Why you? why me?

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

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 ...

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.