The Cancer Myth...

To be brutally honest, the process of re-mortgaging my flat every two years is never going to top my list of activities that fill me with joy and mirth. The only emotion that I have ever felt on seeing the six-figure sum that seems to have hardly diminished since the last ‘fixed’ period is the feeling of resignation that I will always have to work to live, and not the other way around. Still, there is something very pleasing about having the kind of financial adviser who, despite having to come to work dressed formally in a pin-striped suit, is more like a male bestie, the type who doesn’t mind a bit of idle chat thrown into the kind of conversation that often starts with world politics and ends up with the Kardashians. So although I may not enjoy poring over all the figures and being reminded why it was that I once needed the help of a tutor to pass my Maths O’Level, I will willingly spend more time than I need to in his company, simply for the quality of the conversation.

Since we’re on such good terms, it didn’t surprise me that after enquiring about my current health, my financial bestie then asked me a very leading question. ‘So, is it true that once you’ve been diagnosed with cancer, you don’t really sweat the small stuff any more ? Like those days when you’re stuck in traffic and suddenly someone cuts in front of you. Do things still get to you ?’

In retrospect I should have taken more time to figure out how to answer this. I liked his honesty, his genuineness and the fact that he really wanted to discover whether the myth was true. My gut reaction was to say with some bravado, ‘hell yeah, things still wind me up, sometimes I curse more simply because I can. In fact there are days when I’m just waiting for someone to put a foot wrong, just so that I can project on to them. Call it a cheap and effective version of therapy'. But of course I don’t say this because it isn’t altogether true.

Sometimes when I’ve spent most of the day inside my head having dashed from school to hospital to work to home, I’m so exhausted from having worn so many hats in such a short space of time that someone really could knock me over and walk across me and I’d probably get up, dust myself off and continue on my merry way. Because, like most things in life, my feelings are in a constant state of flux. Sometimes I feel angry and shouty and other times completely serene. The myth about cancer is that the payoff to having to spend the best part of a year with a cocktail of poisons infused throughout your body or being zapped by gamma rays, is that somehow you will come out of the experience a better, stronger and wiser person, that your patience will be boundless, that your ability to encounter the complexities of life will become god-like. Well, it isn’t like that really.

I don’t remember where I began, but I told him that yes, I still get angry over silly things, in the same way that I probably did before a cancer cell ever developed in my body. But the thing that I try to do differently is to be aware of the fact that I'm still able to do this. When I’m frustrated with my journey to work, I remind myself of the time when I was too weak to do the seven minute walk to my local station. When I’m on a bus and someone is rude to me, instead of immediately throwing an insult back, I try fixing my gaze at the window. I understand that sometimes silence is the best answer. And I continue my journey in peace without having had to absorb their negativity. This may sound as if my reluctant dalliance with the big C has now transformed me into Mother Teresa. It hasn't. The mind likes to stubbornly cling on to the ugly, so I'm always in a fight with my ego. But I find, I say, that even when I do lose it, those red mist moments often get shorter. I find myself playing the ‘will this really matter in five years time ?’ game. And invariably, the answer is always no. He listens intently and with admiration, as if I’ve just revealed the secret to happiness in the Modern world. I try my best to make my words sound more pragmatic than they really are, but it's too late and without intentionally doing so, I fear that I have just reinforced yet another cancer myth about life after diagnosis.

Thinking Beyond Pink...

Halfway through the month that some would describe as 'pinktober', when companies decide to donate a portion of their profits to a number of leading breast cancer charities, I realised that National Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day, which falls on October 13, had clean passed me by. This might have much to do with the fact that my days of reading glossy women's mags are long gone, but for someone who is an avid listener of news, it seems strange that a day that has been created to raise awareness of a type of cancer that actually kills women on a daily basis seems to be firmly at the back of the queue when it comes to coverage.

Metastatic or secondary breast cancer for those of you who think that all breast cancer is the same, is when the little blighters escape the confines of your breast and decided to set up camp elsewhere around your body. Their favoured hang-outs are bone, liver, lung and brain but in the odd case, any old organ will do. Many charities focus on early detection and prevention. Perhaps the thinking behind this being that being watchful and vigilant gives the individual some kind of control when it comes to preventing a diagnosis. Naturally, this often leaves ladies with mets feeling a tad unloved and isolated. So when I was contacted recently by a company and asked whether I would be willing to mention on this blog that a leading chocolatier was offering a 10% donation to a breast cancer charity with every special box of chocolate sold, my first question was to ask, 'Who is the charity' ?

After doing a bit of research, I was pleasantly surprised to find that Breast Cancer Now, an amalgamation of Breast Cancer Campaign and Breakthrough Breast Cancer, not only includes secondary cancer as an area of focus, they have been busy lambasting the government over its plans to throw the recently hailed wonder drug Kadcyla out of its Cancer Drugs Fund. They've also been petitioning pharmaceutical company, Roche to lower its prices. In real terms, the move by the government translates to thousands of women suddenly being unable to access this super-crazily expensive drug which is doing its best to keep them alive, simply because the powers-that-be have deemed it too expensive. Also on the site, was this very touching story about a woman who had been previously treated with Kadcyla and who was now in remission (don't forget to sign the petition at the end !)

But before I forget the most important bit, the chocolatier is Godiva, the Gucci of all things choc and fondant whose range extends into the realm of dark and post 70% cocoa mass, and with everyone from nutritionists to neuroscientists currently promoting the benefits of dark chocolate (and in some cases chocolate in general), now there really is no need to feel guilty about having an occasional binge.

Return to Sender...

It has been almost a month since I sat in the oncology clinic at my local hospital, eagerly awaiting the results of my latest scan. For obvious reasons, I find these appointments stressful. It isn't just the fear of knowing that a few lines of print, hurriedly faxed over by a radiologist might be enough to change the course of my life forever, it's also the waiting, the observation of other patients, some younger, mostly older, often with other family members coming to terms with their new or existing life. Since I take tablets every day, and have three monthly zoladex injections at my GP office, for most of the time I can avoid being drawn back into the world of cancer with all its cruel accessories. I don't have to look at the headscarves, or the obvious wigs, or the wheelchairs, or sticks or frail bodies that I encounter every time I walk into Guy's hospital. I'm part of the world that is (as one psychologist termed it) blindly optimistic every day. I cross the road without giving a thought that at any moment a car might not stop at the pedestrian crossing and hurtle into me. I walk into bars and pubs not worrying whether a fire might break out and I'll be trapped inside. If I thought about every possible eventuality that could hasten my demise, I probably would think twice before getting up in the morning. And yet, these occurrences happen every day to other people in other parts of the world. Just not to us, because of course, we're unique. This is I guess, what the psychologist meant by blind optimism - the idea that traumatic, life-threatening events only ever happen to other people. Not us.

Every three months while I sit in the fawn coloured faux-leather chairs and wait patiently for my name to be called, my eyes study the other patients entering the room and my mind wanders as I try to imagine their lives and their prognoses. Usually, I welcome the distraction. I'm usually too agitated and too anxious to calm myself down and whatever thoughts I can put into my head to stop the sweatiness of my palms and the palpitations in my chest, are given my full attention. But this month was different. After having to delay my appointment by a week (at the hospital's request), I plucked up the courage to email my doctor to find out the results of my scan. Was I scared shitless at the prospect of being told by email that I might well need another course of the dreaded chemo ? You bet. I deliberated for days. To contact her or not to contact her ? Would it be better to live for a few more days in blissful ignorance, and then hear the results in the usual, stressful fashion ? But if I decided to check the results before the clinic appointment, I'd give them time to think of a plan B well ahead time.

