Cardiff I really do not know, when actually we could have quite easily spent our pocket money (what, £10 at the most?) in Plymouth or Exeter. Then in the late 80s I went to Cardiff Arms Park see U2, supported by The Pretenders and The Alarm – and then again in 1996 to see REM, supported by The Cranberries. So I have actually been to Wales but I am not sure if my fleeting visits really count. But ... as you read this ... I am now there.

Having missed my summer holiday to the south of France I would love to say that I am about to jump on a plane for a little sun, sea and sangria. But we know that I can’t practically do that. So I am in Wales ... for rain, sheep and rain. No, I joke, actually I have been looking forward to it ... I am staying here. Fingers crossed it will be sunny, though cold and crisp, to allow for walks along empty desolate beaches and up rugged tors. Hopefully some hearty exercise, with photo opportunities, followed by warming one pot meals and a little wine, succeeded by some fun sing-along DVDs (think of me belting out Mamma Mia on a mountain) or family games. And ... if I am really lucky ... a bit of fishing.

I like fishing – True.

I know. It is a bit weird, but the answer to number four is that I do really like fishing. Sitting next to a river and trying to bait trout, or out on the sea and catching mackerel. Even crabbing. I am good at crabbing. I will let you in on a little secret ... success is all in the wrist movement (OK - stop sniggering!) The only thing that isn’t surprising is that once I have caught something I am a bit of girlie getting it off the hook and killing it ... especially when ‘it’ is a ruddy great eel ... I really don’t like those.

So there we go, whether you really know me or not, you know even more about me now. Unlike Bridget I don’t recall splashing around naked in somebody’s paddling pool. Though there was that time I unintentionally flashed my bare pinky arse at the plumber ... but I guess that is another story for another day ...

All different and yet the same

2009-11-13T20:22:00.007Z

"We all live with the objective of being happy, our lives are all different and yet the same." Anne Frank

I have gone from somebody who rarely stopped to have lunch, and usually grabbed a bite to eat on the run, to being A Lady that Lunches. Not something that I previously aspired to, but when it happens now I do enjoy the company and social interaction. Tomorrow, all being well, I am due to meet up with a friend of mine. The Sloane Ranger and I used to work together until the inevitable organisational changes and reconfigurations that intermittently happen in our line of work resulted in us based in separate organisations about 30 miles apart. We don't get to meet up that often but still keep in touch by the usual methods of communication - phone calls, e-mails, Facebook and the like.  So on this occasion we are looking forward to actually getting together ... having some coffee ... shopping a little ... and no doubt chatting a lot.

The place of work where we were previously based was just awful. A single story building, slightly bigger than a domestic bungalow, on a hideous industrial estate. It was freezing cold in the winter and boiling hot in the summer - the latter of which was due to the fact there was no air conditioning and for health and safety reasons the windows only opened 3 inches at the most - surely they didn't think we were going to try and jump? However ... one of the good things that we had going for us ... was a Waitrose store on the doorstep. Bliss!

Due to the lack of options available most lunchtimes the Sloane Ranger and I would wander up to Waitrose for a sandwich. Well, our intentions would be to go in and a buy a sandwich but the sandwich would more than often cost us £20, £30 more. Why? Because once lured into Waitrose the temptations were often too great. Now, the Sloane Ranger and I have quite a bit in common but I can say that we have a number of completely different tastes and interests too. We used to walk into the store together, but then she would turn left and I would turn right. She would head for cakes ... whilst I would be on speed dial to cheese ... she would grab the biscuits ... whilst I would be eyeing up the baguettes. We would both be pretty content in the wine section ... but before we got there we would have to pass the ‘Seasonal’ aisle ...

Last weekend, the Sloane Ranger called to confirm details of our impending meet up. We had a bit of a chit chat and then I asked her whether she had something nice planned for the weekend. “Oh yes!” she replied with great gusto. “It is Bonfire Night. We are having a party, with fireworks!” I felt a twinge – but I let it go – deciding not to concentrate on it too much. Until later ... when I popped over to Facebook. The Sloane Ranger had logged on earlier and happily declared to the world and his wife/her husband that she was very excited about the fact "It is only five and half week until Christmas!"

And that was it .... I felt really lightheaded ... giddy ... the room began to spin ... and it came back to me... What came back to you? The night I killed Father Christmas.

Now, I need to explain that these differences between the Sloane Ranger and I stretch further than chocolate and cheese. Yes, she likes bags ... whereas I like shoes (though I don’t mind bags if you are thinking of buying me one). But there is more. For starters you might be able to tell from her name that she isn’t from around these parts. Also, she is much more confident than me. She says what is on her mind. No ... not in an unintentional open-your-gob-and-let-it-topple-out Bridget Jones kind of way ... but in a confident and self assured manner. But the biggest anomaly between the Sloane Ranger and I, the thing that generates the most bickering and heated ribbing, is our opposing views on so-called ‘celebratory diary days’. You know the ones ...

Let me start with Valentine’s Day. Now, I need to be careful here I as I could go on and on as I absolutely and totally detest VD (to give it its proper name). The Sloane Ranger, on the other hand loves it. To the extent that she even got married on VD. But it is so not me. For me it is up there with some of my other Room 101 choices – squeezed between rats, football, polystyrene and sci-fi. I see it as grotesque sickly sugary sweet commercialism which the lines the pockets of crafty marketers such as Mr Hallmark and the like. What drives people to go out and purchase overpriced cards, balloons and flowers is just beyond me. What is even worse is the thought of going for a ‘quiet romantic VD meal’. Oh, yes ... along with 99 other supposed Romeo and Juliets who have been squeezed into the restaurant which legally only caters for 50 covers so you can’t burp without at least 20 supper companions hearing. You are then charged an inflated rate for a meal that you haven’t chosen. “Sorry madam, you can’t order the moules as it is a set Valentine’s Day menu tonight. We are only serving items in shades of red and pink. Would you like some watermelon?” Then, once the meal is finished there are the two camps. The traditional one, where the couples don’t actually talk to each other but look over each other shoulders, staring around the room, just nursing their nearly empty glasses, taking sneaking cursory glances at their watches debating when it would be deemed appropriate to 'sadly' annouce that it is time to go home. And, then there is the new 21st Century camp, where he is on his mobile phone trying to find out the latest football score, and she is updating her Facebook page with details of the ‘wonderful romantic evening’.

Now, don’t get me wrong. It is not that I don’t do romance and sentiment. It is just that I don’t do it for only one day – and because I am told to. It shouldn’t mean spending lots of money on overpriced commercial rubbish, gaudy cards and hideous stuffed toys from Korea, or going for a meal when you just fancy beans on toast. Touching gestures should be something that you do because you want to. A poem stuck to the fridge door or details of a surprise dinner date hidden in the packed lunch box.  Or maybe returning home to a hot bubble bath with a glass of chilled bubbly on the side.  A newly released CD by your favourite band ... or even better ... tickets to their next concert combined with a weekend away ...

One of the nicest and genuine things you can do is hand over a little package and say to someone is ... “I saw this and thought of you ....”. As opposed to “I forgot it was VD until my secretary said Wayne was taking her for a special 2-4-1 meal at McDonalds. I popped in to the garage on the way home and I was surprised that they only had these straggly carnations left. Here you are dear ... to show my love ...”.

A couple of Saturdays ago I went in to Sainsburys and demanded to see the store manager. I told him in no uncertain terms that unless he handed over at least half of his confectionary stock then I was going to run around the store throwing eggs and flour. OK – so that is a stupid suggestion. But I thought about it – just to make a case in point about Halloween. My number two calendar event pet hate. The date in the diary when it is OK for anyone under 4ft tall to knock on total strangers doors and demand ‘treats’, such as money or goodies, and, if they aren’t forthcoming, then it is perfectly acceptable to cause cosmetic damage with their ‘tricks’. This year I bought a huge bag of horrid fluorescent sweets full of colours, preservatives and E numbers. I took consolation in the fact the ‘pesky children’ would return home, whizz up and down the walls for at least three hours, before their teeth fell out. By half seven the sweets had long gone - as had my patience - so I put a 'polite' notice on the door saying "please do not ring on on doorbell or knock on door." I am not sure if anyone read this and took heed or whether by that time all the dear 'Little Treaters' had gone home to watch The X-Factor. I was slightly disappointed as I was going to take my revenge on anyone that ignored my note by opening the door ... bare headed. A sight which was going to scare them far more than any fancy dress effort was going to do to me.

And finally .... on to number three .... Christmas. Now, before you shout "Bah Humbug" at me, let me just put my point across. I don’t dislike the whole of Christmas. And, actually, on the day it is OK, particularly by mid-morning when I have a spud peeler in one hand and the compulsory glass of sherry in the other. I just hate the huge build up which commences as early as August - do you realise that there are people working in shops listening to festive musak for over a third of the year? And then there is the pressure for people to spend money that they don’t necessary have, on things that people don’t really need, that also gets my ~~goat~~ reindeer.

The Sloane Ranger was definitely at her worst at Christmas. Before we had turned the December page on the desk calendar she would have the tree and decorations out in the office and on her desk. This was bearable ... until our final Yule together ... when she brought in a Father Christmas. You know the sort of thing – a stuffed toy about a foot high. That bit was OK. What totally pushed me to the edge was that on poking his inflated tummy it would sing “Ho ho ho. Have a very happy Christmas.” Now, I know that doesn’t sound much ... but day after day ... after day ... it didn’t half grate. And of course, the more annoyed and niggled I became the more the Sloane Ranger would squeeze the thing and wave it in my face. I give it to the girl; she knew how to wind me up. To the extent that as I sat there alone at my desk one night ... in the empty dimpsy office ... looking over at the grinning bearded face of Father Christmas which I swore was laughing at me ... I came up with "a cunning plan"...

A cunning plan? Well ... you know how I have this vivid imagination ... it kicked into action ... there and then. Staring at his smug little face I thought it would be really funny to grab Father Christmas and dash through the vacant building to the front door. And ... whilst there was no-one there to witness my actions ... manically taking a pair of sharp nail scissors to one of his chubby little legs.  Chopping it off with aggressive retaliation and strategically leaving it on the office floor. Then, with some ketchup from the fridge, drawing a dribbly 'bloody' red trail leading to the next roughly amputated leg. Squeezing some more ketchup along the floor ... and leaving the first podgy arm. And finally, some more 'gorey' ketchup leading to the last limb. A pathway of destruction which the following morning would take the Sloane Ranger to her desk. Where she would find the dismembered torso in a pool of grisly sweet sticky ‘blood’ on her chair.  And finally ...the solitude head of Father Christmas on her keyboard ... next to a note made up from letters that I had cut from a newspaper, ransom bid style, saying: “Ho, ho, ho. Ha, ha, ha. Hee, hee, hee. Rest In Peace.”

OK. So I didn’t actually do it. I seriously considered it, but eventually came to my senses. It would have been funny but it would have broken the Sloane Ranger’s heart. She would have suffered from lifelong nightmares. Christmas would never have been the same ever again for her.

But ... she needs to remember the thought was there ... and I haven't forgotten it. So, here is a word of warning. If we are sat there tomorrow afternoon, enjoying a nice cuppa and a slice of cake, and her hand slips into that crimson Mulberry bag of hers, and a familiar rosy cheeked and white bearded face suddenly appears only a few inches from mine, and I hear those immortal words “Ho ho ho, have yourself a happy Christmas” then I cannot take responsibility for my actions. I might appear to be a Lady that lunches, but if I see red, in more senses then one, that fork in my hand may just go somewhere where it has never been before.

Ho, ho, ho. Ha, ha, ha. Hee, hee, hee.

