Shooting From The Hip...

After almost a week's sojourn in the lovely little Italian city of Lucca, I can wholeheartedly declare that I  have returned a new woman. While my stay sadly did not include gazing at the Tuscan valleys from the comfort of my hill-top villa, as is so often the case with the many British tourists who visit and then subsequently decide to live in this wealthy part of Italy, I still managed to enjoy this city by wandering through the medieval, cobbled streets, doing a great deal of window shopping and stopping off along the way to enjoy a quick espresso. While I was there, I was so busy taking in photography shows and food markets, that I scarcely had time to think about the devastating news that I'd received just the week before. And while the sword of Damocles once again seemed to be wavering precariously closer to my head, I could at least feel smug in the knowledge that even if it was for just one week, for once I had managed to outfox those bastard cancer cells - by booking a trip to a place so gorgeous and thoroughly historic in both architecture and mood, that sometimes, just sometimes, I could fool myself into thinking that I'd stepped back in time and that my new reality really, really wasn't happening to me. 

But I guess all dreams, no matter how real they might seem at the time, have to come to an end. So once again I'm back in the land of scans, referrals and blood tests. I've chosen this time to tell very few people about my recent diagnosis, mainly because I'm not really sure how to. The few friends that I've told have understandably enough, been concerned but hopeful for me. My family, of course feels the same way too. Maybe I'm just a bit worried about being written off. Perhaps deep down I'm hoping that when friends, acquaintances and colleagues see me out and about with my steadily growing hair and my (literally) juiced-up skin - they'll think how great it is that I've recovered - and I'll be taken seriously and welcomed back into the world once more. Perhaps I'm reluctant to be seen as the hopeless case. I'd rather be the survivor who triumphed over tragedy. But of course, things aren't quite so linear. Not where cancer's concerned anyway.

But everyone is keeping positive - positive in the hope that the next drugs will work much better and for a longer period of time. 'If I can't be cured' I told a friend over the phone the other day just after my return from Italy, 'I don't care what they have to do to me, as long as they keep me alive'. And this is I suppose, what they call the 'new normal'. When it becomes normal to say 'I have cancer in my body but I'm still alive' instead of 'I had cancer in my body and I've still survived'. It's amazing how quickly the mind can adapt when it's in crisis. So while I may have lapsed a bit on the no dairy, nearly no refined sugar, no coffee (I'm not even sure why I'm abstaining from this last guilty pleasure as Italy is most definitely not the best place to be when you're trying to abstain from cappuccinos), this week I'm mostly back in Cancerland together with the fresh juices, the turmeric and whatever else I can discover which might help me fight the adversary that I've yet to meet.

You see the difference between having primary or early-stage cancer (basically cancer that hasn't spread) and having metastatic breast cancer is how doctors treat you. Let's use the analogy of a gunfight. When you have primary cancer, the docs go in with guns-a-blazing, throwing the most aggressive treatments at your body in the hope of eradicating it of all disease. They draw, shoot and the opponent falls. And hopefully he doesn't get up. And you're free to get on with your life, however battered and bruised you might feel in the process. But when you're diagnosed with the metastatic version, the opponent becomes more like the psychotic rogue robot, Yul Brynner in the film, Westworld. You shoot, he falls. He gets up. You shoot again, He falls, He gets up. But the next time he looks a bit crazier; a bit more out of control. You might be determined for him to die, but he's just as determined to stay alive. The thing that I love about this film, is that in the end, James Brolin (the good guy) outfoxes him. He holds back on some of the ammo, he figures out a way of second-guessing the robot. He doesn't show all his cards at once. And what I've realised, is that this is exactly how oncologists treat metastatic cancer. Treatment becomes more like a poker game where the skill of the oncologist is not so much about getting rid of your cancer, but making sure that your cancer doesn't get rid of you. And if this means using a combination of drugs, surgery, radiotherapy and even drug holidays to keep you still breathing, then that becomes your treatment. But it certainly isn't a one size fits all. And this is what makes their job so difficult.