And so I did. And I waited, and waited and heard nothing. No response from my email, not even a telephone call. I decided to convince myself that this lack of a response meant that it could only be bad news and before the day was out, I imagined myself back to where I was five years ago, wearing an icy cold cap while attached to an IV, clutching a hot drink to keep warm. After a long week of waiting followed by the prospect of sitting once again, sweaty-palmed in the waiting room looking for a reason to halt the thoughts swimming in my head, I received the reply I'd been waiting for. Just a few lines, but enough to tell me all I needed to know.'You'll be pleased to hear that the results of your recent scan show no change'. I could've leaned into the computer and kissed those words off the screen. My weekend celebrations lasted well beyond the weekend and when I saw my oncologist the following Monday she gave me a big hug as if she was greeting an old friend. When I tell her that I was secretly worried by the silence after emailing her, she laughs it off and tells me how bad she is with email. If only you knew, I feel like telling her. If only you knew how much difference that email made to the next 48 hours of my entire existence, you would have sent it straight away.

About A Blog...

I'm not sure what did it.

Was it the logging on and doing my weekly surf to find out what was happening in the online world of metastatic breast cancer, only to discover that long-term blogger and high profile advocate for change, Lisa Bonchek Adams was no more ? Or perhaps it was the recent revelation of a fellow BC friend who I only ever exchange stories with on Facebook, has now had recurrences after a long time of being in remission ? Whatever it was, something made me decide to promptly sit down with a strong cup of coffee, just an hour or so after dropping off my son at school, and turn towards this blog. I've written many times before about the sinking feeling that often accompanies the news that someone who you wouldn't recognise if you passed them on a deserted street has just died from the very same disease that you can now call your own. Apart from the feeling of sadness for their family, children and friends there lurks too the sombre voice of one of my doctors during a past consultation when a scan showed positive (read negative if you're the one sitting in a doctor's chair waiting for the results) that always comes back to haunt me - 'one day you're going to run out of drugs'. This rather insensitive but succinct sentence (no, I can't believe she actually said that either... but apparently she did feel guilty after saying it) always reminds me that perhaps the waves of grief and numbness that I feel might one day be directed to my own situation. A death from metastatic breast cancer shouldn't be a shock. For those of us who are lucky enough at the moment to be living a 'normal' life, it can be an abrupt reminder of how quickly things can change. It is also, if I really want to be melancholic, a stern reality check that warns me never to get too complacent about the here and now, just yet.

Just as I was thinking of returning to post another musing on life five years later, I happened to watch The C- Word last night on BBC Iplayer. This was a one-off drama based on the book of the same name by the late Lisa Lynch. I never read the book but was a regular visitor to her blog and enjoyed her bittersweet and witty take on living with cancer. She was around ten years younger than me and while I admired her sunny and often hilarious view of everything from her portrayal of her doctors to the gruesome after-effects of chemo, I admit to being too immersed in resentment and fear at the time to relate fully to what she so articulately wrote. Sometimes I would read both Lisa and Lisa's blogs and wonder how they could be so open about everything. In my traditional West Indian family we had secrets about secrets. It's surprising that we grew up remembering our own names. I watched the programme last night already knowing the story but interested to see how secondary breast cancer was going to be portrayed on mainstream TV. And it was surprisingly good and it made me overwhelmingly sad. For not only did I recognise the tidal wave of complex emotions that you are forced to deal with in a relatively short space of time, it reminded me how important it was and still is for us mets ladies (the ones that people are never quite sure what to say to) to continue blogging and sharing our views about what it is to live with this horrible disease, and how much it helps to others to hear.

I didn't plan to preach my way back to this blog, but perhaps after reading some of the tweets following the death of Lisa Bonchek Adams and re-reading some of Lisa Lynch's blog, let's just say I'm feeling more than a little humbled.

On the treatment front, I'm still on the zometa bone juice which I get every month by IV infusion and then there are the daily letrozole tablets as well as the three monthly zoladex injections. My son, whose speech and communication difficulties continue is now being evaluated again by a paediatrician so we will just have to watch this space. And... I have another scan coming up but since as well as being brought up to be reserved, I am also wildly superstitious (still can't walk under a ladder or throw away the last piece of bread without wetting it first), let's just say that I will be tentatively crossing that bridge when I come to it.

High Five

Last month, my four year old son celebrated his fifth birthday. We threw a party in his local sports centre to celebrate the event. For weeks the preparation consumed our waking hours. We planned and worried about numbers, whether we should invite children from his school or past nursery, how many family members should come, and if, after all the effort and sweat and tears, our little bundle of energy would love or loathe his special day ? At times we wondered why we were even throwing a party. Maybe he was still young enough not to have any expectations ? We had sneakily managed to get away without throwing a party for the last three years, why break the habit now ?

But as any parent will tell you, there is something special about the number five. In children, it signals the end of the baby and toddler years. No longer can I call my son a toddler or a pre-schooler. I can't smile adoringly any more at strangers when he throws down the mother of all tantrums in my local supermarket, or shrieks his head off on the bus. From now on he'll be seen as a child not an infant. In short, he's reached a milestone birthday.

In the world of some cancers, the fifth year is also a milestone. It's the time when you can take a sharp intake of breath and tell yourself that if the statistics are correct, you've managed to beat the disease and can now possibly look forward to a long and healthy life. I'm not actually sure which cancer this applies to since I've only ever heard about the legendary 'all-clear' in films and on TV. And we know that breast cancer doesn't easily fit in any category. But still, there is something magical about reaching year five with any metastatic cancer. Not only have I managed to beat a retrospective statistic which gave me on average a survival period of two years, I have remained healthy and have had the luxury of being able to live a normal, stressed-out life; just like everyone else.

A few weeks ago, I sat in the clinic of the same hospital in London where I come every three months to find out if I am still in remission. It's never easy being able to casually while away the hours when I see others being wheeled into the room in wheelchairs, adjusting their nylon scarves that cling stubbornly to their balding scalps. It is never easy to watch women younger than me walking with a stick or being helped into their seats by their husbands. But this time round, there was much to smile about. A day after my 46th birthday, I sat in a chair in the office of my consultant (who I've known for so long now that whenever we meet, we exchange info on the progress of our children) as she happily gave me another good scan result. With almost tears in her eyes she recounted her experience at a conference recently where she used me as an example of a 'thriving' patient. I tell her that I often feel tired and fatigued, not thriving - but happy to remain on the medication regardless of the side-effects, for as long as I can. I almost hug her as I leave.

Five years of doctors' appointments, treatments, drug prescriptions, injections, vitamin supplements and the occasional bouts of anxiety as I mentally drift between the time zones of past, present and future. It's certainly been one mother of a roller coaster of a journey. Here's to the next five.

A Journey Through Time

Well, hello.

I'm not quite sure how to begin this post since it's been so very long since I last dropped by. As you can imagine, a lot of things have happened. I've tried many times to reconnect with my pre-work, pre-preschooler, cancerland life by blogging again to keep you all updated, but as any busy working mother will tell you, there are some things that you just have to put on hold until you're able to steal enough precious time and energy from another activity to do them. Since it's been so very long (a year and almost a month ! I know, the shame, the shame...) since I last put fingers to keyboard, I feel that it's only right to give you a brief synopsis of my 2014 life in a nutshell.