Relight my fire ...

2009-11-09T21:27:00.002Z

I have two passions. No, I am NOT talking about shoes and handbags. Nor cheese and wine. Or even Robson and Jerome (as if ... shudders). Let's make it clear, I am talking Words and Pictures. Yes, you heard right. Words and Pictures. The Words bit has been going OK as I have my blog. However, lots of my friends have asked how my photography has been faring, and have been most surprised to hear that the answer is "not far" and that my camera has been sitting in its case for the last few months.

Last week, when the Oncologist (the one who isn't the Luv-ver-ley Dr O) asked me about the physical side effects of chemotherapy I had to say very few. If I had to mark it out of ten then I would say maybe 1, sometimes a 2. Overall I have been very very lucky ... so far ... bearing in mind my chemo regime changes radically in a couple of weeks. However, the thing that has totally got me, and what has been very unexpected, is the lows and depression. Not particularly dealing with the impacts mentally and physically from the cancer, but from the medication. Two or three days after the chemo I just hit a massive dip. Drug high ... drug low. Now, this cancer thing has already got my body and I ain't gonna let it take control of my mind by forcing me to take further medication ... quite frankly there is enough crap going through my bloodstream ... so I am going to try plough on regardless. However, this is rather easier said then done.

If you feel low or depressed it is often recommended that it is better you get off your arse and do something rather than sit in a darkened bedroom and cry - so on Saturday I decided to just try that. I got up and went over to Dartington and took some photos. Now, Dartington Hall Gardens is one of my all time favourite places. Memories of Foundation Day ... sunny picnics ... and teenage summer holiday jobs ... ooh, whatever happened to that lovely chap James ...?

As a result of my little expedition I have loaded a few of my new pics up on to my Flickr site ... along with a few which I took BBC (before breast cancer). I do feel a bit sad looking back at the BBC pics ... but hey ... no point on dwelling on the past. I am thinking that maybe now is the time to bite the bullet and do a photography exhibition. I have sold some images previously and it is a mood booster to know that people are taking your work away and hanging it in their homes. We'll see ...

In the meantime, if you do get chance to take a look at my Flickr site then please pop along. I have even put a couple up of Dumpy Daisy - who seems to be just getting dumpier - to prove that she didn't leave me forever and that my praying worked!! Just click here to take a look.

See you later in the week for my usual blog!!

Does size really matter?

2009-11-05T18:22:00.004Z

Bridget: I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. Well, I meant it, but I was so stupid that I didn't mean what I meant... After all, it's only a diary. Everyone knows diaries are just... full of crap.
Mark Darcy: Yes, I know that. I was just buying you a new one.

I have bought a new diary. Well, Filofax innards for next year to be precise. It wasn’t as eventful as when Bridget got her new diary – running down a snowy road, in just her undies, to retrieve it off her attractive and charming boyfriend. Instead I just went into the shop and gave my money to a grumpy old chap, who was sadly more Dozy than Darcy. Though, I can admit that stripping off is now becoming much more of a habit – but at the hospital rather than outside W H Smith.

Yesterday the diary said: “Wash hair. Visit Oncologist.” Now this chemo and hair thing is just weird. I know I have talked about the prospect of losing it, and when it actually started dropping out that I bit the bullet and shaved it off. By now, just as I have hit the chemo halfway mark, I thought I would be totally bald – modelling the Shiny Egg Head look. But I don’t. Hold up; please do not get too excited. When I say I have hair I say it in the loosest, or should I say shortest, sense. It is sparse. Spiky. Probably just over a cm or so long. A bit like a little chick. No ... not one of those cute Easter chicks that you want to take home but one of those one day chicks which is a bit straggly and ugly looking. You know – like the ones which you don’t feel so bad about when they feed them to the Birds of Prey or the snakes at the zoo. Think Kiwi Head. I thought it could be growing again but I wasn’t really sure until I took a closer look today that I realised it truly is. Not only do I have a little tufty bit on the top, at the back, but I have a curl too. Honestly, just one, by my ear. I couldn’t believe it – I got really excited about it – just like the moment when I found the green pepper. Once again I had the urge to tell everyone.

Now before you say “Don’t get your hopes up” I can assure you that I haven’t. It is not uncommon for hair to grow back before the end of chemo but I have some way to go yet. I have just returned from the hospital, having had chemo number 4, and I know that next week, when the cocktail kicks in, that the hair could start dropping out again. If it doesn’t happen then, then it could happen when I start my new regime of chemo which commences in three weeks time. But it is a bit weird having to check my legs again ....

I have a bit of a reputation you know. OK, can you guys in the cheap seats quieten down please? I have a bit of thing for tottering off to work in bright colourful outfits, with matching shoes and baubles. What most of my colleagues don’t know is that what matches outside usually matches underneath. Oh don’t get me wrong – when I say most it doesn’t mean I make a habit of walking around the office flashing my underwear like a naughty schoolgirl in the boys' playground – well not every day (joke). What I mean is that I enjoy the topic of girly conversations of the pluses and negatives of thong vs. G-string, Bridget Big Panties vs. French knickers with my collegues. What do you mean you don’t have those kinds of conversation in your office? Hell, that’s what I go to work for.

So what do I do when I am not talking about pros and cons of underwear? Well, I work in PR. It is one of those jobs that unless you actually work in public relations nobody seems to know or understand what you do. I must admit it is not as easy to describe as other roles such as a lawyer, hairdresser or milk delivery person. I use to try and describe public relations by using the example of “The difference between a rat and a squirrel is that a squirrel has good PR”. However, I now use the “Marks and Spencer’s Boob” story instead. If you don’t remember it, it all hit off about 6 months ago when Marks and Spencer decided to charge a controversial surcharge of £2 for bras over a DD cup. Unfortunately good old M&S did not take into account what a storm in a teacup – or double D cup – that it was going to cause. Now, if M&S had any sense then they would have floated their idea via their PR people – who in turn would have said it was a definite “no no”. Or, their PR people would have heard about it and would have gone back to senior management and said “scrap it.” However, that didn’t happen and it went ahead - and what M&S hadn’t taken into account was that thousands of women across the country, who had been loyally purchasing their bras from them for years, did not want to pay a ‘boob tax’ surcharge.

Now that is the funny thing about PR – second guessing what customers or clients want or will accept – and what they certainly won’t. Yes, they will pay more for a bigger pasty, longer socks or a pint, rather than a half, but not for bigger bras. To the extent that they were prepared to set up a ‘Busts 4 Justice‘ campaign via Facebook which gathered the support of thousand of bigger-breasted ladies – of which a number of them even bought shares in M&S so they could storm the company’s Annual General Meeting. To date over 17,000 people have joined the FB Busts 4 Justice campaign.

The combination of pressure from the campaigners who attended the AGM, and the increasing media exposure, led Marksies to rethink its decision. Shortly after the outburst of negative publicity and complaints with regards to the increase in the price of DD+ bras they retracted it - and apologised with a gesture to those they had offended. Through its PR people they issued a press release which said: “We’ve heard what our customers are telling us that they are unhappy with the pricing on our DD-plus bras and that basically we’ve boobed. So from Saturday May 9 no matter what size you buy, the price is going to be the same. We’re not going to cut the quality though – they’ll still be made to the same high standards so you get the best support on the high street. The chain is also offering 25% off the price of any bra in any size. The promotion will last until May 25.”

So that is what PR people do. They try to protect their organisations’ reputation, and if ... and when ... things do go tits up, they try to remedy it and make it better.

Prior to yesterday’s Oncology appointment I had a shower, where I washed ‘the prickles’, and then chose some appropriate underwear for my visit to see my Oncologist, the Oh-so-luv-ver-ley Dr O. Now, when I say appropriate I am not talking about a French fancy outfit for l’amour in the boudoir - the Agent Provocateur red and black lacy tie up corset with fishnet stockings have remained firmly in the drawer, honestly. No, I am talking about underwear that is fit to be seen in public. Nothing greying with dodgy tears or holes. The sort of thing that you wouldn’t feel embarrassed about if Your Auntie Gok raided your wardrobe and strung it up in your local high street.

My appointment was 10 to 2. I was called in to the waiting consultation room just after 5 past. Not bad. I waited a few minutes until a lady walked in and sat down. “Hi, I am Dr Gillies (not her real name) and I work with Dr O.” Honestly, I can SO do snotty when I want to. I can feel myself doing it. And I did it there and then. I just looked her up and down and glared at her as if she was something the cat had dragged in. Where was Dr O?! "So how is it going?" she asked. Fine, I said, looking over her shoulder to the door searching for illusive Dr O. "Does it hurt?", she continued. Well, actually it does, it was something I was going to mention. "That’s good" she said – "a sign that the chemo is kicking in". "Can I take a look?" Yep, fine, I sighed, reluctantly realising that Dr O had stood me up. So she took a look. "I can’t find it – can you tell me where it is?" No, ‘cos I haven’t got a clue either. She look astonished. "Well, there was something there as Dr O has said it was 6cm x 6cm." What?! My turn to do astonished. I was told it was 4cm at the ultrasound. 4cm by something ... no-one told me what ... so I thought maybe 4cm x 2cm. It was very odd to be told that my tumour was in fact much much larger than I realised - and then promptly told that after only a few chemo sessions that it appears to have shrunk. Not just shrunk ... but shrunk pretty dramatically as she can’t feel it ... and nor can I.

I am also just glad I wore the decent matching underwear. Being a woman she probably would have noticed if it was grotty, more so than Dr O. The lovely Dr O who still is "Oh-so-luv-ver-ley" but I am sulking out of principle.

After the Oncology appointment I went in to M&S to buy some supper. You see my Wednesday nights before chemo turn into Saturday nights. I have something nice to eat and a glass of wine or two, as I know I am going to have a few of days feeling a bit grotty, when I go off my food and am not allowed any alcohol, and besides I don’t feel like drinking anything other than bottled water. As always I eyed up the lingerie. The embroidered sets ... the silky combos... the lacy outfits ... but I can’t buy any. Well, I can physically – not surprisingly security aren't standing there saying "Sorry Loyal and Faithful Customer you have exceeded this year’s lingerie quota" - but it just is not really worth it as in a few months time I am not really sure what my bits are going to look like. If they do a mastectomy then they will probably look pretty much the same size wise – though one will be reconstructed. If they do a lumpectomy then they will be bit smaller, possibly quite a bit smaller, though by how much I am not sure. So the lingerie shopping is on hold for a bit. And that’s fine ‘cos at the end of the day I know the pretty bras and nice undies are just an extra luxury. The important thing is that the chemo cocktail appears to be hitting the tumour where it hurts. After all, it is the size of the lump - not the boob - that matters.

In the meantime, I need to decide whether I should wear that red and black tie up lacy corset to my next hospital appointment ... just to make the most of it whilst it still fits you understand.

Time out

2009-10-28T22:59:00.002Z

I have decided to hang up my keyboard and mouse. Oh, not for long.  Only for half term. Half term? Yes, just as the children have returned to school following their seven-week-long summer holidays ... and just as you have got yourself into a routine and just as they have settled in once more ... they are off again.

I have this idealistic image of spending the week doing fun and wholesome things. Kicking up leaves with our jazzy designer wellies as we run through autumnal woods dressed in warm and colourful outfits.  Putting shiny and glossy chestnuts in the pockets of our matching wollen duffle coats, which we will take home and roast in front of the roaring fire and consume with frothy Belgian hot chocolate (think Boden catalogue).