So for now, I'll remain in this surreal parallel world, the one that consists of talk of radiation on an area that seems scarily close to the nerves in my legs, the one that talks about taking chemotherapy tablets as if they're paracetamols, the one that gives me lots of statistics, but no real answers and the one that I live in while simultaneously juggling within the world of building blocks and nursery christmas plays and creative ways to get the little one to eat more fruit and veg. And then there's normal life. Or at least the normality that I see other folks living while I move, sometimes unsuccessfully between these two zones. The lives of others (at least the ones that I only see from the outside) seem so simple and straightforward. They go to work, they go home, they have hobbies, they complain about their partners, they complain about being single, they complain about their jobs, they complain about being broke. They live simple lives. And I envy them for this.

But I'm getting used to the fact that this seemingly never-ending round of doctors and scans and treatments is my new normal. Because it's no different to what other women with this disease are facing. And as I enter the 'living with' phase, perhaps instead of hoping that I'll see the light at the end of the tunnel, I should merely wish for a wide, open road. Because if I can stay on this road and move forward without really knowing where I'm going while still being able to enjoy the journey, then perhaps the destination no longer matters.  All that matters is that I stay on this road for as long as I possibly can.

The Good News About Bad News...

Even before my adventures into Cancerland, I've been a fan of hospital dramas. Perhaps this has more to do with the fact that my parents always wanted me to be a doctor (which has nothing to do with whether I was good or not at science, my parents just happen to be classic immigrants for whom the following chosen careers, doctor and lawyer, are the parental equivalent to winning the lottery). While watching Holby, or Casualty or Grey's Anatomy, I've often wondered whether it's better to hear the good or bad news first (that's assuming that there is always a silver lining after hearing the delivery of some terrible, life-threatening diagnosis).

And so it was that yesterday found me tense and sometimes on the verge of tears as I patiently waited in the chemo lounge for my doctor to arrive. I made a point just as I had done the day before when I was receiving my scan, of looking intently at the familiar faces of the nurses to see if they knew something that I didn't. I noted how the dietician, a girl that I'd never met before, came to ask me how my appetite was - a question that I don't think I've heard since I finished having chemo back in April. I immediately repeated this observation back to my partner who looked at me as if he thought that perhaps the cannula in which the herceptin was being adminstered had perhaps found a fast track vein to my brain, resulting in my current state of paranoia and delusion.

When my doctor turned up, it took a great deal of willpower and self-discipline to not immediately jump on her, wrestle her to the ground and demand that she tell me the good news first. You see, in the hospital dramas, they often don't have time to ask for the good, all the poor patient often hears is the bad and before you know it, they've been carted off to a remote part of the set, never to be seen again. So I waited and breathed deeply and tried to meditate on the questions that I wanted to ask her before or after she delivered what I began to convince myself was surely the reason for her changing my appointment so quickly and rushing from one practice to another to tell me this. Something that perhaps I now wish she had kept to herself for perhaps just one more day, or week or even month.

Because you see, by the time I got ushered into her office and sat down and tried to demand that she tell me the good news first, I found that I couldn't actually speak. Nope, not one clever word would make its way from my brain to my lips. I could only nod as she cut to the chase to tell me that the cancer had indeed returned. Six months after finishing chemo. Five months after my extensive sternectomy operation. This time in my spine. Naturally after this, I began to understand why no-one in the movies asks for the good news, because maybe, let's face it dear reader, perhaps often there is none.

But, despite the absolute devastation of this diagnosis, my onc thinks that things could indeed be worse. She's still optimistic, she still has hope. There are still many treatments, two of which I'll start soon and they'll include an oral chemotherapy tablet, another tablet whose name escapes me, and cyberknife radiotherapy - which is radiotherapy that is concentrated to one specific area only. The Good News (actually there really is in this case), is that it is only in one spot, which is a good thing. It really is. But the bad news is, I'm getting absolutely tired of these little, yes little, stubborn motherf***kers which are stopping me from getting on with my life. And to be too tired to battle on any longer is not such a good thing when you have cancer.