Before I start, I must emphasise that I don't expect anyone to be hanging out in the blogosphere, eagerly awaiting my words of wisdom and enlightenment. I originally started this blog purely for selfish reasons, to a) find a good looking afro wig, and b) to offload a lot of shitty feelings that I was holding in as a result of having been given the worst possible diagnosis of my entire life. The fact that I received so many lovely comments and feedback as a result, has only ever been a bonus and I feel eternally grateful to those of you who were kind enough to constantly remind me through the hell of chemotherapy, radiotherapy, surgery and trauma of receiving a metastatic breast cancer diagnosis, that I wasn't alone.

But 2014 was a good year. Firstly, I remained cancer-free; that means no Big C in two thousand and fourteen ! I recall at least three scanxiety moments that were generously spaced out enough throughout the year for me to forget the nail-biting experience within a month of receiving a positive negative result. I would often think about posting just before my results was due, but would worry too much about jinxing the outcome. Then I'd think about posting after the dreaded experience but would then be too relieved and in need of a large glass of house red to sit dutifully in front of a computer describing my feelings. But I've always maintained that anyone who blogs about the process of living with cancer, should blog about the good days, as well the bad - since it's the bad days that usually make us feel lousy and low enough to want our share our feelings; when the going is good, we often want to run the other way.

Secondly, another reason for my late return is that I've been working. Damn hard. I have covered a maternity leave role, moved up to four days a week and attempted juggling an extremely busy, demanding job with trying to encourage my four year old son to speak (he has some communication issues). The demands of the job almost killed me (now that would be ironic) and at times I wondered if I was submitting myself to some form of punishment. Perhaps I felt guilty for still being alive when other weren't. I don't know many other mets ladies whose new 'normal' (in terms of work/life balance) is more hardcore than their old life. From the many accounts that I've read online, most women give up work, happy to devote spending the rest of their lives hanging out with friends and family. But not me. Work for me equals normality. And while I'm busy being normal, I'm not busy thinking of cancer. So all things cancer-related tend to take a backseat, including dear reader, this blog.

But, if truth be known, I've missed this blog. I miss it every time I hear that someone that I've met as a consequence of having this disease, has passed away. The feelings of shock and helplessness and complete and utter sadness never gets any easier and I often find myself wanting to run to a place where other people understand these feelings, which are kept hidden away for self-preservation, and away from normal life.

I won't go into too much detail about my current treatment, which is fine and I'm coping well despite being on hormonal drugs that give me hot flushes and fatigue, but it's do-able and manageable so I'm not complaining. So let's just say that that's it for now. After a year away, I realise that there's a lot of catching up to do. But since one of my many resolutions for 2014 is to focus on the journey rather than the destination, I want to be the first to acknowledge that these things take time.

The Joy of Being Average...

It's Christmas night. The toddler (who is fast turning into a highly spirited pre-schooler) is fast asleep, clutching a toy dragon and recovering from an over-stimulation of chocolate, wrapping paper and an abundance of interactive toys. His father and grandmother are asleep too. I'm slumped in front of the TV, watching yet another re-run of Love Actually (can they really not find anything else put on at this time of year ?), having stuffed myself with a huge christmas dinner, followed by a few glasses of prosecco and a handful of chocs. A few phone-calls have been made to distant, but close family members. We've even managed to skype my sister all the way in L.A. The fairy lights twinkle on the small tree which sits comfortably on the lounge table. It's just another average Christmas in a very average household, and one that will be echoed the world over. Some might call it boring and yearn for a change in routine. Me ? I've loved every minute of it. It's been an average Christmas that hasn't included having to take an abundance of drugs, or make trips to A & E in the early hours of the morn, or self-adminster injections to myself. The most pressing worry that I've had all day is the excessive amount of money that I've ended up spending on the finer things in life (like the delicacies in the local Sainsbury's) after hearing that my very refined sister and her equally refined husband were due to make an appearance at chez moi on the most stressful day in the culinary world. After filling my trolley with some of the most sumptuously fatty and sugary items that would scarcely make it past my front door even during one of my weaker moments, I set about trying hard to think of a menu that could incorporate my strict abstinence of everything but the bare nutritional necessities of the modern diet - namely fruit, veg, a few carbs and the odd bit of oily fish. It wasn't easy. I soon realised that not 'doing' dairy or sugar pretty much wipes out most of the average yuletide menu, and allowing yourself nothing but 85% dark chocolate and a few cashew nuts doesn't feel like much of a treat when everyone else is tucking into lemon tart and christmas pudding.

As it happened, my sister and her husband couldn't make it in the end. Something to do with having a heavy cold and needing to check up on an elderly in-law. Of course I was disappointed. It's not every day that I spend the equivalent of a month's shopping in one go (and to be honest, being something of a frugal spender when it comes to normal supermarket visits, I'm not sure that I really want to relive the experience again). The old pre-cancer me might well having ranted and raged about the injustice of having wasted so much money on food that I really had no intention of ever eating, the current me ? (I'd love to use the word 'post-cancer' in this instance, but being of superstitious extraction, I'm afraid that I might well jinx myself in the not-so-distant future). Let's just say that I took it with a pinch of salt turmeric, and instead was more than thankful that I had the luxury of being able to cook a meal without wondering whether my tastebuds would catch-up and be able to actually savour the flavours (anyone who's ever been on chemo will know what I'm talking about). Having been able to avoid chemo for a whole year has been fantastic, but having been cancer-free and in remission (otherwise known as the much coveted long-term fling with the beloved NED) for 365 days has well and truly been the icing on the cake.

Merry Christmas to each and everyone of you. Here's to many more average Christmases to come...

When Harry Met Sally...

The other day I bumped into someone who I hadn't seen for roughly two decades. He had been a student of film when I was studying English and we'd had mutual friends at a time in my life when partying and socialising seemed to be never-ending priority pursuits. I was coming out of the building where I work when he happened to be passing at the same time,

'Hello, remember me ?'

'Hi, yes of course I do ! How are you ?'

'I'm fine. And you ? You look really great ! I love your look !

Now to any other woman at any other time in her life this would be noted down as a great, no strike that, fabulous moment. An attractive man who you haven't seen for all of 20 years bumps into you and utters (before the usual 'so, what are you doing now ?') how good you look has to be the stuff of a Hollywood rom-com. At this point I feel obliged to state that although I'm already spoken for, at times it still feels great to get a compliment from a member of the opposite sex. Of course, there's always the possibility that it could have a double-edged meaning. Perhaps in my awkward 20-something days when I was so caught up in pursuing a career there's the chance that I may well have let my appearance slide at times. It was certainly a long time ago, but I don't remember ever caring too much about what the current weave trend was or whether I looked like the girl from the latest music video. I'm certainly not saying that I do now, but it's amazing what an unintentional hairstyle can do.

I thanked him, smiled sweetly and we carried on catching up. The rest of the conversation isn't that interesting to recall here but what struck me as important from this encounter was the fact that in no way did I give him the slightest impression that I had spent the last two years of my life dealing the one of the most devastating diseases known to man. If I had walked out of the door limping, I would have elicited more sympathy. Should I have honestly told him how rough the last couple of years had been ? Wouldn't it have been more honest of me to tell him about the experience of chemo, radiotherapy and surgery while looking after a child who was barely a year old ? Should I have done by bit for the cause by explaining exactly what metastatic breast cancer is and why I'm still able to function despite the loaded sound of the illness ?