In reality? Oh reality will be me acting as an underpaid and much abused and over used taxi driver. Pinging madly between different diary dates and social events.  Such as football club ... golf lessons ... roller blading ... days out to adventure parks ... and time at friends' houses (think pinball machine rather than Boden). I'll be saying things that I swore I would never say. Comments that my mother used to wearily repeat and which made her sound 'old and boring'. You know the ones. "You are not getting in my car wearing those flippin' muddy boots", "If you two don't stop then I am going to bang your heads together" and "What do you mean you have lost your coat*/ball*/brother*?" (*delete as appropriate).

So, in my temporary absence I am going to leave you with a little ditty. If you don't personally know me then it probably won't mean much to you, but will give you a better idea about my loveable quirks and habits. If you do know me then you are likely get the drift a bit more. And ... if you actually work with me ... then you will totally appreciate it. The ditty was written by a colleague of mine shortly after he heard about my diagnosis. I am going to call him Mr Campbell. Out of 'politeness and respect' I am going to tell you that Mr Campbell is in fact my manager (he in turn will chuckle and call that 'politeness and respect' a first) though I prefer to call him my friend. I think I may have mentioned, just once or twice, how much I am missing my job and all the lovely people that I work with, and that I can't wait to get through this 'time out' and get back to where I belong. I hope that this will prompt them to remember me fondly!

An Ode to P

It's quiet here, my ears aren't ringing
Without the sound that you call singing

And there's no waft of last night's dinner
Your microwaved gourmet (but only grimmer)

No shoes with garish bows or flowers
No gossip updates every hour

No fist to clench, no face to fall
Upon the seventh Drummond call

It's still Bay House but with less soul
And where you were there is a hole

It won't be filled 'til you appear
So get well soon and get back here

(And when you do, although it's rare
I'll make the tea, I will, I swear!)

Anyway, time to go ... no rest for the wicked ... ;~)

You're as young as the woman you feel

2009-10-22T13:21:00.013+01:00

I have a confession to make. What another one, how many do you have? Well ... probably quite few ... but this one is about numbers. Now ... before your vivid imagination gets too excited ... I am talking about numeracy, mathematics, figures ... It is a kinda phobia that I have I had most of my life. I don't think that I am that st-ooo-pid. I believe that it stems back to something that happened in my dark and deepest childhood, which has had long and lasting impact on how my brain refuses to compute or calculate anything in relation to currency exchange, cms, yards, metres and miles. Thankfully, the exceptions to this numeracy phobia are sale discounts (must be at least 50%), shoes (usually a size 5), pizza size (I demand a minimum of 12 inches).

Now, I am putting the blame on my number phobia fair and squarely on the shoulders of Miss Jeffrey. Miss Jeffrey was my first year teacher at primary school. I was seven. She was in her early twenties. She was dark and attractive. I saw her as chic and glamorous - with her 'silky' shirts and heavy sweeping fringe. Remember, this was the mid-seventies when the Nolans were In the Mood for Dancing - the first time round. She used to sit at the head of the classroom, with her elbows balanced on her huge desk, resting her delicate little chin on her interweaved cradle of fingers. Miss Jeffrey didn't particularly like me, she preferred my friend Natalie. Natalie lived in a posh house, her parents were divorced and she took ballet lessons three or four times a week.

One day, shortly after I had started in Miss Jeffrey's class, she held a times table test. I remember, oh so clearly, the classroom with its worn wooden floorboards and large arched windows, my old fashioned lid-lifting desk, and my little blue exercise book. The test started off OK and I was answering the questions just fine ... but then Miss Jeffrey started asking the questions too quickly ... and I couldn't keep up. I knew the answers but I got flustered and panicked. As a result I only managed to answer four or five of the twenty questions in the test. We were asked to hand our books in and Miss Jeffrey made a flippant comment about my low responses. I was mortified. Humiliated in front of the whole class. So what did I do? Oh that is easy to answer ... the lower lip wobbled, and a big fat tear slowly brewed and balanced on the edge of my long dark lashes until it finally toppled down my soft, smooth and rosy cheek. Yep ... even at that tender age ... my automatic response was to cry.

Of course I look back now and smile. The knowledgeable and worldly wise Miss Jeffrey was of course nothing of the sort. She was a young and naive teacher, who has just left teacher training college. She had no experience. It was easy for her to favour Natalie who was confident and self-assured. Somebody who was older, with more wisdom, would have been a position to help the little girl who got nervous and flustered, who needed a bit of nurturing to boost her confidence. But hey ... you'd have to be pretty special to have those kinds of skills, or that level of knowledge or drive, when you are only twenty-something wouldn't you?

On Saturday I woke and just lay in bed looking up at the ceiling. It could see from the tiny ray of sunshine creeping under the blind that it was going to be a bright autumnal day. An opportunity to go for a long relaxing walk across the moor, a picnic on an empty windswept beach, or a cycle ride along a leaf strewn wooded trek. But not for me ... two days after chemo and I need to "take things easy" and just potter around giving my body time to rest.

As I lay there in my bed I thought back to the Saturday morning when I realised that there was something wrong. The day when I woke and was just lying there - just as I was there and then - and wondered what the unusual prickly, tingling sensation which had just appeared in my right breast. The feeling which was similar to the one you get when you are first pregnant. How many weeks ago was that? I wasn't sure. So I placed both hands on my honed, toned, sun-kissed stomach (OK so that wasn't the reality - but I did promise in my previous blog that I wouldn't do scary or gory) and counted the weeks on my fingers. Thirteen. Thirteen weeks. Number thirteen, unlucky for some. Surely, it couldn't be any more unlucky for me? Ironic too. If I had been trying for a baby, and if I had been pregnant, then I would now be past those "tricky first few months" and now would be the time I could shout my good tidings across the rooftops. Everyone would be congratulating me on my wonderful news. But that wasn't and isn't the case. I don't have a bump ... I have a lump. My very own Yukky Lump.

One of the things that got me when I was diagnosed was that I was only 41 years old. I knew of women who had been diagnosed with cancer - but I didn't personally know anyone that well - and the majority of women that I knew of were older than me. Another thing about my diagnosis and my lump was that it wasn't some cute little pea-sized lump that people often talk or read about - but a significant lump. An aggressive ... significant lump to boot.

Doctors divide breast cancer into three number stages. The stages take into account the size of the lump (tumour) and whether the lymph nodes around the breast or in the arm are affected. Identifying the stage is important because it helps the doctors to decide on the best treatment. Stage 1 breast cancer is the easiest to treat as it means the tumour is no more than 2 centimetres cm and the cancer has not spread anywhere else. Stage 3 breast cancer is not as easy to treat as the tumour is larger and/or the lymph nodes around the breast contain cancer cells.

The outlook for breast cancer depends on how early it is diagnosed - its stage. But it also depends on something called the 'grade'. The grade means the appearance of the cancer cells under a microscope. When the breast cancer is biopsied or removed, the tissue is sent to the lab where a pathologist looks at the cells and decides what grade they are. The more like normal breast cells they look, the lower the grade. And the more abnormal they look, the higher the grade. For breast cancer, there are 3 grades, called grade 1 (low grade), grade 2 (intermediate grade) and grade 3 (high grade). High grade cancers can be faster growing and more likely to spread.

Now, if I tell you that I have a stage 3, grade 3, 4cm tumour at the age of 41 - then you can understand why there are times when I feel pretty hard done by. Why I don't say "why me?" just once, but lots and lots of times. Let's face it, for a girl who doesn't do numbers I pretty much get these. Now ... for those of you who know me and love me ... yes, it is possible to do both, honestly ... they probably sound a bit scary. So I really should point out that my Oncologist - Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ley - do you remember him? of course you do - is very upbeat and talks about my recovery. Which is good ... and what I try to bear in mind when I am feeling a bit low and grotty ... and, quite frankly, sorry for myself.

However ... it is actually Kris that slaps me across the face and tells me to pull my socks up. To adopt a strong, positive mental attitude and get on with it. Who on earth is Kris? Well, you may have come across Kris, as she has been getting herself out and about recently. In fact she has been earning a real name for herself. Let me explain ...

Kristin Hallenga is a bright, intelligent, attractive, witty young girl. She is just 23 years old. Now even I don't have to use my fingers to work out that Kris is indeed young enough to be my daughter. Last summer Kris was experiencing a "lumpy and painful" breast so she went to her GP to raise her concerns. Her doctor dismissed it as "hormonal", even though Kris' grandmother had been diagnosed as having breast cancer at 30. Given all the "all clear" Kris flew off on a "footloose and fancy-free trip to China". By the time she flew back last Christmas she knew something was very wrong and returned to her GP and to again raise her concerns and explain her breast was "very tender". However, she was told by her doctor that she was "fine" and that again the problem was "hormonal". Fortunately ... so to speak ... her mother decided to take her back down to the surgery and demand a referral to a specialist and the doctor reluctantly agreed.

In February of this year Kris was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. Stage 4 isn't actually breast cancer. It means breast cancer and more. That the cancer has spread. That it has metastasised to other parts of the body such as the lungs, liver or bones. Kris was told that not only did she have a 9cm x 6cm tumour in her breast ... but another one sitting snugly on her spine as well. Kris who ate well and exercised regularly. Kris who had never touched a cigarette in her life and says "I drank very occasionally ... but didn't ever give my liver a good beating." In March Kris started her radiation therapy - followed by 8 sessions of chemo which kicked off in April.

After only a couple of sessions of chemo Kris declared "once and for all to grab this bitch by the horns, slap it round the head with a block of tofu and devote my life to healing, understanding and change." And, as a consequence, in June of this year only four months after she had received her horrific diagnosis, Kris launched Coppafeel. A campaign to get people to understand that cancer not "only" affects older people but that younger people are diagnosed too. It aims to reminds those who are younger than the usual targeted aged group - ie under 50 - that they can still can get breast cancer and the earlier it is diagnosed the easier it is to treat. It explains that breast aware means you are totally understand what your boobs look and feel like, and that you check them regularly so that you recognise any changes.

Remember, you aren't necessarily looking for a little pea-sized lump. Changes can include puckering, hardening, inflammation or discharge from the nipple. It can also mean swelling or soreness around your armpit. And, if you do notice any changes, then make sure you do something about it ... if it doesn't feel right then go to your GP and insist on further checks. Sadly, Kris is not the only person that I have 'met' who was turned away by their doctor because they were "too young" to have breast cancer and as a consequence have been diagnosed at a later 'stage'.

Although I don't generally do numbers there are some that I have learnt over the last 13 weeks.

One in 9 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer
46,000 women a year are diagnosed with breast cancer in the UK
Of those, 8,000 women are aged under 50 years old
Of those, 20 women will be aged under the age of 25 - OK so 20 under the age of 25 doesn't sound like many - but then do you want your daughter, granddaughter, sister, niece to go through this?
80% of women diagnosed with breast cancer today will be alive in five years time

Earlier this month, Kickin Kancer Kris got the well earned recognition that she has so rightly deserves when she received the national Pride of Britain Award. Kris, who at the tender age of 23, is travelling her own gruelling journey, but is benevolently using her story and experience to forewarn other young women about the importance of catching breast cancer early. This widely broadcast TV programme not only told the story of a remarkably strong and courageous person, but gave CoppaFeel the unbelievably widespread publicity - that quite frankly even money would find hard to buy - hopefully taking the campaign and its messages from further strength to strength.

Kris has now completed her chemo and in the next week or two will be having her mastectomy. I am sure you will join me in sending her positive thoughts and best wishes. Although Kris is going through an incredibly tough time, which she could feel extremely bitter and resentful about, she remains outstandingly strong and determined. She said recently "If you believe the statistics it ain't looking good for me. So it's a good job I'm not going to be another stat. I know I'll get through this and along the way raise awareness."