I'm so over chemo, and yes I know that it's the second syllable of the title of this blog but do you know what ?  I was absolutely in the process of almost changing this title, since I really and sincerely began to believe that I had said sayonara to the damn toxic drugs for a very long time, if not forever. But, there's more good news, I won't lose my hair this time so no new searches on the net for afro wigs just yet, but this does puts paid to a few plans of getting back to normality, getting my stamina back again and re-presenting myself to the world once more. Ironically, you are (apart from my partner and family members of course) one of the first to know. Because now, you see, I'm wondering how much to tell other people, and how much mileage I have left as a cancer patient before folk get bored of hearing about my drugs and side-effects and decide to leg it out of my life forever. So today, while I take a bit of time to process things, I have decided that the trip that is booked for next week, to a photo-festival in Tuscany, Italy, will still go ahead. Because I refuse to make my life all about my cancer. I will still take all the drugs and the juices and the turmeric powder mixed with olive oil and the vitamin D supplements and the acupuncture and the green tea. I will do all those things because I have a child who is not yet two years old who really, really needs me. So it's definitely not over yet. In fact, I'm already thinking, that despite the tiredness, despite the bad news, the fight to reclaim my body back has only just begun.

The Great, Gorgeous T-shirt Giveaway...

And while I'm still in the blogosphere, I forgot to mention that due to a mixture of my virtual disappearance around the time of Pinktober or more accurately, breast cancer awareness week and setting the yardstick perhaps a touch too high, Save The Tatas' great, gorgeous giveaway for October is still up for grabs. I would love to see it go to a good home, so now that we're firmly into November, I'll waive the challenge that I once set. The very first person to follow or comment on this blog (any post will do) will find themselves the proud owner of this very natty tee. Fingers on the keyboards now please...

The Waiting Game (Again)...

Apologies for my absence of late, but I've been a bit busy trying to juggle a well-needed break in the Canary Islands with baby A's new sleep patterns (which involve him waking me up in the early hours of the morn by banging his head against the cot in a worrying fashion - and then laughing when he realises that his trick has worked !).

I know, I know. I have plenty to write, plenty to catch up with. Plenty to tell you.

But first of all, let's start with my own situation. I'm currently experiencing another bout of scanxiety. And this time it's warranted. Just after my return from gloriously sunny Lanzarote, I had a CT/Pet scan done at Harley Street hospital. I always get a big jittery before scans but this time, and for reasons unknown, I was feeling very scared. Symptomically speaking, apart from a few aches and pains which I've put down to the trauma of the year's chemo and surgery marathon, I feel ok. I make sure I walk regularly and I eat very, very well. But the tightness and tenderness in my mastectomy side of my body is still around which has always bothered me.

So, while I'm lying in the room after having had a cannula put in and given a dosage of the radioactive stuff, I'm listening to some chill out music and I'm trying hard to chill out but mind starts to play the 'what  if ?' game. We're all familiar with this anxiety-ridden pastime which usually occurs when there's something that we're uncomfortable with or more accurately, scares the living daylights out of us. And that's when our mind takes over the rest of our body and really starts to go out of control. 'What if it's back ? What if it's widespread ? What if it doesn't respond to treatment ? What if it kills me before I really get the chance to start living again ?' The 'it' dear reader, surely needs no introduction. And as much as I hate to brood on things that are out of my control, this neurotic way of thinking has a way of sweeping me up at times.