I guess I'm either a pollyanna type or a coward or maybe I just didn't want to scare him away but I firmly said nowt. Not one sniff of the C-word. It just didn't seem appropriate and I guess I was reluctant to burst the bubble of joy and surprise that comes with re-aquainting yourself with someone that you haven't seen for a while. I found it much more pleasurable to talk about the experience of having a child for the first time, or speculating what other long-lost friends might be up to or sharing gossip and titbits about other mutual friends who I sadly don't connect with any longer. Stepping out of my persona of the successful, career-minded 40-something working mother and into the role of chronic cancer patient just didn't seem that appealing and for once in a long time, since I didn't happen to be experiencing any tell-tale side-effects from the treatment on that particular day, I had the luxury of being able to choose which person I wanted to be.

As we parted after a big hug and promise that we'll search for each other on Facebook (where else ? gone are the days when folk would exchange telephone numbers but then never get round to ringing...) I walked away with the thought that my life is well and truly surreal at times. Why is it more acceptable to talk endlessly about having a stinking cold or the fact that I almost broke a bone in my foot while on holiday, yet speaking at length about an illness that affects one in three us in our lifetime still has the power to halt a conversation in its tracks ? Believe me, I have tried it in the past, thinking that it was far better to be brave about my 'coming out about the Big C' then hide it under a bushell. But the response has always the same - a sharp intake of breath, followed by something, anything that might fill the uncomfortable gap in conversation, usually followed by a hasty retreat. Just before I continue, I have to admit that I'm probably no better. Seeing a colleague recently wander over to my desk to say hello after having spent months off sick from having a stroke, found me in a similar position of not knowing quite what to say. I felt ashamed of myself as I fished for words that might trigger a joke and finally realised what it is that makes others so tongue-tied. Human beings aren't necessarily programmed to cope with new or difficult experiences if they've had no prior warning of them. Sometimes flight seems to like an easier option when faced with the question of your or someone else's mortality.

In a way I guess that I'm lucky that my close crop gets such a seal of approval and it was great to talk about my life without for once having to factor in the cancer bits. But I wonder how the conversation might have gone if I was having one of my bad days ?

Is All Cancer Metastatic ?

So October 13th, 2013 was Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day. Were you aware of this ? Nope, me neither. I heard barely a whisper about the date on UK radio or TV. Actually, I'm lying. Having more than just a passing interest in the subject, I'm aware that buried somewhere within the mountain of pink ribbon paraphernalia is an awareness day that doesn't sit easily with the media. It doesn't have the feel-good-triumph-over-tragedy story of its younger early-stage sister. Metastatic breast cancer day rather ambitiously aims are to inform the general public about the realities of living with an incurable but often treatable disease. Only there's a problem with the branding. How do you make something that's 'incurable' but treatable sound anything less than 'terminal' ? And terminal can only mean one thing when seen in newsprint - that short-cut rat-run to the pearly gates (or the furnace depending on how good/bad you happened to have been in your past life). The problem with metastatic breast cancer is that even though, by virtue of the fact that you're still alive and kicking, you're showing the world that you truly are surviving, you will never get to that day when you can say that you're a survivor. As anyone who has lived from scan to scan will attest, the ok months sandwiched in between feel more like a reprieve than a remission. When I was diagnosed with primary breast cancer, I lived for the day when the treatment was over and I could get back to 'reality'. Only once I was there, I realised that this state of nirvana doesn't really exist. And once I was away from the drugs and the doctors and the hospitals and the drains, in my head I never really felt that I had truly managed to take the exit train out of Cancerland forever. Despite the hormonal treatments, the zometa infusions, the nightly sweats which keep me awake at night and the hot flushes that make me fuzzy-headed during the day, on the outside I look like the same old person, albeit with much less hair. And because of this, sometimes it's hard to talk about my illness. I either get the head cocked to one side pity face of here's-a-woman-who-will-never-live-to-see-her-son-grow-up or better still, 'so, when are you going to get the all-clear ?' All cancer survivors live in a constant state of limbo. We're encouraged to get on with our lives and live for the moment and other nonsense cliches, while at the same time trying desperately hard to keep keep everything as normal as possible when the future seems so uncertain. Perhaps in order to truly raise awareness we should do away with the differences between metastatic and primary breast cancer and just change the way that we view cancer in general. As Susan Love articulates in her article, 'All Cancer is Metastatic', perhaps the differences between the two types of cancer are not really that different at all.

And About Time Too...

Do I really have a good excuse for neglecting this former lifeline of mine for all of seven months ? In fairness, I have on many occasions thought about dropping by, if only to reassure you all out there (if you truly are still there after all this time...) that I'm still here rather than having crossed over to 'there' and I'm hoping things will stay this way for a long time to come. But, like trying to rekindle a friendship long after you've lost touch with your former friend, it hasn't been easy trying to find an in-road back to blogging. Firstly, I'm tired. A combination of part-time work, part-time childcare and full-time attention given to making sure that I take my letrozole tablet every day, get my zoladex and zometa shots every couple of months and generally try to stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible has left me pretty much exhausted with little or no energy for the more fun things in life, like writing. Secondly, I've been scared. No, not scared, terrified. Why ? Well every time i've tried to revive this beloved blog, I find my fingers as well as my mind wandering about the current status of other fellow bloggers who were feverishly posting updates at around the same time as me. Curiosity would get the better of me and I'd end up nosing around the site of another metster only to find - shock, horror and complete and utter sadness... that they've recently passed away. It is not possible to try to explain how the death of someone who you have never met nor have any real connection to can affect you in such a way that you find yourself feeling devastated, but it always seems to have this effect on me. Partly because of this, I've stayed away not quite knowing whether I should post about the demise of women who began their blogs with such gusto and humour while bravely (and I do not use this word lightly even though I know how many of my fellow cancer patients hate this terminology) being able to joke in the face of a serious illness. Or more admirably, willing to reveal their most innermost feelings to a complete bunch of strangers.

But this year has been more than good to me. While my almost four year old son who has the energy of a little puppy might steal away most of my energy, my scans have been great, fantastic with that much coveted status of NED bestowed upon me ever since I began the hormone combo of zoladex and letrozole at the beginning of this year. I hate to jinx things by even uttering or ruminating on these words so let's quickly move on and be thankful that for now, the drugs are working. I'm also thankful that I've been able to do a lot of one of my favourite pastimes - travelling. To Canada in May and more recently to Spain, and in a month's time to the beautifully picturesque city of Lucca in Italy (see above), to attend a photo-festival. Right now I know that I'm in a pretty good place. It's almost tempting to turn my back on Cancerland and its community and like Lot's wife, try my damndest not to look back. But metastatic breast cancer has very few pin-up girls. And while I'm not proposing to take up the mantle and represent a whole community, I do feel that it's important to write when things are going good; not just when they're going from worrying to worse. Reading my previous post, I realise that the last challenge I set myself was the super-ambitious task of eating 10 portions of fruit and veg a day. This, I have to ashamedly admit seems to have fallen by the wayside, since with a fast growing toddler comes a steadily growing number of kiddies birthday parties - usually complete with sugar-laden cake and crisps, which I've discovered I'm more than partial to. So instead of trying to be supermum and super-healthy cancer patient... I'm trying to settle for 'good enough' on both counts right now, which seems to suit me and my weakness for dark chocolate and red wine just fine. And just before I go, just in case you're wondering... I still haven't found that elusive afro wig. But my low maintenance, extremely low (which some might call shaved) hairstyle is still around and judging by the number of compliments that I still receive almost three years later, I'm in no great hurry to part with it for now. Cx

Giving it up for Lent...