Here in the UK, statistics show that the number of women surviving breast cancer is the highest in forty years. Let's keep it that way. Being diagnosed with breast cancer is not a death sentence but early diagnosis is the key to rapid recovery. Don't forget to let your fingers do the walking ... and CoppaFeel

Baps, buns and cupcakes

2009-10-15T22:52:00.011+01:00

Today I thought I would talk a little bit about me.

"But you always talk about you."

Well ... yes ...   But ... ummm ... errr ....    Oh yes, but in fairness Bridget always talks about herself in her diary ...

"Yeah, but then again Bridget talks about her friends, her social life, her job ... oh and the handsome Daniel Cleaver and the gorgeous Mr Darcy ..."

Ok - so I guess it is time to introduce you to the two new, and important, men in my life ...

Today I thought I would talk a bit about me. No, not the mad ramblings in my brain, but a bit about me and what is actually happening to get me on to the road to recovery and hopefully back to normality. First of all we will need to rewind. Not for too long and too much as I don't like reflecting on the first few weeks when I was diagnosed as they were really really grotty.  However, I do think it is time to look at the nitty gritty - or should that be the titty gritty?

Right, before you switch off and do-something-far-more-interesting-instead then please don't. I am not going get too detailed here - there isn't going be anything scary or gruesome. Just imagine that you and I have just parked our butts on one of those lovely leather sofas in Starbucks and just getting comfy. We've both got lattes ... and cake. Yours is chocolate, as you prefer that, and I've got carrot cake with that lovely frosted topping. So let me begin.

Back to August - my GP has referred me to the hospital. I turned up at the Breast Care Unit (BCU) to see the Breast Care Consultant. I am going to call him Dr Jordan - cos he's the boob man - get it? Look, try to keep up - I am trying to make this as simple as I can! Dr Jordan said: "Looking at your history and age I don't think that this is a cancerous tumour, but a cyst. I am going to send you for a mammogram and an ultrasound to make sure."

Mammograms are usually routinely offered to women over 50 (though the Government has just this week reduced this to 47) as mammograms are not as efficient at diagnosing problems in younger women. This is because younger breasts are denser.  But this does not mean that mammograms are a waste of time.  They are offered to older women for a reason and it is something they should take up. It also means that younger women, i.e. pre-menopausal women, who are given a mammogram should not take the results as absolute and continue to do manual checks too (think back to Kylie) or have other tests, such as an ultrasound.

And ... whilst we are on mammograms ... I would just like to clarify they do not always hurt. Apparently lots of women who are entitled and who are invited to have a mammogram refuse to have one because they have heard rumours that mammograms are painful. Well, at that point in time Yukky Lump was really tender and the thought of a mammogram was equivalent to some kind of Japanese torture. But for me it was OK. I can't even say it was uncomfortable - let alone painful. Please ... if you, your mother, grandmother, or aunt, puts off a mammogram due to fear of it hurting then please go, or encourage them to go ... the bark is worse than the bite.

After my mammogram I went to see the doctor in ultrasound - he has a small walk-on part at the moment so I am just going to call him Dr Ultrasound.  The ultrasound is like what they do when you are expecting a baby. Except they are hunting the lump not checking the bump. Dr Ultrasound didn't tell me very much - perhaps because he didn't say very much - but I knew something was very very wrong. I went back to see Dr Jordan and, although he couldn't confirm there and then that it was definitely bad news, he said that it wasn't looking good and from the tests he could certainly tell me it wasn't a cyst. He told me to come back in seven days - actually I asked if he could make it six days as I was supposed to go on holiday a week later. I returned to the BCU for that scheduled appointment and that was when Dr Jordan told me something that he and I had known all along ... that it was indeed breast cancer. And I didn't get to go on holiday.

Dr Jordan described to me how big the tumour was, its location, the grade, and then went straight into his spiel. He told me that I would need to have a mastectomy - where they remove the whole breast - and then have chemotherapy - probably followed by radiotherapy.  I felt totally numb all the way through his briefing. Until ... until he said: "But there may be another option as the good news is you are big busted."

It was as if Paul McKenna had clicked his fingers as I suddenly jumped out of my breast-cancer-news induced shock. I suddenly sat up bolt upright in my chair, crossed my legs, and started to nod my upper foot up and down just very slightly. I discreetly hid the crumpled and snotty tissue in my hand under my thigh. I tipped my head and flirtatiously gazed at him with large doe-like eyes through my wispy fringe - think Princess Di - and in a raspy seductive tone, lifting my eyebrow slightly (think Samantha from S&tC) - said: "Well Dr, that certainly isn't the first time a guy has said that to me."

OK so I didn't. But honest to God I thought it. To the man who five minutes earlier had delivered the most horrific and devastating news that I have yet to be told in my whole life. Can you believe it? But then something else happened which has never happened before either. For the first time, possibly ever, my brain got to my mouth before it had chance to open and shouted a very loud and resounding "No!" And, just as amazingly, my mouth obeyed. All that came out was a quiet and subdued: "Oh right". He went on to say: "But I am a Breast Consultant, I do breasts. You will need to see the Oncologist, he does cancer." Hey, I guess you can tell who pulled the short straw out of you two. But I didn't say that either...

And then we were whizzed off on the next bit of the "Welcome to Breast Cancer Induction". The Breast Care Nurse (BCN) ushered us out of that consulting room, down the corridor, to another consulting room. Now for those of you in the 21st Century I want you to imagine that this takes place at about 6x, maybe 12x, on your Sky Plus.

For those of you who still in the 20th Century it is the fast forward button on your video. "Right", she starts, "there are three important things I need to tell you. Firstly, we never lie. We tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Secondly, I advise that you don't look back. You don't look forward. But you treat each day as it comes. Concentrate on the moment. Thirdly, .....". Thirdly .....

Honestly, I can't remember. But there was definitely a third. Perhaps it was "I want to you to listen and remember everything I say."   She went on to talk about practical things. "Your hair will fall out. It will grow back. It will grow back thicker, stronger and possibly curly." Well, every cloud ... She then went on to book an appointment for the mastectomy surgery. As well as a pre-surgery appointment. And a post-surgery appointment. "Of course we will cancel all these and arrange the chemo dates if you have the chemotherapy first", she said breezily. BCN then went on to ask: "Would you like to see some photos? Photos of women who have had surgery? Dr Jordan does great breasts you know and absolutely sooo-per nipples".

And I did it again. Perhaps it was the shock. Or perhaps I have a very deep and hidden sense of black humour which had just come to the fore. I suddenly had this image of Dr J standing in his large beautiful country cottage kitchen - handcrafted oak with granite worktops - in his green operating scrubs - but with a chef's hat balancing on his head. In his hand is not a surgical knife but an icing bag ... and he carefully squeezing fondant pick icing to form nipple shapes on to little buns. "Hey, Dr J you could top up that consultant's salary with a bit of pin money you know? Handmade specialty cakes - apparently there is quite a demand for them." The BCN asked me again: "Do you want to look at some photos?" I declined - I preferred my own images sourced by that vivid imagination of mine.

About fifteen years ago a colleague of mine who had worked in hospitals for many years told me a joke. "What is the difference between God and a Consultant? God never thinks he is a Consultant." It is the only joke that I remember. Which is a shame, because as we see fewer and fewer James Robinson-Justice/Sir Lancelot Spratt type consultants it is not very funny these days. And it certainly isn't when I am talking about my Oncologist - Dr O. Now you are thinking that I have called him Dr O because he is an Oncologist. But that is not the case. He is called Dr O because every time I talk about him I say: "Dr O, my Oncologist, oh-he-so-so-luv-ver-ley". Not just once, lots and lots of times. But the funny thing is that when I am asked at the hospital who my Oncologist is every female enquirer responds with: "Oh, Dr O, he is sooo luv-ver-ley".

From my appointment with Dr Jordan until I saw Dr O was 197 hours. That week and one day was really painful. I didn't sleep very much, and, when I did, I would often wake and cry, hysterically, driving myself to panic attacks. When I was awake I got terrible dizzy spells due to the lack of sleep and the incredible stress. I put the dizzy spells down to the brain tumour which they were bound to find on the MRI scan which I was sure they were going to make me have done (vivid imagination me). My appointment with Dr O was at 7.45pm. The very last appointment of the day. By the time I went in it was 8.45pm. I thought it was very ungentlemanly for Dr O to keep me waiting over an hour for our first rendezvous. In fact, to be truthful that last hour finished me off and by the time I went in to the consulting room I was bordering on hysteria. No, actually by the time I went in I WAS hysterical. The poor chap was sitting there thinking that he was coming to the end of a long and tiring day ... and then I walked in. But Dr O, because he is oh-so-so-luv-ver-ley, was a total trooper. He put any thought of a Chinese takeaway and a glass of wine - or do you think that he might be more of a fresh-tuna-salad-and-a-glass-of-pomegranate-juice type of chap - and turned his attention 100% to me and how we were going to get rid of Yukky Lump.

"Now as you are rather big busted" he started. No. I didn't think it. I was far too distraught. My wicked and mischievous sense of humour had evaporated. "So you might like to consider having chemotherapy first to try and reduce the lump. That way we might be able to do a lumpectomy, which means surgery would be less severe than having a mastectomy." I said to him: "Dr, I am in your hands". Which actually at that particular point in time was in fact true in more ways than one - I guess he didn't pull that short straw after all ...

"Well", he replied, "I think we should try the chemo first". So we are. And, just to let you know that on neither of the two occasions that we have met has Dr O suggested the MRI scan ... well not yet anyway ... I think he has already realised what an emotional and sensitive little soul I am.

Before I wrap up I want to thank all my lovely friends who have I seen over the last week or so, leading up to today's chemo number 3. Your time and company was both loved and much appreciated. In particular, I want to mention my friend who I am going to call Little Miss Sweaty Jockstrap. Now only the handful of friends who came to the super little soiree that she arranged and held earlier this week will know what that means - but it is my little revenge to the fact she has shared some photos of me with a few of our colleagues. Me, who hates having my photo taken at the best of times, sitting in her living room, wearing my new and practical, albeit not very sexy, Baker Boy hat.

Now, the super Little Miss SJ has not stopped at the soiree but has also been planning a number of events to raise awareness and cash for breast cancer care. Earlier this month she kicked them off by baking some cakes to sell to our colleagues for a donation to charity. On asking her how it went she said well, but had to confess that she was rather heavy handed and they had turned out much bigger than she planned.

Now, just after I was diagnosed I e-mailed some of my colleagues to say that although I was out of sight I certainly didn't want to be out of mind and they needed to keep in contact with me. So I want to take this opportunity to say a special thanks to Little Miss SJ because ... well let's face it ... whilst she is handing out large, pink, D-cup cupcakes around our place of work then there ain't no chance of anyone forgetting me.

That's because I am apparently "rather big busted". Well, so I have been told ... more than once in my life.

Gone to the cogs

2009-10-07T21:39:00.006+01:00

I have this chick-flick DVD box set. Now, before I continue, I just want to clarify something. I know that I have already mentioned two DVD box sets and I don’t want you to think that I live in a house with walls covered in shelves filled with DVDs, because honestly, I don’t. I have only three DVD box sets. Two were gifts and one was a present to myself – I work on the basis that if you are disappointed and don’t get the gift you were hoping for that the best thing is to just go out and buy it yourself. Until seven weeks ago I watched very very little TV, not even DVDs. For example, I have been sitting on the Sex and the City box set for two years and I only opened it last week. Today I fiinished Season One – Carrie and Big have just split for the first time, if you really want to know.