So by the time I reach the scan room, my stomach is in knots. I look for clues in the speed in which my body moves through the chamber. This time it seems uncharacteristically slow. I look for clues in the way that the technician asks me when I'm due to see my doctor. I scan her face for expressions of sympathy or concern, but I find just an unreadable smile. So, the next day when I've calmed down a little and am thinking of the herceptin dose that I need to be given tomorrow (which is in fact today), I decide to call my doctor's secretary to see if she's had the scan results back as yet. I leave a message on her answerphone and I get a pretty damn quick and urgent call back. Her sec tells me that she needs to see me tomorrow night. I tell her that I'm due to have herceptin in the morning and will have to wait around in the hospital all day. I ask her if there's anything wrong. I call my doctor but she's not picking up. I leave a message asking her to call me. She doesn't. Her sec calls back. She's spoken to her and my herceptin has been rearranged for the afternoon. She'll try to come in as soon as she's finished her NHS clinic. I ask her again, if there's anything wrong. All she tells me is that there is something that is 'not quite right' with the scan. I wonder if she realises how long I'll hold these three words in my mind, circulating them around my head like marbles. I call my partner and tell him verbatim what has been said. He comes home straight away. I call my sister and ask if she can babysit the following day. But the words cannot come out. They won't come out. So instead I dissolve into tears. I tell my partner that I can't go through this again, so soon. I've barely recovered from the op. My fingertips are still tingling from the taxotere. My hair is still well, barely there. He hugs me. They are both so positive. They talk about false positives, inflammation and scar tissue. Maybe it's nothing at all. I reply that I know my doctor well enough by now. I know that she wouldn't give me reason to worry unnecessarily unless she had to. I also know how much she hates to be the bearer of bad news. It would be unethical to give me such bad news over the phone.

So there you have it. I'd love to tell you all about my hols and how we almost didn't make it due to me leaving the passports on the train (chemo brain strikes again...!), I'd also love to tell you about the current state of my hair and how interesting I'm finding it when I'm sometimes mistaken for a young black man, but... everything's on pause until I sort this mess out. Please think of me, or better still pray, chant or do a rain dance for me. It could be something, I hope it's nothing. But I'll keep you posted. For sure.

5 Things to do for a Cancer Patient...

Somewhere back in time I promised to write an antidote to my semi-rant about things not to say to a cancer patient. Well, that time has come. I wanted to write about the things that you should say to someone with cancer but after thinking about it, I realised that I'm not really a 'should of' kind of person. By this, I mean that something doesn't suddenly happen when you get diagnosed with the big C. You don't suddenly turn into the same kind of person as Reg sitting opposite you who was diagnosed with bowel cancer last month. Maybe Reg really likes it when people give him a hug every time they see him and ask him how he's feeling. This doesn't mean that I will. To state the bleeding obvious as usual... my point is that we're all different. And just because I've been diagnosed with cancer, it doesn't mean that I've suddenly become all homogenous. So, following on from this logic, I'm thinking that instead of telling you what to say perhaps I could just suggest how to act, based on how other people have acted towards me. To all my fellow cancer buddies who read these suggestions and disagree, please feel free to contradict me. In my pre-cancer life I loved a heated debate. Four months of hardcore chemo has kind of robbed me of that vital energy needed to disagree and then construct an even better argument in response, but I'm still the same 'ole cantankerous me underneath it all. So, are you ready ?

Five Things To Do For a Cancer Patient 

Offer Specific Help  

Are you an expert cook, love to drive or a brilliant cake maker ?  Do you have a special knowledge about nutrition, masage or reiki ? Can you knit, sew or make fabulous home-made cards ? Y'see, to date, I've had a cake especially made for me by someone I never knew could bake, a compilation of chill-out music put together for me by a friend who loves music, a couple of wigs bought for me by friends who love grooming, some software uploaded onto my computer by a friend who's a computer geek, jewellery made for me by someone who does it as a hobby and i've been referred to an expert acupuncturist by an osteopath friend. All of this from peeps with special talents or knowledge that I knew nothing about. As anyone will tell you who's ever had a really delicious meal cooked for them, there's really nothing better than receiving something that's been made or created especially with you in mind. Nothing. No amount of cash or lottery wins can ever trump this. If there is a better way to say 'I really care about you', please let me know what I've been missing. 