With Easter fast approaching, I've been spending a lot of time wondering what I should give up for Lent. This isn't exactly a regular thing for me to do. In fact, in my old pre-baby, pre-cancer, pre-juggling world, I was lucky if I knew the exact date for Good Friday, such was my lack of forward planning and organisation. Now, in my bid to be not only the best supermum there is, but also the most productive and efficient supermetastatic breast cancer patient around, my iphone is now filled with beeps and reminders of appointments and nursery dates. Is this such a good thing to have one's life ruled by a small but chunky piece of glass and gadgetry ? Only time will tell after we have finally forgotten how to actually 'speak' to each other. I envisage a world of texters not talkers in about ten years time, but that's just my own humble opinion... 

So back to Lent... this one is a tricky one. You see the problem is - I have no vices. With the revelation of my cancer diagnosis almost three years ago came a complete commitment to abstinence. No more spirits, shots or sangria, no more dairy, no more saturated fats, hardly any sugar, no more being a couch potato, no more wearing of paraben filled cosmetics, no more barbecued food... I could go on and on. It ain't easy not having a wild side any longer. I know that parenthood often puts an end to the free and easy teenage lifestyle that we often continue to carry with us into our thirties and beyond. But somehow even after the birth of my son, I wasn't quite ready to hang up my dancing shoes just yet and would occasionally sneak off to a music festival or girls' night out just to remember what it was like to feel well and truly free again. But with abstinence I have found, comes a swift descent into middle age.

At work, I have often found myself repeating a mantra that I read in some book about green juices - to the woman who is known for necking a few pints every night after work. I will then tell someone else exactly why you shouldn't take antibiotics too regularly (because your body builds up resistance to them and they destroy the good bacteria in your gut - just in case you were curious to know...). In other words I've become well and truly - boring. And nerdy. And old. At nights, just before I slip off into slumberland, I will sometimes remember that girl who danced the night away until the following morning and got well and truly plastered on way too much red wine and find myself wondering whether she'll ever come back into my life again. Or did the chemo and the radiation and the herceptin all do enough to send her packing ?

So this year, just to change things up a bit, I've decided to give up something and the thing that i've decided to give up is... my choice of food. Stay with me on this one. I've decided to try to eat ten portions of fruit and veg every day, which means that I'm giving myself less choice as to what to eat each day. I'm doing this because I've read that a diet rich in plant foods gives your immune system one hell of a kick up the arse and since things are currently back on with NED (no evidence of disease to you newcomers) once more, I'm determined for it to stay that way. I've also read that apparently here in the UK we eat far too few portions of the green and yellow and red ones - a govt guideline suggests five portions a day, but that's only because they don't think we'll eat any more than this. Across the channel in France, it's more like ten, in the US the national cancer society suggest five to nine for cancer patients. My challenge is to try to find a creative way to ingest all ten of the these cancer-fighting foods. It might not be very rock n' roll but if it gets me back on the road with NED once more, I'll happily save the partying and good times til I'm well and truly back on that train out of Cancerland - even if might not be forever. I'll let you know how it goes...

Reality Bites...

Firstly, even though a visit to this poor neglected blog has been long overdue, I'd like to wish you all a very belated happy new year. Yes, I know that we're almost in March already. Yes I know. And for all I really know, I could well be addressing an audience of only, well, er myself. But the beauty of the blogosphere is never knowing whether you're really writing posts to ease some discomfort or tension within yourself or possibly touching the heart and soul of a stranger thousands of miles away.  So even though I may no longer have an audience, let us pretend for this moment that I do. Since my last visit I have been through Christmas (way too much cake and turkey) and a new year that saw me temporarily become a single mom for a month while my partner worked his way through each state of America photographing people and places there. Oh, and I had a scan. I don't use this word lightly. My bouts of scananxiety have been well documented in the past. But the preparation of a scan, when i know that I'll have to mentally and physically prepare my body to receive possibly the worst news of the year so far, never gets easier. My heart still palpitates and my imagination runs wild. Fight or flight is what they called it when we were roaming the savannahs. Only this time there's nowhere to run to.

This time round things were more complex. After a failed attempt which happened to take place on my birthday, I finally got a scan. Previous to this, I was told that the clinic didn't have a referral letter from my doctor and I had approximately ten minutes to get them to fax it over or that nasty radioactive stuff that they pump into you to see where those sneaky c-cells might be hiding out, would run out. Well, as you can imagine, I perspired my way through the next few minutes, desperately trying to contact someone, anyone, who could help. When the letter finally arrived... it wasn't enough for them to go on and I left the clinic a shaken and traumatised woman who had abstained from a hearty breakfast (rules is rules) and was now badly in need of some caffeine. My birthday, on a lighter note, went swimmingly well. I celebrated all 44 years (which felt more like 24) on this planet with my two favourite human beings. We had lunch, an exhibition, cocktails (juice for the toddler !) and cake and then it was back home for a warming meal and a night in front of the telly. Bliss !  The following night I threw on a little red dress, met a couple of friends and went to a private members' club for dinner. We all drank far too much wine and spent way too much money and it felt great.

But back to the scan. After a few nights of imagining the very worst case scenarios and thinking that every ache and pain that I felt in my needle punctured body was indeed a recurrence, i was surprised - no absolutely quietly ecstatic - to find out that the scan was a good one. No change since the last scan (which is good news, believe me) and some of the possible areas of concern (like the suspicious spot that had previously lit up in my lung - which turned out to be a mild case of pneumonia) had resolved itself. How does it feel to be so relieved that you can't quite bring yourself to celebrate ? Well, it wasn't so hard to force myself to guzzle down a glass of the finest red wine I could find. Nor was it hard to eat the gooey slab of chocolate cake that evening that a colleague had given me at work. So, it was a reprieve for another three months until I have to face it all over again. The new normal of being a metastatic breast cancer patient should be renamed 'the new surreal'. It would be a hell of a lot more honest and even though this term might sound like a new catwalk trend, well you never know, it just might catch on.

Season's Greetings !

Not much time to write a real post with me currently awaiting a lift from my cousin to see my folks in Bristol and all... but just wanted to wish each and everyone of you a very Merry Xmas. Thanks for stopping by my blog this year whether it's your first time or you're a regular reader. Writing during treatment has been extremely therapeutic for me and I hope that some of the information and opinions that I throw out there have helped in some way. My big tips for 2013 are Vitamin D, Vitamin D and even more Vitamin D - but more about that later on. If you've been newly diagnosed with cancer, after your friends and family, the second most important thing to have in your life is Hope. And lots of yummy dark chocolate...

2013 is a brand new year and I hope that it will be a better one for all of us.

Peace and Love,

Cx

Not Waving, But Drowning...

Apologies for being away for so long. Remembering to update this blog has most certainly been on my mind. But, like my desire for time travel and tele-transportation, I have not yet found a way of extending a 24 hour day into a 48 one.  I'm learning that 'having it all' (which I secretly think is just another way of society making women feel as though they can actually juggle work and childcare without heading for a nervous breakdown) really is possible - just as long as you don't mind missing a substantial chunk of that precious commodity called sleep every now and again.