Anyway, this chick flick DVD box set consists of Bridget Jones, Love Actually and Notting Hill. I love the first two – absolute classics – well if you like that kind of thing – but I am not sure about the latter. For those of you who haven’t seen Notting Hill then in summary it is: guy who owns bookshop accidentally throws orange juice over famous Hollywood star, as you do. He really likes her, she kind of likes him, but they have a misunderstanding and she storms off in a huff without listening to him – that's the realistic Mars vs Venus bit. A year goes by and they meet up again, it turns out she really likes him after all and they patch things up and live happily ever after. Well sort of. I think the reason I am not so keen on Notting Hill is that Anna, the film star, played by Julia Roberts, is very cool and aloof. In the other two, Bridget is ... well just Bridget ... kind of average, a bit curvy, with a habit of opening her mouth at least 20 seconds before her brain goes into gear. In Love Actually there is Natalie, the one which falls for the Prime Minster, again played by Hugh Grant. Natalie is the “chubby” one, with the “thighs the size of big tree trunks” who also has a problem with her brain/mouth choreography and, on top of that, swears like a trooper. Say no more ...

Anyway, although I am not that keen on Notting Hill there is a scene which I have always thought was really innovative and clever. Often, when films want to demonstrate time has passed they show pages of a calendar been torn away or flipped through rapidly. Instead of this, in Notting Hill Richard Curtis had William Thacker, played by Hugh Grant, walking through the markets of Portobello Road amidst the rotating seasons of a year. The weather changes accordingly, Thacker’s clothes metamorphose as he strides along, and the goods being sold on the stalls interchange. The whole piece only lasts a moment or two but must have taken absolutely ages to film. It is very clever.

When it was confirmed that Yukky Lump was indeed breast cancer, I just kept thinking about this particular scene. I just wanted to go to London and walk through Notting Hill and have that same time-travelling experience. Stroll from one end of the market to the other and be magically transported twelve months into the future. Avoid this long journey of mine – bypass Christmas and the New Year, and the chemotherapy - omit Valentine’s Day, and my surgery - skip my birthday, and radiotherapy ... and the rest.

A couple of weeks ago, just before my second chemotherapy session, a dear friend of mine offered to take me out for the day. We went down to the coast - down to Bantham to be precise. It is one of my favourite places. Not so much during the summer, when it is full of grockles, but, as it was on that day. When it is unhabitated ... barren ... deserted ... Just enjoying the wind blowing on my face and through my hair. Well, at least I did when I had hair ... before my head was uninhabitated, barren and deserted.

Prior to our walk we went for a light lunch at the pub down there. We had pan-fried halloumi on a bed of dressed rocket leaves. With a sneaky bowl of chips. I must admit that when the waiter put the plate in front of me it crossed my mind whether this was a "middle-class" version of cheesy chips. It was nice. But I do confess to liking "working class" cheesy chips - a bit of grated cheddar - with a lovely dollop of Hellman’s on the side... mmm ... Anyway, I digress ... ruddy steroids ...

It was a simple lunch, just washed down with orange juice, but we still managed to sit there for an hour and a half. Because we talked, as we always do. Not just about the "usual" stuff. Not just about cancer, and the chemotheraphy, and the fact that it was making my hair fall out ... as it was there and then ... but about other things too. About the stuff that other people don't automatically think about or consider when someone says cancer. The fact that your ticking-along-life is swept right from under your feet - by a tidal wave.

Today, here and now, as I type this blog, there are things which would have a bigger impact and possible consequences on my life and mortality other than breast cancer. If I feel unwell then I need to take my temperature. If my temperature reads higher than normal then I have to contact the hospital, whatever the time, even if it is the middle of the night. This is because of my compromised immunity from the chemotheraphy and that something like flu or a virus could be really serious.

The risk of catching something nasty means I can’t do the things that I used to do. Just normal things that I took for granted. Going to work, doing a job I love, being with colleagues and friends. It is a long long time since I went clubbing, but until recently I enjoyed the occasional party or bash. However, I now feel like Cinderella. I don’t need Prince Charming to turn up with his shoe so as I can go. Let’s face it, I have enough shoes and frocks to go to a ball every night between now and Christmas. No ... my problem is that one of the Ugly Sisters might take their revenge by popping a cockle in my soup or by sneezing on me.

And travelling - I love holidays – and to be truthful there is nothing stopping me from going on holiday. That is just as long as I squeeze my vacation into my three-week cycle of chemo treatment. Not during the first week when I feel tired and grotty - and so that I am back in time to have my bloods and see my oncologist during the third week, in preparation for my next session. Oh, and as long as I don’t travel by train ... bus, or plane. And as long as I don’t stay somewhere they are likely to dish up salmonella in my supper.

So what did my friend and I conclude over our pub lunch on that day? Cogs. We decided that aspects of your life can be illustrated by cogs. A map of cogs. Cogs that can change in size, and reduce or increase in the speed they turn. Some cogs are older, well worn, slightly oilier, and even rusty. Cogs can disappear, or be joined by larger, shinier, newer cogs. All this depends on what is happening in your life at any point in time.

So what do my cogs look like at the moment? The fact I am now recognised and greeted by my first name when I visit my GP, or go in to hospital, means my healthcare cog has taken centre stage, is large and turning pretty steadily. But sadly my work, social and travel cogs have shrunk somewhat. So has my photography cog, but there is a new blog cog in its place. Right next to the DVD box set cog. Replacing the hairdresser cog. My shoe cog has shrunk and has been replaced by a newer and shinier scarf and hat cog. Oh ... and a new green pepper cog ... of course. I hanker after my aged and familiar cogs. I am just not quite so fond of those newer and shinier cogs that have appeared in their place. I know my dear old cogs haven’t disappeared for ever. They have just shrunk and slowed down temporarily – but I miss them.

So going back to that scene in Notting Hill. Some weeks on I now accept that there is no way that I can press a fast forward button on life. Normally I grieve the end of summer and hate the thought of Halloween, followed by Guy Fawkes and then Christmas. However, this year is different. As I look out of the window, watch the golden amber leaves spin in the wind, listen to the rain on the pane, put on my wellie boots to grab some fresh air, I appreciate that each of one those calendar events is a milestone on my own walk through the market. Although it doesn’t feel feasible now, I am hoping that this time next year this journey will feel like a distant memory and that I will be able to reflect on it in just a moment or two.

Come all ye faithful

2009-09-30T20:16:00.006+01:00

Back in the mid-1980s I used to like George. As in Michael, rather than Boy, Bush or Orwell. I was old enough to understand that I wasn’t going to grow up and marry a popstar, but still naive enough to think that George was gazing into my eyes as he sang in the Careless Whisper video. Though of course in reality he was looking right past me, and even the Princess Di look-a-like, and checking out the cameraman instead. By the time news broke that he was gay, that he had a penchant for taking drugs and driving into walls, I had moved on to some other unsuspecting idol ... probably Clooney. The only time Mr Michael has hit my radar in recent years was when he was arrested for lewd conduct in a public loo in Los Angeles. I thought that escapade was a bit below the belt ... excuse the puns.

During the horrid haze of weeks of waiting to see the GP, to see the consultant, to have the tests, to be told the results, I kept hearing the same song on the radio. I hadn’t heard it in years. It was George Michael’s 1987 hit Faith. How many times? I don’t know. Maybe a dozen. 'Cause I gotta have faith... a faith ... a faith. And the more I heard it ... the more I sang along ... And then it occurred to me perhaps it was a ‘sign’ and that somebody or something was telling me to have a little faith. So each time I heard it I started to sing-along ... 'Cause I gotta have faith ...

The day I returned to the Breast Care Unit for my results it was warm. It was mid-August. Not sunny, but hot and humid. The little waiting room was full of anxious patients, all suffering from the consequences of the oppressive heat and raw nervousness, all on tenterhooks waiting to hear their destiny. The radio was on this time. I didn’t recall it being on during my previous visit. I can’t tell you all the songs they played. Just one. Faith. I sat upright. Faith. George Michael’s Faith. It must be another sign. Perhaps the consultant is wrong after all. Perhaps I was wrong. Miracles do happen. Perhaps I am going to go in there and he is going to say “It is good news after all. There is a lump. But it is just one of those things. We see them sometimes. It will disappear. Now go home and pack your bags and go on holiday. Go back to your ticking-along-life-life. Come along, get a move on, I’ve got patients with life-threatening conditions to see.” Of course this didn’t happen. It was my vivid imagination ... again.

Just after I had been diagnosed, and whilst I was waiting for my treatment to start, I was driving along and happened to pass one of those pretty little village churches that are quite common down this way. For the first time in ages, well maybe ever, I was tempted to stop and go in. To park the car up on the grassy verge, go through the peeling wrought iron gates and meander across the pretty and peaceful graveyard. Enter the church through the side entrance, rather than using the large and heavy front door, as this would rudely disturb the reassuring calm and tranquillity on the inside. Tip toe across the well worn flagstones, which have witnessed thousands of footprints over thousands of years. Take a seat amongst the domino of solid oak pews, choosing one underneath the suspended dancing rainbow mosaic squares of light, cast by the sun radiating through the huge and imposing stain-glassed window. Pull out the dusty dappled tapestry-style carpeted cushion ... and kneel.

Yes ... I was tempted. But I didn’t.

Instead I drove by ...

I can't say I am religious. I always have a bit of a dilemma when I am asked on application forms to indicate my faith. Although I was christened, and went to a Church of England school, I don't feel that my religious beliefs are strong enough to mark the Christian option. However, the Atheist box feels too extreme, and, if at some point it is proven that there is indeed a "God", that I could be unintentionally cutting my chances and dramatically slamming the door on their spiritual support and guidance, perhaps at a point in my life when I might really need it. So I usually sit on the fence, and quietly and gently tick Prefer not to say, so that I keep all the options open.

My views on religion are pretty ambivalent. I don't have a problem with other people having a faith, that is fine, as long as they don't bang on about it, in some kind of preaching evangelical manner. I don't even have a strong argument for not being religious. I would love to have an original, convincing and powerful case for not upholding the faith ... but I don't. I am going to fall unashamedly on those old clichés. You know the ones. Millions of people across the world have lost their lives due to wars over money and religion. If there was a God we wouldn't see child cruelty ... adult abuse ... people dying ... because of poverty, through starvation ... or because of horrid medical conditions, like cancer ...

This time last year I never thought I would be saying that I am the proud owner of two cats. Though admittedly, it was probably, in my mind anyway, a tad more likely than hearing myself say I am the reluctant owner of a horrid cancerous lump in my breast. The arrival of the cats followed many months of junior pressure to have a pet. A dog was a no, no. Far too much hassle and responsibility in my already hectic life - after all, I am no fool - who would end up going for early, dark rainy morning walks and doing the poo-pick-ups? No, neither was I going to have a rabbit that would dig up the lawn, the lawn that quite frankly already looks like a football pitch. Actually, is a football pitch, cricket field, rugby ground, golf course ... And, once the conversation turned to goldfish ... stick insects ... crawly things with eight legs ... crawly things with no legs ... I knew I had to make a proactive decision. So I begrudgingly I agreed to a cat or two. After all, they are independent, self-sufficient, no hassle. Aren't they?

The cats arrived back in the early summer and when they were about six months old. They couldn’t say precisely as nobody knew their exact age. This is due to the fact that they had been abandoned in Haldon Woods between Chudleigh and Exeter. Not near the car park, nor on a path, but deep, deep amongst the dark foliage, where nobody would find them, so that they were certain to perish and die. But fortunately there was redemption as by chance on that particular day a jogger or cyclist decided to go a little off-track and found the box with two white, fluffy, cold and hungry little bundles.