The key is to think about what you do really well. Then do it for the person that you care about. And it doesn't have to be a craft. Maybe you love hanging out with kids. Or are happy to do a bit of cleaning. When you have cancer, the last thing you really want to do is ask someone for help. Why ? Well, for most of us our self-esteem is already kind of low. We've been told that we've got this horrible disease that no-one else wants and we have no idea how the hell we got it. We just know that everyone else looks healthy and we're not. We blame ourselves for all those burgers and fries that we gobbled down in our teenage years. We wish that we'd eaten less dairy products. We wondered whether we should have eaten more veg and spent less time vegging out on the sofa. We're also usually experiencing too much trauma to think about whether you might be better emptying the bins or picking up some shopping. In short, we're not in control even if we look as though we might be. So do something and don't worry whether the person doesn't appreciate it at first. In time they will. 

Act Normally  

I know it's hard. One day you had a friend who did all the things that you did, the next you're sitting next to a person who's telling you that they've been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease. All kinds of stuff is going through your head - like maybe it could happen to you one day. As the evolutionary psychologists keep reminding us, we may have abandoned the savannahs for cosy nights in front of the tv but you just can't take the homo erectus out of the human. So when we're faced with a threat what do we do ? Yep, it's flight or fight time. Well sadly they'll always be some folks who'll just take the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat. The experience is just too close to home and way too frightening and they'd rather keep a safe distance with the justification that really they don't what to say or do. But for others with a bit more balls and common sense, your friend with the tumour might just want a bit of your humour and to be reminded that she existed as a person long before her journey into Cancerland. 

Tell her that you're thinking of her 

I know that this isn't everyone's cup of tea but to be honest, I love hearing these words. Even if it's just a short text, or an e-mail sent in a hurry. It always makes me feel much less alone and much more connected to the person who sent it, even if they are thousands of miles from me. I once received an e-mail from a friend who was sitting on a train on the way to Rome. He told me that he just wanted to let me know that he was thinking of me. At the time I was lying on my sofa, tired and achy from my cocktail of chemo and herceptin. It opened up the space for me to tell him how I was feeling and made feel less isolated. For me, it was important to know that people cared. And yes, I know that my partner and my mum and my sisters and my dad and a handful of good friends and family members also really care but to hear it is just, something else. And more importantly, it made me think about them too.

Listen. 

To her rants about doctors, nurses, hospitals, veins, cold caps, chemo and radiotherapy. Listen to how terrible she felt by the time she got off the train. Listen to how her tastebuds have changed, how she can't move her arm properly, how she's thinking of seeing a homeopath, how she's just read a book about healing. Listen while she laughs about what one of the other patients said to her - even if it's boring and you feel tired and uncomfortable and your mind begins to wander. Listen. Because when you're gone she'll be alone with her thoughts and her fears and her uncertainty. And they'll be no-one there to distract her then, or to laugh at her jokes or to sympathise. So just listen. 

Make it about them.

I live in a big, sprawling, anonymous city called London and I think that this sometimes makes folks a little bit, how shall I say, self-absorbed. So for this, I'll forgive them. I'll forgive the friend who rang me up to tell me about his own problems; perhaps in doing so he thought that it might help me to forget about my own. I forgive the friend who called me to blame me about something that had happened in the past. Because really I know that deep down the attack was about her own guilty feelings, not mine. I'll even forgive the friend who never replied to my text when I asked her for a hospital visit on a particularly lonely day, and made sure that she waited until the evening when I was too groggy and tired to receive guests to ask if she should come. I know that this is sounding like I only know a bunch of selfish arseholes, and if I just read this, I'd assume the same thing too. But if I told you that these very same people sent me cards and gifts on a regular basis, checked in regularly to see how I was, turned up with fruit and presents and spent the day or evening chatting and making me laugh, you'd feel confused. The point is that nothing is so simple. We're all too damn complex. And like cancer cells, unfortunately, there really is no black and white. Kind people sometimes say stupid things, intelligent ones act selfishly, caring ones run away. We're not so in control of our emotions as we'd like to think. But if you can't help yourself, if you just don't have the coping skills and have no idea what to do or say next, just focus on the person. Don't make it about you. Just imagine what that person might be feeling and go with it. Don't feel guilty, don't feel pity, just let them lead you this time. 