So where do I start ?  Well, the good news (and I'm pleased to report that at this very moment in time I'm able to use this word generously) is that my last scan result showed 'no significant change', which I'm told is not just a good thing, but a great one. OK, so things might still be a little complicated between Ned and I but the radiotherapy that I reluctantly signed up for a few months back seems to have worked, there are no other areas of concern so, at least for another three months, I really should be throwing backflips and enjoying the result while I still can. And I guess I did in a less physical way which involved copious amounts of red wine and cake with lots of sugary icing on the top. But the problem is, even though my body hasn't found a way of transporting my good self into the future, my mind certainly has. Even though I really should be 'living in the moment' and rejoicing in my good fortune, however long it may last, I find myself instead feeling more concerned about when it might end. So even though I haven't quite made it back to my meditation classes just yet, a dose of the old mindfulness might just be what the Yogi ordered.

But there's also another reason for me being strangely absent for so long. Unfortunately I have heard in the last two months two lots of bad news. Two deaths have happened since I last booked in, two deaths of two women; two mothers who had the same disease as me. I knew neither that well but enough to feel a wave of sadness, anxiety and guilt all at the same time. Both women looked 'so well' when I last saw them. So well that I had no idea that it would be the last conversation that we'd ever have when I spoke to them. And for this I feel guilty that I've spent so long feeling pre-occupied with my own thoughts and fears that I missed the chance to help someone else. I also learned how easy it is to simultaneously feel sadness and selfishness (will I be next ?). Yes I may have grieved for both women on those days but if I dig deep within that grief, I'm sure that I'll find myself somewhere, hoping and praying that I won't be next.

A few posts back, I talked about the experience of metastatic breast cancer feeling more like hurdles than a marathon. Only what I failed to realise is that the bar keeps getting higher. Just as you've cleared one hurdle and you're running on solid ground once more, enjoying the wind in your air, the feeling of freedom, seeing your friends and family smiling at you in the audience, you're faced with another hurdle, a higher one this time, and once again you wonder how you might ever clear the bar without touching it, or falling over. But you can't stop because they won't let you. You must keep running, even though you may be tired and angry and bored of having to stay on that track and clear that next bar. Because the funny thing is, even though you might look like the finest endurance athlete while you're out there running and jumping for your life, you know that the reality is, you really have no other choice.

The C-Factor...

After my last post I kind of promised myself that the next time I dropped by, I would write an entry that didn't contain the word [hushed whisper] 'cancer'. I guess it might seem strange that I would choose to do this given my current diagnosis, but in the real world it's not like I spend my days waxing lyrical about cannulas and chemo. In fact, to see me going about my day-to-day life - which involves rushing from home-to-work-to-playgroup-to-john lewis (there's nowhere like John Lewis for a bit of toddler retail therapy), you'd never think that I'm juggling all this with treatment for a life-threatening disease. At work, the only time I ever mention the word is when we're running a feature about someone else who has it; and then you can't shut me up. Call me arrogant, but I figure that since the last two years have seen me pore over the internet for hopeful news about metastatic breast cancer (which has also enabled me to pick up snippets of news about other types of cancer) when it comes to the C-word, I'm fast turning into an amateur pro. Such is my knowledge of the disease that if they ever invent a cancer trivia version of 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire', like the protagonist in Slum Dog Millionaire, I'll be that person in the hot seat, feverishly using up my 'dial-a-friend' options to sneakily call my oncologist. 

But if I'm not talking about cancer I hear your subconscious mentally pondering, what's the point of my posting to this blog ?  Well, don't forget that I only started this blog because I couldn't find a decent wig and thought that by spreading the word that there was a shortage of realistic afro wigs in London, some kind soul might take pity on me and donate one. But since then, I've moved on. Firstly (and I never thought I'd reach the day when I would ever say this) I'm not that bothered about finding a wig any longer, not because I don't miss my 'I'll curl-any-which-way-I-feel-like curls, but I guess after a year and a half of having a closely cropped barely there hairstyle, I realise that I actually prefer it. It fits perfectly with my new post-baby life; the one where I never have more than five minutes to myself on a daily basis. It also looks like I chose it rather than 'it' chose me, which was obviously not the case. In a nutshell, it's low maintenance even when I'm close to having a high maintenance moment (usually induced by work, toddler, cancer treatment or a combination of all three) and judging by the comments I've received from friends, colleagues and even complete strangers - it suits me. So while for the second time I'm uttering something that I never ever thought I'd say - thank you chemo chemicals, for giving me a hairstyle that works without me having to 'work it'. If I hadn't had to sample your deadly cocktail of toxicity, I never would have had the courage to shave my head. I also would never have realised how cheap it is to get my head shaved - £7 at my local barber's !!! So for that, and for that only - I salute you. But this is where the accolade ends. Let's not forget what havoc you wreaked on my nails, skin and tastebuds. Because I certainly never will. 

But before I go, not wanting to disappoint the cancer crowd out there, here's a quick catch-up of my bout with the big C. At this moment in time, after three weeks of radiotherapy (and a lovely break in Mallorca), I've just started my three monthly injections of zoladex; a hormone treatment that acts by shutting down my ovaries with the hope of starving the cancer cells of oestrogen. In a month's time I'll add the oral tablet letrozole which does a similar thing, but in a different way (told you I was only an amateur pro, if you need a more detailed description, I'll give you the number of my onc). Psychologically speaking, I feel ok. Apart from a bit of a meltdown which involved a slightly aggressive cross-examination of a young doctor I spoke to at my last appointment (I've not quite managed to get over the fact that a more belt-and-braces approach to my cancer the first time around, might well have avoided my current incurable diagnosis), I'm actually doing alright. Since there are only so many hours in the day, the meditation classes have unfortunately been put on hold. But if there's one lesson that I've taken from my brief flirtation with mindfulness it's this; every night before I enter that impenetrable world of slumber, I think of all the beautiful moments that I've experienced that day. It could be a brief spell of sunshine, a funny or interesting conversation, a lovely walk through an area that I rarely visit, or a delicious meal that I've had the pleasure of eating. It's called gratitude - feeling grateful for the little things that happen instead of worrying about the big things that might. Easier said than done I admit, and for an old cynic like me, it often involves me ignoring the more rational part of my mind. But so far I'm pleasantly surprised to say, I fall asleep much easier than I used to. So far it seems to be working. 

Toxic Shock Syndrome...

As usual I'm slacking. I'm writing this while trying extremely hard not to look at the calendar on my laptop which might reveal just how many months it has been since I last visited this blog. Excuses ?  I have many. Three weeks of radiotherapy before a super swift jaunt to not just one, but two European countries to recover, I think might explain the reason why I've been so incommunicado throughout most of September.

Because you see, throughout most of August when most of you were enjoying the warm rays of summer sun, I have woken up at the crack of dawn, hauled my heavy, sleep saturated body into the shower and left the house at the speed of a doormouse. I have travelled to Harley Street, where I have got myself half-undressed, lain on an uncomfortable steel-framed bed and allowed radiation rays, better known as photons, to course their way through my body. I have then hauled myself up, still bleary-eyed to work, to sit in front of a computer all day and drink cappuccino. And to top it all, as much as I try to view radiation, you know that radioactive matter that people run away from during an atomic explosion or fall-out (see Japanese Tsunami in Wikipedia for more info) as curative, I am a child of the seventies. Radiation to me translates to CND (Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament for all you 20-somethings who missed this fine period of political history), it translates to Greenham Common women; long, flaxen-haired white women being forcibly carried out of fields by the Police, and lots and lots of t-shirts with that peace symbol. It never did, and certainly doesn't now, ever make me think of radiation as a 'treatment' as the doctors call it. But at the same time, I guess I should be grateful that there is still something to offer me.