If you were to see the cats you would say they are beautiful. You probably wouldn't be able to tell them apart as they do look similar to the untrained eye - and this is not helped by the ironic fact that they don't actually like each other so you very rarely see them together. ‘Little’ Lily is smaller with yellow eyes. She is long-haired, feline and pretty. Lily is feisty and independent. A hunter of voles and mice. She returns home for food and then disappears again .. until the next meal time.

And then, then there is Daisy. Still white with dark patches. Still long-haired. Except her tail is even fluffier. Do you remember when Pink Panther got his tail stuck in the tumble-drier - hers looks like that - quite comical. Daisy is bigger and chunkier - which is why she is ‘Dumpy’ Daisy. Daisy the house cat. Daisy really isn't bothered about going anywhere - the food bowl in the kitchen is usually just far enough. Occasionally she does hurtle through the backdoor, meowing like mad, proudly announcing that she has ‘caught’ something. Except Daisy doesn’t catch mice or moles or voles. Daisy ‘catches’ socks and gloves. Usually from my neighbour’s washing line. Daisy is affectionate. She needs lots of loving and attention - and demands it.

Whilst I was still in ticking-along-nicely mode I didn’t really take too much notice of the cats. I fed them occasionally. Stroked them occasionally. But generally they were doing their own thing and I was doing mine. But this changed ... when my life changed. I was around more, so they were around more, particularly Daisy.

After my first chemo I suffered some of the side effects that you generally hear about, such as nausea and tiredness. Under strict instructions to take it easy I got in to this habit of spending the morning in bed, with a book, my laptop or watching TV. Not only did I like this routine but Daisy did too. She would have breakfast and then come upstairs and join me. A bit like a baby she would need some soothing but would eventually settle and spend the rest of the morning napping next to me. By day 3 I found this quite comforting and, as she lay there snoozing, I leant over and said very quietly, so even Jeremy Kyle couldn’t hear, I wouldn’t know what to do if anything happened to you. Her response? A dozy meow and then she turned over for another hour of two. Before she went out ... and failed to return.

Daisy didn’t come back for her dinner that night, which was very much unlike her. I tried to not to worry too much. She is probably up in the fields chasing crickets and butterflies. She’ll return soon – so tired out that she won’t move for a week. But she didn’t. And when she failed to return for breakfast I knew there was something desperately wrong. By mid-morning I was doing the Kite-Kat-ie-Biccy shake in the back garden. By lunchtime I was hanging out of my bedroom window calling her name. By mid-afternoon I was literally pounding the neighbourhood, scouring the gutters and gardens for her. By suppertime I was worried, seriously worried. ‘Reassuring’ comments like “well, she is only a cat” were immediately dismissed.

That night I went to bed and fell to sleep, just for a few hours, waking again during that terrible no-man’s time which they must be referring to when they say the dead of night. Waking up when something horrible has happened to you is is awful. There are about 7 milliseconds where you just feel calm and rested and then you suddenly remember ... that horrible thing that has had a monumental impact on your life. Up to that point the previous few weeks had meant waking, at all times, day or night, and remembering that I had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and having this long, arduous and scary journey of treatment and surgery lying ahead of me, for what seemed like the foreseeable future. But this night was different. For the first time in days ... weeks ... I thought of something else. Daisy. And for the first time in days ... weeks ... I cried for something other than me. Horrible thoughts went through my head. Perhaps she had been knocked over and injured. Perhaps she was caught in barbed wire and crying in pain. Perhaps hooded youths (OK so I don’t get too many of those down my way) had caught her and were torturing her. Yes, she is only a cat but that wasn’t the point. It was the fact that she had been abandoned, left to die. That someone had fortunately found her and as a consequence I had agreed to give her a happy home. A safe and happy home.

And there was more. It wasn’t just that my cat had gone missing. It was the fact that in those previous weeks so much had already just been unexpectantly, unexplicitedly and cruelly taken from me. And now, something that had become part of my life, something that I became fond of, that I admitted to caring for, had once again unexpectantly ... unexplicitedy ... and cruelly been snatched from me. So, for the first time in a long long time, I prayed. There in my bed, in the darkness, for the safe return of my cat. Not for me. Not for the horrific things that are going on in the world. But for a ruddy cat.

Daisy didn’t return for breakfast. Or lunch. I went upstairs and went back to bed. I felt physically well but emotionally ... down trodden. I had a nap. Woke. Got up. I didn’t get the sinking feeling. I knew it was too late. She was gone. I opened the bedroom door and walked down the stairs. Lily was sitting in Daisy’s spot. Except it didn’t look like Lily ... it looked like Daisy. Surely, my eyes are playing silly buggers. I bent down and sure it enough it was Daisy. Daisy sleeping. Not hurt, bedraggled or distressed as I had anticipated if she were ever to return. Just Dumpy Daisy dozing. No explanation.

Now as I recover from my second cycle of chemotherapy, Daisy and I are back together. I am sitting on that sofa, under that blanket, enjoying some peace and quiet. I could say that I am about to pop a DVD on – maybe Redemption Day, Sister Act, The Dark Knight, Cat in the Hat, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof – but that would be corny. And I would be lying. So what am I doing? Well, I’ve finished the Cold Feet box set for the second time – and yes, I did cry again when Rachel died - and now I am moving on to my Sex and the City box set. I have just checked it out and I have over 2,500 minutes of sex, cosmopolitans and designer shoes. What more could a couple of gals want? That, and of course, Mr Big.

The very first time

2009-09-23T09:02:00.010+01:00

Bridget is at her mother's New Year's Curried Turkey Dinner. She glimpses Mark Darcy for the first time "Perhaps this is the mysterious Mr Right I have been waiting my whole life to meet."
She sees the reindeer sweater. "Mmmm ... maybe not."

The first time is often memorable. Not necessarily the best time, or the most enjoyable, but almost eminently memorable. There are certain things, without doubt, that benefit from practice. The more you do it the more your confidence builds. You become more reassured and relaxed. The familiarity means the experience becomes easier and much better. I have something in mind ... but will come back to that later.

This summer is the first time that I have had my own vegetable plot (OK, so we know it is not really a vegetable plot but two growbags on my patio. But hey, I work in public relations and can add spin to anything ... including growbags). The strawberries were not terribly successful, the tomatoes were pretty fruitful , but unfortunately I have been left with quite a few unripened ones so it could be chutney for a number of friends and family this Christmas. But ... drumroll please ... the green peppers and the chillis have just ... well ... flourished.

When I first spoke to you about my first green pepper a few weeks ago there was something that I didn't mention. Although I loved my baby green pepper there was an aspect that troubled me about it. It was the fact ... that well ... the pepper was quite diddy and when I looked at it all I could think about was how that little pepper was in fact smaller than my horrid yucky lump. Anyway, time moves on, and now this is no longer the case and I would say that in a week or so that my special green pepper will be ready to eat. Not only that, but he also has a number of little pepper friends which is good news too. In fact, I am so fond of my pepper plant that I am proposing to bring it into the kitchen, as I think that there are more little peppers to come, and I want to protect them all from the frosts. However, there is a slight problem. When I say the pepper plant has flourished ... what I mean is that it is now at least two foot tall ... so I am not quite sure where it is going to reside. I might need to remove the dishwasher and put it in the area that it vacates ... well ... needs must.

When I was younger my father grew tomatoes and strawberries - and if I recall correctly - he was more successful at this than me. I don't know whether this was down to those long hot summers that we use to experience, or the weird sheep's poo concoction that he would liquidise (in a big metal container in the garden, rather than in the Kenwood Chef, I hasten to add) and use as fertiliser. What I am sure about is that he didn't grow chillis or green peppers.

I am not afraid to admit my age. I have already mentioned it twice in this blog. For me age is not an issue - it is just the dying young that is a problem. I was a child of the 70s and 80s. I would come home from school and have a couple of Rich Tea with a cuppa whilst watching Jackonory, Blue Peter or Grange Hill. Tea - not dinner or supper - would be served as the credits came up on The Magic Roundabout or Captain Pugwash. I grew up in an age of "traditional food" which is shorthand for meat, potatoes and two veg. My mother would cook steak and kidney pie, cottage pie and stew with dumplings. We would have a roast twice a week. Sunday roast would be proper roast like beef, lamb or chicken, Wednesday roast would be something like "Harz". I liked "Harz". It was soft, sweet meat which was served with apple sauce and stuffing. That is I liked it until I discovered that "Harz" was in fact hearts - as in pig hearts - and then it didn't seem at all appealing. In fact it was a significant contributing factor to me becoming vegetarian for over 20 years - though I think it was the oxtail soup which was the deal breaker.

In the early 1980s I knew of three popular music festivals locally. There was Elephant Fayre in Cornwall, Hood Fayre in South Devon, and another, somewhere in Somerset. I've heard rumours that one of the three is still ticking along nicely.

Many people regard Hood Fayre as the forerunner to Glastonbury. It attracted huge crowds for an alternative festival of music, dance, food, art and crafts. People, mostly hippies, from all over the country gathered for a summer event they knew would be different, whether it was building a bridge across the river to an island on the Dart or using a kiln on which they could fire their own pots.

I went to Hood Fayre a number of times but I the time I went when I had just turned fourteen is one of the most memorable. I am not sure if I was planning to go along, or if I bumped in to someone who suggested that I go, but I remember I went with absolutely nothing. Perhaps just a couple of pounds in my back pocket. It was like a much smaller and informal version of Glastonbury. Local bands rather than international rockstars, but still lots of mud ... oh and the same grotty toilets. On that particular visit it got to supper time and I was absolutely starving and went off the hunt for food. I came along a stall which was serving filled pittas - I am not sure what they were filled with - but one of the ingredients was fresh, crunchy, green peppers. I can't remember if there was anything else - there may have been - or it could have been chicken and as I was vegetarian by then perhaps I just had peppers. Whatever ... I was so so hungry ... I had never tried either before ... and the food just tasted so lovely. New, novel, different ... and yummy. The first time I had tried pitta ... and peppers ... and I have never forgotten it. In fact, it was a great day. A great evening. The first time that I ever slept outside. Under the moonlit sky. The first time I had ever fallen to sleep on a haybale ... the first time I saw shooting stars ...

The next day I went back home and my father wasn't very happy with me. That certainly wasn't a first. He wasn't angry because I was only fourteen and had disappeared for 24 hours. Nor the fact that I had crashed out all night in a field with a load of stoned hippies dancing to bongo drums. He was angry because I had returned home with 3 inches of dried mud on my boots. These were my brand new white Adidas boots, with the three blue go-faster-stripes, which my mother had bought the day before, which I had worn for the first time ...

So going back to earlier, I said that the "first time" is often memorable. Not necessarily the best time, or the most enjoyable, but eminently memorable. There are certain things, without doubt, that benefit from practice. The more you do it the more your confidence builds. You become more reassured and relaxed. The familiarity means the experience becomes easier and better. And that I had something in mind ...

Well, I am sure you all know what I was referring to. Chemotherapy. What do you mean you were thinking of something else?! Yep, this is "second time" week. Yesterday I had bloods for the second time, today I see my oncologist for the second time, and hopefully he will give me the OK to have my second chemo session tomorrow. Don't get me wrong. It might be the second time but I wouldn't go as far as saying I am looking forward to it, but if he says my bloods are not good enough and that the treatment is to be delayed for a week I will be gutted. So fingers crossed, it will go ahead as planned, and hopefully I will feel more prepared than I did last time. You know on this occasion I might even get through it without any tears ... now that would be a first.

This has also been the week that my hair has fallen out. Although I was prepared for it, it was still pretty shocking. It was like snow. Just a light dusting around the house to start with, but progessed to dropping bigger and thicker and started to lay as time went on. Then one day I woke up and it was almost magically gone.