But let's not get maudlin. After three swift ones (weeks I mean, not units of alcohol), I decided to treat myself and partner and toddler A to a trip to Mallorca, that most beautiful island in the Mediterranean. I had imagined myself for weeks sat in the sunshine with only a cocktail to distract me, watching the sun sparkle on the crystalline waters of the Mediterranean sea... I even brought along that book. Yes, that one. All fifty shades of it, as a way of raising two (or three depending on your sexual preferences) fingers to cancer as if to say, 'yes I still have a sex life you bastard, even if I'm a boob and sternum lighter as a result of your 'dropping in' on me'. Instead what I got was a trip with a toddler who suddenly learned how to throw the most hummungus of tantrums. Not just the odd cry and sniffle that I saw in his more well-behaved German counterparts. No, these ones demanded that we be in a public place, somewhere like a quiet, crowded restaurant was ideal. And they usually came around the time of  'la hora de comer' - or in plain english; lunchtime. Not the most relaxing way to enjoy your holiday but you know what they say, 'patience is a virtue'. And once you've spent the last two years on and off chemo, waiting desperately for the time when you won't have to take a medicine shelf full of drugs again, being able to wait patiently for your toddler to finish his excrutiatingly embarassing toddler tantrum so that you can carry on sipping red wine and eating olives on the terrace, suddenly begins to feel very tolerable indeed...

Waiting To Exhale...

Trying to update your blog after having been away for so long is a bit like bumping into an old school friend and not knowing quite what to say. It's not that I don't have much to tell you. The truth is, I have too much to say. I'm just not sure where to begin. Do I start with the episode at A & E (Accidents and Emergencies for all you non-UK folk who might have dropped in) a few months ago, just before I was due to fly out to Madrid, which ended up with me lying on a hospital bed at 4 in the morning connected to a drip of antibiotics ?  Or perhaps I could wax lyrical about my (joy of joys !) imminent holiday plans and the sartorial problems that face me finding a bikini that accommodates the tell-tale signs of both a mastectomy and a sternectomy ? (I'm sure there's a second career awaiting me somewhere as a swimwear designer...)

Maybe I need to begin with the here and now. Because right here and right now, my dear, dear reader,  I am currently taking a journey back into Cancerland once more. My destination is unknown but I'm hoping that it won't be a one-way ticket just yet. A recent scan showed a new tumour (or as one of my oncs likes to politely and eloquently put it, 'an increased uptake in one of the mammary nodes', so it's no more capecitabine and lapatinib - two low-key drugs that I thought I could be on for a very long time. It's hello radiation radiotherapy for the next two weeks. As I keep telling myself, things could be worse. Oh I know, they could be much worse. But sadly, it doesn't make things any easier. You see, although I've managed to catch every virus and bug that my 2 year old tot cares to carry home from nursery, I was somehow managing to kid myself that what I had was a chronic disease, not a terminal one which would eventually kill me. Call me naive, but I was hoping to be one of the metastatic chicks who proudly post about having been on one faithful treatment for the last ten years. I was hoping that my one-off love affair with NED would be more than a just a fling. I wasn't quite expecting another recurrence (my second in the space of a year) just yet.

But it is as it is. And after shedding a few tears and entering some very dark places over the last week where I contemplated not just my own demise but the effect that me not being around would have on my family, most of all my very young son, I picked myself up, brushed myself off, put the fighting gloves back on, and decided to enrol in... some meditation classes.

Why meditation ?  Well, I've tried everything else - the juices, the turmeric, the acupuncture, the aspirin, the fruit and veg, the chinese mushrooms. I've done my oncology homework and have read up on the treatments on offer. I've tried yoga, pilates and running. I've done the rational and the physical but not the spiritual. And the truth is, I'm stressed. So this week, after wisely booking a week off from work, I try out two classes at the local Buddhist centre. The location is a beautiful old church and once you're inside it feels like you're a million miles away from the busyness of London life. The classes are held by a buddhist couple and we are taught how to listen to our breathing and relax our bodies. It sounds like easy stuff but as everyone who's ever tried it knows, it's damn hard to empty your mind when you're constantly being bombarded with niggling thoughts and worries. I try and it works for a short time, but I find myself thinking of that lovely pair of shoes that I very nearly bought when I should be relaxing my toes and heels. When we're told to focus our minds on our stomachs, I start to think of the ingredients of the stir-fry that I'll be tucking into later that evening. Perhaps I'm just too practical to ever be a master of meditation but what I do discover, on returning home, is the effortlessness that I fall into a deep sleep once I'm in bed and my head hits the pillow. I continue concentrating on the breath and only thinking in the present. And do you know what ?  It actually works. I use the same approach when I'm lying on the radiotherapy bed waiting for the machine to zap me with photons. I'm told not to move and I almost fall asleep. So, even though unlimited amounts of meditation is very unlikely to cure me, I'm hoping that it will make my everyday life a bit easier to cope with. And it's a damn sight cheaper than a pair of Kurt Geiger shoes.

Back To Life, Back To Reality...

Wow. Has it really been that long ? Over two months since I last posted ? Time does indeed fly, even when you're not altogether having fun. Don't worry, I'm not about to launch into a one woman diatribe about the difficulties of being a cancer victim patient. I haven't been absent due to any said state of depression or debilitating illness. I have just been very, very busy. Busy trying to be a model employee, busy with looking after an active toddler and busy, busy, busy trying to remember and co-ordinate my very many hospital appointments in the midst of this. So what have I been up to while I've been away ? Well firstly, there was the interview with my oncologist for a newspaper piece about the general state of the NHS, where I discovered that oncology (that being the field of cancer medicine) is very well protected (in that it affects so many of us). Then there was a very recent trip to Madrid to attend a photo-festival where I spent the night before the flight in an A& E department having more and more tests to make sure that I didn't have a life-threatening infection. In between these times there were tablets, and more tablets, a few bouts of the runny ones and lots of sleep-interrupted nights while toddler A got to grips with the many coughs and colds that he forever seems to pick up at his day nursery. And swiftly pass on to me.

Back in the days when I was a full-time, fully paid-up member of Cancerland, time took on a different meaning. I would sit at home, planning my schedule around a very needy baby wondering how well the rest of the world was coping without my presence. Now that I'm a fully fledged member of that world that I so desperately missed, my time seems to be no longer my own. My regular cycles of capecitabine and lapatinib are squeezed into an already demanding diary of events which includes a constant organisation of photo-shoots and deadlines and the effort to rebuild a social life. In between these times I spend my time worrying whether Toddler A is wearing enough clothes to nursery, whether he's warm enough ?  is he too cold, is he too ill to be at nursery ? Should I be working when I have such a young child to look after ?  Should I be working when I have cancer ? And on and on it goes until some other distracting thought comes along and shoves these parasites out of the way...

Despite the uncertainty of this shitty disease, I find myself more often than not imagining the future. When I'm feeling okay (and not experiencing the waves of fatigue which often plague me towards the end of my capecitabine cycle) I like to imagine that I still do have a future. One where I'm fit and healthy and ready to take on the world. One where I've recovered and am now better, not a woman with a chronic illness. One where I can imagine standing at my son's wedding wondering whether he's married the right girl. One where I'm me again, before the cancer, before the operation, before the drugs, and before the uncertainty. I'm happy to be back in the real world. Although it no longer has the reality that it once did and I find myself caring much less about what people really think of me, which I guess can only be a good thing. Shame I didn't have this dose of cancer-induced confidence to see me through my teenage years and beyond, but hey. On that note, I'll bid you farewell and hope that this sudden surge of energy will bring me back to this blog again soon. And next time I promise I won't leave it so long...