Hair today, gone tomorrow. The only time I have said that.

Just a quickie

2009-09-22T12:00:00.002+01:00

This is just a quickie blog - just a in-betweeny-note - my main rambling blog will be posted tomorrow.

About two months ago, whilst I was still at work, the local contact for Macmillan got in touch with me asking if I would be able to help with some publicity with two events - one to be held locally and the other a national event. I said I was more than happy to assist.  I was also able to provide contact details of my counterparts in neighbouring organisations so that the Macmillan representative could call them and spread the promotion even further. He was really grateful for my help and sent me a note with the publicity materials thanking me profusely.

Two months on, since that phone call, the first local event has been and gone and the next event is due to take place on Friday.  Oh and of course I have, rather ironically, been diagnosed with cancer myself.

Last year Macmillan held their annual coffee morning - I can't say I really remember it - as this time last year the work of Macmillan hadn't really hit my radar. I may have made a contribution, I may not.   However, I can now tell you that 45,000 people did do an incredible job by holding coffee mornings and, together with their family, friends and colleagues, raised over £7.5 million.

This year I can tell you about Macmillan. Macmillan befriends thousands of people who are effected by cancer in one way or another. It provides support to patients, to friends and family of those with cancer and to professionals who work with those with cancer. Macmillan offers valuable emotional help, factual information, financial guidance. This is provided in person, by phone and online, via information and support groups and through publications.

Now that I am on the other side of the fence, I want to continue my support of Macmillan by promoting their coffee morning, as I promised a few weeks ago. I am not suggesting you bake a cake, but maybe if you go to the shops before now and Friday you could pick up a packet of biscuits or two and get your colleagues to make a donation. Or alternatively if someone in your office does do something to support the event that you dig in to your pockets and chuck in that loose change.

That £7.5 million raised last year is really making a differece to people like me, people who have cancer, who need all the help and support that we can get. And let's face it, this time next year it could sadly be you, or somebody you love.

For further information on the work of Macmillan and raising money through a coffee morning click here.

Thanks - P x

Why you? why me?

2009-09-16T11:20:00.025+01:00

You probably don't realise this, but me and Kylie have quite a bit in common. Yes, that Kylie. The smiley singer-songstress and actress. The Antipodean girl-next-door turned pop princess. Miss Minogue, who many moons ago as Neighbours' Charlene made oily boilersuits Long-Hot-Summer hot, whilst the members of Girls Aloud were still looking sweetie cute in their pink babygroes.

For example - Kylie and I were both born in 1968 - making us 41 years old. I was born in the March and her birthday is in May. Obviously, the years of spending so much time with Stock, Aitken and Waterman, touring the world and counting all that money has somewhat taken its toll on her looks but I think she deals with it admirably.

We are also pretty short. Both only 5' 2" in our stockinged feet - which probably explains our shared love of a nice pair of heels. On top of that, we spookily have five characters in our first names and seven in our second.

And ... well ... that is almost it. She is blonde and petite ... and I am well brunette and curvy ... For those of you who don't know me that does not mean I bear a passing resemblance to Beth Ditto, but it does mean Kylie looks good in a pair of lurid lycra gold hotpants, whilst pole-dancing, and I definitely don't. She made Robbie Williams' champagne bottle pop ... and I, hand on heart, am pretty damn sure I wouldn't.

I have never really bonded with Kylie. I don't dislike her - but I am not particularly fond of her (Ky if you reading this I don't want you to take this personally). Kylie is cool - and well, a bit distant. She is not really the sort to let her hair down at a kareoke, dancing on the table after after a couple of G&Ts. Or accidentally serve her friends blue soup. Nor is she the kind to open her mouth and say what is on her mind before putting her brain in gear. All of which are so typical of Bridget ... oh, and me.

Anyway, back to where I started. There is of course one other thing that Kylie and I do have in common. We are both a "one in nine". One in nine women who have been told that we have breast cancer. And that is the thing with breast cancer. It doesn't matter where you live, what you do, what money you have, it is all totally irrelevant. The impact of the news on you and on your friends and family, your worries and your fears, the painful and lengthy treatment, the whole upheaval to your life, is exactly the same no matter who you are. And I am pretty sure whether you are rich and famous, like Kylie, or not, like me, that during that initial horrid haze of trauma and shock everyone who is diagnosed with breast cancer says "I can't believe this is happening to me".

Kylie was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005 - just before her 37th birthday. I remember I was surprised but not particularly bowled over. As I have admitted before, I previously sympathised with such news but had no real empathy as I had no understanding or appreciation of the consequences, or what it really means. To be really truthful I probably took more notice of the surprising news coverage some years before that which revealed she was dating INXS frontman Michael Hutchence. I think I raised an impressed eyebrow to that and said "go girl".

The press coverage after Kylie was diagnosed with breast cancer reported that she had a found a suspicious lump whilst she was showering. I was very sceptical of this and thought that her PR machine had gone in to overdrive. I suspected that the lump had really been found during medical examinations undertaken before her world tour but they said that she had found it because a) it was in line with her girl-next-door reputation and b) it would encourage other young women to check themselves. I could understand why they went for the "shower story"- both to encourage public sympathy and to promote public awareness - but I didn't really believe it.

However, over the last few weeks, my lengthy internet investigations on breast cancer have proved me wrong ... a little bit. Apparently Kylie had a mammogram before her worldwide tour - during medical checks as I had suspected - but these the results came back as fine. However, according to reports, a couple of weeks later she found a suspicious lump and decided to have it checked . As it turns out ... the fact she undeterred by the recent clearance was fortunate ... it was indeed a malignant lump. And, despite her enormous fame and fortune, at the end of the day her shock, her fears and her treatment, were all similar to that of the 46,000 women who are diagnosed with breast cancer in this country every year.

In a Sky One interview, Kylie said of her diagnosis: “I felt really bad for everyone around me. I’m like, ‘Oh my God, my poor parents’. It’s like a bomb’s dropped. Not that I intended to go anywhere but from then on I was just completely thrown into another world. It’s really hard for me to express how I felt or even the chain of events. It’s such a personal journey. (Even now, the diagnosis is) still sinking in. It’s a very steep learning curve.”  She also went on to describe the chemotherapy and radiotherapy treatment she had to undergo and the depression it caused. She said: “I don’t want to go into the doom and gloom of it but it’s hard.”

Before I had my first chemo session I went to see some very very long-standing good husband and wife friends of mine. We sat around their dining table and discussed my diagnosis and what was to happen next. And the husband said something along the lines of "I can't get my head around this. I just keep thinking - why you?"

Now these same friends would probably love to tell you the Pigeon Story. Their version would possibly be more detailed and probably much funnier, but heck it is my blog so here goes. Last year we went on holiday to La Palmyre in France.  La Palmyre is about half way down the country, on the left handside, an hour below La Rochelle and an hour above Bordeaux. I have been there about half a dozen times, one of my favourite places. The campsite is set in pine tree woods, next to a blue lagoon and near long long sandy beaches. Days are spent walking, cycling, swimming and reading. Evenings are relaxed and informal, usually sitting in the late evening sun, food cooked on the barbeque and washed down with a couple of bottles of red.

On this particular evening, as was customary, we had set up a long banquet table to accommodate all twelve of us. We were having pork chops and vegetables - I sat down and thought how yummy it looked. However ... just as I picked up my cutlery .... just as I was about to tuck in ... something hit me. Literally. A big fat pigeon had done a big fat poo on me. And my food. And in my glass of wine. Everyone gasped. Held their breath. Nobody dare laugh ... well at least until I went inside to change. By the time I returned to the table the splattered plate and glass had been whipped away and been replaced with new. So I sat down and decided that I wouldn't let it spoil my evening. The meal was as I nice as anticipated and I really enjoyed it. Which was just as well .... because ... as I put my cutlery down ... with a lovely sigh of satisfaction ... it happened again. Another big fat pigeon poo.  Except this time it was full blown right on top of my head. This time there was gasps - but no stifled laughs - everyone was just totally shocked and horrified. I stood up, and, predictably, I cried. "Why me?" I wailed. "Why me?! There are twelve us of sat around this table and I have been hit by pigeon poo - not once but twice!!" I went back inside - again - this time I had to shower before changing my clothes once more. I returned to the table. Somebody had ensured the pigeon was no longer on the branch but I changed seats anyway. I was still pretty cheesed off and everyone was trying to cheer me up a bit. "One day you will laugh about this". "To be pooed on is good luck. Twice must be really good luck".

Eighteen months on I can now laugh about it. In the grand scheme of things incidents like that are really not that significant. However, I am not sure who I need to ask, but I would now like to claim on my double pigeon poo luck, if that is OK. As I said before, until six or so weeks ago life was ticking along just nicely. Great job, nice holidays, my new little non-Noddy car etc. But I can't really think of anything that has happened which I would describe as "lucky". I certainly haven't won the lottery ... and am not aware of any near misses with a double-decker bus. So if I could call on that pigeon poo luck at this time, just to get me through these next few months, lick this breast cancer thing, just as Kylie has, and let me go back to my ticking-along-nicely life, that would be just grand.

Anyway, I gotta dash as I have a diary commitment. You see that's the other thing about Kylie which I haven't yet touched on - she can sing - and I certainly can't.  But that is precisely why they have asked me to return once again and be the singing voiceover for the latest Bridget Jones film.  Today we are doing Bridget's hen night.  She is at an 80's kareoke - dancing on the table after a couple of G&Ts - and singing her heart out.

"I should be so lluucckkeeee ... llucckkeeee ... lluucckkeeee ... lluucckkeeeeeeee ..."

War and peace

2009-09-09T10:54:00.011+01:00

I haven't written for a while. Two reasons. Firstly, my inaugural cocktail party on Thursday which, as I expected, did leave me a bit worse for wear. Secondly, looking back at my blog I just realised how much I talk. Yes, yes, I know you are not surprised, and I'm not really, but at this rate this tome will be comparable to War and Peace. Not that I have read W&P .... and hasten to add that even though I have a bit of time on my hands at the moment I am not planning to. In fact, this is a moment in my life when I can openly admit to enjoying girlie fashion mags and chick lits without reproach.

Over the last couple of weeks I have had some lovely notes, calls, e-mails and comments and I have been extremely grateful for every one of them. Some have been funny, some have been thoughtful and kind, some have been gossipy ... and some ... well ... have just told me what is on the lunch menu ... but they have all been very much appreciated.   If I haven't got back to you yet then please bear with me ...

Amongst the many messages lots of people have made comment on how strong and brave they think I am. I have spent a little time dwelling on this, as these remarks have bothered me somewhat, and I have decided to come clean and admit that I am certainly neither strong nor brave. In a Carrie-Bradshaw-type-manner I have checked the dictionary meaning of 'brave' and the definition appears as: possessing or displaying courage; able to face and deal with danger or fear without flinching. That implies that if I had a choice to go to war with this breast cancer thing then I would willingly do so. But the honest to God truth is that I wouldn't. If I could do a U-ie, right here and now, then I'd have my foot to the floor. But one of the most frustrating and depressing things about all this is I can't. For possibly the very first time in my life there are no alternatives other than to put my head down and soldier on.

There have been lots of tears you know. Shock-tears, sad-tears, depressed-tears, scared-tears, why-ruddy-me tears, will-I-make-it tears ... It doesn't help that I am an "emotional little soul" who cries at the best of times, and somewhat surprisngly, this is a trait (I refuse to call it a problem) that I think has heightened as I have got older. I didn't cry when Kylie and Jason got married, when England lost the World Cup (as if) nor when Princess Di died. Though I did, for example, when Rachel was tragically killed ...

It was Saturday afernoon a few months ago. Weekly chores done and the house was unusually quiet for an hour or two. I decided to grab a blanket and get comfy on the sofa with a nice cup of tea and a Finger of Fudge (who are they kidding ... whose diddy finger exactly?) and watch Cold Feet. It was a programme that I would avidly watch on a Sunday night - until they moved it to a later slot and I kept falling asleep. (In case you missed it, it was a kind-of English version of Friends.) So I settled down and decided to catch up with my DVD box set.  Everyone knows that Adam's wife, the nice one, Rachel, died in a car accident. I was primed for that bit. However, when that truck hit her car ... and she was taken to hospital ... and when the gang all gathered round ... and then she passed away ... What I wasn't quite so prepared for was me crying unashamedly, well you could say hysterically sobbing, under the blanket as if one of my best friends had died. Well, as I said, she was the nice one.

Thursday was chemo day. There were lots of tears on that day too. Tears all the way to the hospital. Tears in the waiting room. The staff were so lovely. They even made me a nice cup of strong tea, proper Typhoo, in a china cup. I looked such a sorry state.

Calming down a little after the cuppa and before going in for my treatment I looked around the waiting area to see how everyone else was fairing. And ... I hate to admit that everyone else... young and old ... appeared to be reasonably calm and assured. There was an old chap, in his 70s or 80s, sitting in a wheelchair and attached to a drip. He was reading a Tory tabloid which had a double-page spread on the 70th anniversary of the commencement of the Second World War. There were grainy pictures of troops and land girls, possibly some of whom were amongst the 50 million people who died during the years of that conflict. There were also pictures of Hitler, and of Churchill, standing defiantly with his two finger salute.

I wondered how old the man the was and whether he had been alive during the war. I guessed that if he had then he might have been a similar age to the little boy who was being bounced vigorously on the knee of his father, who was sitting to the right of me. The boy was about two and his parents were putting on an impressive entertainment show to keep amused and stop him running around. His father was singing nursery rhymes with exaggerated enthusiasm and gusto to keep his attention. "The Grand Old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men, he marched them to the top of the hill and he marched them down again ...."

I was starting to flag again and then my mobile beeped to say I had received a message. Earlier I had sent a text to a friend to say I was on the way over to the hospital and this was possibly the worst day of my life.  He had sent a text back. His response said: "We may not be there in person, but in spirit all of your friends are gathered around you now. Grit your teeth and imagine these drugs as soldiers going into battle for you." Of course I started to blab again .....

Now, nearly a week later, I don't feel too bad. I've have suffered some of things that you generally associate with chemotherapy, such as nausea and extreme tiredness and lethargy. I have also endured a few side effects that you probably aren't aware of, and I won't bore you with all of those. However, I will tell you that over the last few days I have had to face the stark reality that this is very much the beginning of what is a very long and grueling journey. And, if you sit and think about this no-choice process, which involves a medley of strong medications being pumped into your body indescriminantly killing good and bad, for too long then it can really freak you out. So what does a girl who really isn't that strong and brave to do?

Well it is simple. When I get a bit low and start to worry about those soldiers inside and their friendly-fire, I grab that blanket and snuggle up on the sofa with a box of tissues and a chick lit bonkbuster. I pop on a film - no - not some famous epic which involves wars, battles and combat - but a sugary sweet one with a soppy banoffee pie ending. And of course, to top it off, I grab a lovely strong cup of tea in one hand and a Finger of Fudge in the other.

Actually, these days I go with Churchill on that ... and make it two fingers.

I've got a toot on ...

2009-09-03T09:58:00.006+01:00

This is going to be my last post in a while as today I am off to a little cocktail party - and I SO know what I am like with cocktails. Sex on the beach ... Pina colada ... Rum swizzle ... love them all but more than one and I am off colour for a few days. So, before I lie low for a bit, I am going to take this opportunity to get on my soap box.

I've got a toot on ... and you what I am like when I have toot on. I get so annoyed. So het up that I might write a letter of complaint. Oh God, did I really say that. Am I going to turn in to one of those people with so much time on their hands, that I start incorporating writing letters of complaint as part of my daily life ... Perhaps if I share my gripe with you then it will stop me from going down that blinkered and mindless route.

Apparently some just-published research strongly indicates that 4 out of 10 breast cancer cases could be prevented if women adopted a "healthier lifestyle". And of course the media has gone wild - cos they just love anything which they can dramatise. Especially if it effects so many people and if they can quote numbers and percentages. When I first heard it on the news I cringed. Oh great, so not only do I have to deal with breast cancer but I am now being made to feel guilty because I brought it on myself. And then I thought sod it, I am just not going to beat myself up over this. So 4 out of 10 cases might be triggered by lifestyle choices but that still means that more than 50% are not. Yep, I used to smoke, but I gave up some years ago. Yep, I eat moderate amounts of red meat, but I have spent more than half my life as a vegetarian. I like a glass of wine or two - but not every day and I very rarely drink spirits, not even cocktails. I am no gym bunny - but I live in possibly one of the most beautiful and idylic places in England - and I enjoy exploring it through walking and cycling. At the end of the day, we all know that a "healthier lifestyle" is probably better for us - it doesn't just prevent breast cancer, but any cancer, as well as heart disease, diabetes and strokes. And, on the other hand, there are people out there who are in their 80s, 90s, or even a 100 years or more, who swear they have lived that long because of a 30-a-day habit washed down with half a bottle of whisky. So I just decided to let it go... until This Morning came on.

I hate daytime TV - but I was going through my e-mails and it was on in the background. And on came This Morning. I wasn't really watching until they mentioned that "40% of breast cancer cases could be prevented" and I my ears pricked up. Eamonn and Ruth were there with Dr Chris and somebody had called in to say that they had been experiencing some tingling in their breast for a couple of months and asked if could it be breast cancer. Dr Chris responded in a rather unsensitive and matter-of-fact way: "Yes, it could possibly be breast cancer as tingling is sometimes a symptom." He then went on to say that there a number of symptoms which could be attributed to breast cancer, not necessary a distinct lump, but perhaps a burning sensation or/and changes with the nipple. And then it cut ... to Eamonn ... who then went on to ask about prickly heat. PRICKLY HEAT! I couldn't believe it.

I wanted someone to say that if there are ANY changes to your breast, and if you have ANY concerns, then you MUST see your GP. Yes, it can be scary and if it makes you feel better then take a friend along with you. But whatever you do you MUST get it checked. This woman had been experiencing this problem for two months! Although you might fear the worst you must remember that cancer will never go away, it will only progress.

I was bitterly disappointed and annoyed that This Morning didn't take the opportunity to urge what maybe 2 million watchers, probably mostly women, that if they have any concerns, worries or niggles then they need to act straightaway.

I didn't feel a lump. I woke up one day and had a funny feeling in my breast. A bit like when you are first pregnant ... but I knew that definitely wasn't the case Although I responded quite quickly, and thankfully my GP immediately referred me for tests, my tumour is still pretty significant. I look back and think "how in the hell can I have missed it?" But at least I can say that I soon I knew something wasn't right that I reacted as quickly as I could.

You see it is alright for researchers releasing statistics to say that if we do this and do that then it lessens our chances of getting breast cancer. But in reality there are very few women who were ticking along nicely, as I was even only a few weeks ago, that are going to read that media coverage and suddenly pledge that they will eat less processed foods, cut their alcohol units and take out a gym membership. Because don't we don't ever really think it is going to happen to us. So what is vital is that those who have the power and the influence to warn women about the different symptoms of breast cancer, including the media, take every opportunity to encourage women to overcome their fears so that they take the necessary steps to get it checked out.

Anyway, got to go now. I've got a cocktail bash to go to. Sadly no LBD required.

Just as things were ticking along quite nicely

2009-08-29T13:15:00.000+01:00

I love Bridget Jones. I have read the books, seen the films .... and would probably wear the T-shirt if there was one. I just relate to BJ. My mind works in the same way. Years ago I even used to keep a diary logging how many lbs I needed to lose, how many alcohol units I had consumed and how many cigarettes I had smoked. I no longer do that, but I do still fall off my exercise bike and unintentionally ski down mountains backwards. It has been recently reported that they are currently writing and producing a third BJ film. Apparently, she is to get married ...... have babies ..... and then be diagnosed with breast cancer ........ OK so maybe not the last bit. It was Bridget that said: "It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces".

Until a few weeks ago things were ticking along quite nicely. In retrospect I had very few cares or concerns. I was enjoying my great job, working with some truly lovely people. I had just bought a new car - not a Noddy car as one of my colleagues so nicely put it. My bulging wardrobe had just received its latest addition - cracking leather knee-high boots with ties up the front (black to match the car obviously). And me and my happy and healthy family were about to disappear down to France for nearly three weeks to enjoy the sun, surf and sand. And in my case a little red wine and yummy cheese .... But it wasn't to be. Instead my life fell "spectacularly to pieces".

I spoke to my BCF for the first time yesterday. A Breast Care Friend is someone from a voluntary network that is there to help you whilst you are on your rollercoaster ride. The network is made up of women who have had breast cancer - who have obviously survived breast cancer - and now kindly use that experience to give hope and support to newly diagnosed patients like me. My BCF and I chatted for about half an hour. One of the comments that I made to her was that I feel that I am in some kind of parallel universe. On the one hand life carries on as normal - you go shopping, you take the kids out, you put petrol in the car and do the ruddy housework - but on the other hand you know that within days you are about to start this gruelling treatment which is going have this huge impact on your body and mind. The horrid emotional and physical consequences of hearing that you have cancer and what you have to go through to get rid of it just hasn't hit my radar before. For those of you who know me well this must sound really strange as my lovely mother died of ovarian cancer. It is only now, nearly twenty years after her diagnosis, that I appreciate how strong she was - stronger than me - and how much she protected me from it all.

So in total contrast, what do I do? Set up a blog detailing everything which is going through my mind which any Tom, Dick and Harriet can read. Why? Well for a number of reasons. Firstly, it enables me to tell my friends and colleagues what is going on in my life at the moment. Hopefully it will remind them that although I maybe out of sight I don't want to be out of mind and they need to keep in contact with me! Secondly, it supports two other things I enjoy so much. Writing ... and talking about myself.

And finally, and most importantly, it makes me think, reflect and summarise what is going on in this new parallel universe. Even if nobody reads this damn blog ... I find it therapeutic.

Where is the emergency stop button?

2009-08-28T20:32:00.002+01:00

I don't suppose anyone thinks they are going to be told that they have breast cancer. I didn't. I am 41 years old, I don't have any family history, I don't smoke and have no previous problems. Then one day I woke up and things just didn't seem quite right. I knew that there was a problem straightaway. From the look on my GP's face ... and that of the Breast Cancer Consultant ... and then the Ultrasound Consultant ... and finally the way the receptionist greeted me at the Breast Care Unit when I returned for my results.

Having said that, nothing prepares you for the moment that you walk in to the consulting room, and before you arse hits the chair, you are told that "The lump is cancerous". The room spins and the voices sound similar to Charlie Brown's teacher ... you can hear them but they make no sense. Blah, blah, blah. You only make out the occasional words - cancer; malignant; chemotherapy; radiotherapy; herceptin; surgery; mastectomy; lumpectomy; personalised treatment; hair loss; wigs.

You look up and think that this cannot be happening. It feels like you are on a huge, scary rollercoaster ... and I hate rollercoasters. I want to hit the emergency stop button and calmly walk off ... but sadly this rollercoaster does not have an emergency stop button.