Scanxiety II - Getting Back Into The Game

The other day, on the eve of going into hospital to get the results of my long-awaited scan, I watched a programme about cancer. This might suggest that when most of you are spreadeagled on the sofa watching a re-run of Britain's Got Talent, I am desperately channel surfing in search of anything I might have missed about the big C.  Well, it's true. I had missed the original programme, and buoyed by the glowing reviews which talked about the leaps and strides being made in cancer research, I decided to investigate further. And the programme wasn't bad. It was upbeat, and positive and showed patients who had originally felt they'd had no hope but to get their affairs in order being given new treatments that did indeed seem to be working. Selfishly speaking though, I was disappointed to find out that most of the developments they chose to herald as 'breakthough', like Cyberknife (high dose radiotherapy dished out by a sci-fi looking robotic arm), I had already partaken of.  I also had no idea that little 'ole me was at the forefront of cancer research and that the pink pills that I swallow so religiously each day are seen as on the cutting edge of cancer technology. Wow, who knew eh ? Next time, maybe I might even volunteer my own toxin filled body for the benefit of increased TV ratings...

But I digress. Despite the overly simplistic 'I was sick and now I'm cured' tone, the good thing about the programme was the attitude of the patients at the Marsden Hospital. Some looked so relaxed that you'd have thought they were waiting for cough mixture. Even though everyone talked about how nerve-racking it was to await scan results, most of them seem to accept their condition with grace. None of them looked like me. They didn't have the anxious, drained, paranoid expression that seems to accompany me before, during and after each Pet/CT scan. They didn't look as if they experienced the nightmare 'what if' scenarios that assemble in my mind in the early hours of the morn when most of you are still sleeping. Instead of making me feel inadequate, I felt inspired by their dignity and vowed that on the day when I arrived at the hospital to hear news of my fate, that I too would have the courage to keep my composure.

But hey, this is real life and this is me that we're talking about. Unfortunately, I don't do dignified. Unfortunately, I just don't have the patience. As soon as I saw one of my team of doctors appear after only 5 minutes of me waiting (why did she appear so quickly ?) after the very brief how do you do's, I began to cross-examine her. 'Had she received my results ? what were they like ?  why not ?' I have to admit that I barely gave the woman time to return to her consulting room before I began firing questions at her like a prosecutor in court. She actually had no idea and went off to investigate further. Returning with a piece of paper, we went through the results. As she read out the findings to me, I realised that she may as well have been speaking a foreign language. There were lots of references to uptakes and FDAs ??? and non-Fdas and suchlike. So much so, that by the end, I was no wiser. Had my cancer returned ? was there no change or had my body improved ? She told me that it was a good result. My own consultant had just confirmed this, she said. I guess I was expecting to see a piece of paper with just four words written in the middle:  'NO EVIDENCE OF DISEASE'.

But, she reassured me that the scan was good. And while I sat outside waiting for a blood test, I was relieved to see my consultant walking down the corridor who also confirmed that the results were indeed good. There had been no significant changes, and as she was grinning from ear to ear while she said this which I can only take to interpret that to mean that it must be good news. So it seems as though  once again I live to fight another day. To be honest, I'm still not sure whether there is cancer in my body or not after reading those results, but if they're good enough for my doc, then they're good enough for me too. As I left the hospital, both smiling and shaken at the same time, I thought about a quote that I'd seen in a newspaper article about metastatic breast cancer. One woman described her primary diagnosis as a 'sprint' and her secondaries as a 'marathon'. But I disagree. To me, it's like hurdles. You jump over one, freestyle your way through life again and no sooner do things get back into rhythm, there's another hurdle waiting for you once more. But on that day - the day of my scan results, I made a toast to Life in all its weird, wonderful, worrisome, scary and surprising guises. I bought some red wine, coffee and teacakes to celebrate (bang goes my caffeine-free, sugar-free, alcohol-free diet again...) my leaping over another hurdle in my never-ending race to stay ahead of the game.

Ten Bad Foods That Are Good For You...

As is so often the case with bouts of inspiration, the frequency of my posts at the moment can be compared to waiting for a bus. You wait for ages for one to turn up, and when it finally appears, you get all three at the same time. I'm able to go for weeks without finding a reason to blog, and then when I finally drag my arse onto a chair and decide to start writing, I find that I can't stop. Nothing wrong with this I hear you say, I just wish inspiration came to me more like the slow, steady drip of a tap rather than the staccato gush of a shower that's been blocked up for months. Anyway, what's most important is not that I seem to be afflicted with occasional bouts of verbal diarrohea, but the fact that I'm trying to keep this blog up-to-date.

So while I have the energy, enthusiasm and good intention, how about another easy-on-the-brain top ten ?

Since I've spent the last couple of posts harping on about the virtues of a fat-free, sugar-less spartan diet, I think a list of bad foods that are actually good for you is a good place to start. I'm not sure I've got enough material for a full-blown top ten, but here goes...

1. Red Wine 
Where would we breast cancer ladies (and men) be without this holy grail of alcoholic drinks to fall back on when times get tough ? The great thing about reading about the abundance of antioxidants in red wine is that no-one ever really tells you how much is enough. One glass or two ? Or maybe half a bottle will do ? It seems as though we have a group of chemicals - namely polyphenols to thank for this guilt-free drinking. 'Moderate' drinking of the red stuff seems to guard against heart disease, cancer and a host of other chronic illnesses. Cabernet Sauvignon seems to be the grape of choice, but let's face it ladies, when you're at home suffering from your latest scanxiety attack, forget about the small print, any old bottle of red will do.

2. Chocolate 
Despite the fact that I spent my early formative years living opposite a sweet shop run by a woman so generous in girth that we affectionately nicknamed her 'fatso', I never really acquired a taste for the sweet stuff. On a good day, I'll always choose a savoury pasty over a sweet pastry. But since my journey into Cancerland, I've had time to reconsider. Dark chocolate (over 70% cocoa) is Mother Nature's way of giving us cancer patients a choco fix without having a guilty conscience afterwards. A medley of cancer-fighting antioxidants is the reasoning behind this. So a few squares a day can really keep the doctor away.

3. A Takeaway Curry from your local Indian Restaurant
O.k. I know I'm stretching it a bit on this one. Current research suggests that having a spoonful of not-so-tasty turmeric (the stuff that gives curries their characteristic yellow/orange colour) every day could halt the spread of breast cancer cells. Turmeric is poorly absorbed by the body so needs the presence of olive oil and black pepper to help things along. Here's where your favourite friday night takeaway comes in. Forget about the fat-laden ghee, the even fattier coconut milk, curry contains turmeric. Turmeric fights cancer. End of story. Now pass the Vindaloo.

4. Semen
Sorry, wishful thinking. Next !

5. Burger and Chips
Here's where I get creative. Don't think about that quarter pounder big mac with fries and mayo. Think of the wholesome veggie bean burger that you normally only chow down on at a hippie music festival or when there's no other choice around. Now add some leafy greens, a generous spoonful of hummus, a slice of tomato and a bit of avocado. Substitute the nasty ole regenerated potato chips for roasted sweet potato wedges... and congratulations ! You've just completed your five-a-day portions of fruit and veg. You still get to feast on a burger bun only you won't feel half as stuffed and soporific once you've finished eating and your body will be singing your praises until well, the next lot of sweet potato fries.

So there you go. Not the top ten that I'd originally hoped for but hey, it's Easter and I'm mentally on holiday. If you can think of any others, feel free to add to the list. And Happy Easter folks!