So there you have it. Yet another top five. Anyone care to expand on this ?

Better Late Than Never

Ok, I have a confession to make. I feel deeply ashamed. After all the promises that I made in my last post about the wealth of blogging that I'd be doing to celebrate (celebrate?) breast cancer awareness month, I feel embarrassed that it's taken me exactly 20 days to write a follow-up. Why the delay ? Well, what with the cooking, the cleaning (and now that he's getting bigger, stronger and faster) the wrestling of Baby A, I'm currently experiencing a bout of baby-related fatigue. If you ever feel the need to test your levels of endurance and stamina after having completed four months of chemo and undergone a major operation, forget about running marathons, just have a baby instead. Add to the mix a leaky bathroom ceiling which turned into a full-on re-plastering project and a car crash (luckily a minor one) which left me with a case of whiplash and a dodgy back; you'll understand why it's taken me so long to get back to you.

I still found time to see the new SJP rom-com about a mother who juggles motherhood with her career and came away thinking, y'know what ? I still don't know how she does it, really I don't. 'Her' meaning those power-dressing, power-hungry women who manage to hold down a super-exec job while starting up a multi-million pound company from their bedrooms while also juggling three children and keeping their equally power-driven husbands happy. Who are these aliens who do such a great job in making the rest of us feel so inadequate ? And what exactly do they run on ? Is it 100% pure distilled vodka or better still, daily shots of Jamaican Wray and Nephew overproof rum (now that would be something worth trying...). I would love to know the answer. On a postcard alien women. On a postcard please...

But, at least I can console myself that I have one up on them. A super-exec I am definitely not. But at least I can proudly say that not only am I currently juggling a teething toddler, a flat with a crumbling bathroom wall (long, long story best left untold) and an imminent return to work after a two year break,  I also have metastatic breast cancer and can consider my attendance to all those scans, surgeries and visits to the chemo lounge as being the equivalent of holding down a full-time job. Which means that I surely should be up there with the best of them ?  But anyways, let's get to the real reason why I'm blogging today, which is not to have a moan about never having enough hours in the day as a new mum. There are truly enough mummy blogs out there which cover this overtired (excuse the pun) theme in a much more articulate way than I ever could. Let's talk about Ladies.

My long overdue post was going to high five a bevy of inspirational phenomenal women who have in their own small way, made a significant contribution to the understanding and awareness of breast cancer. Since we only have one day until the end of this month and therefore, until the end of breast cancer awareness month, I'm going to have to pretty much condense my high fives into a list of hasty shout outs instead. So here goes...

www.betterdays.uk.com
Set up nine years ago by Marina Raime, a young mixed-race woman who was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer, this is an excellent and much needed resource for black and minority ethnic women. Marina spends most of her time campaigning and educating black women about triple negative breast cancer and how to spot early signs of breast cancer.

www.coppafeel.com
The brainchild of the very lovely and inspirational Kris Hallenga who was diagnosed with secondary breast cancer at the tender and unbelievably young age of 23, this funky site is aimed at the 18-30 market and campaigns to raise awareness of breast cancer among young people. Coppafeel travels the country popping up at places as diverse as music festivals and tube stations using gimmicks and eye-catching PR stunts to attract publicity and raise awareness.

www.fabulous-boobies.blogspot.com/
I should have a blog roll or list or top ten or whatever you call it. Y'know, a list of great fellow blogs. Because there are surely so many of you guys out there writing who never cease to motivate me or make me laugh or better still, educate me about what I should be reading or watching to retain some kind of sanity while dealing with this shitty disease. But I only have time to high five one today and so it's going to be Nicole of myfabulous-boobies. There are few black and minority voices out there in the breast cancer arena and even fewer of us blogging. So it's always encouraging to drop in on her thirty-something world of dating, dealing with her diagnosis and finding love after breast cancer. Always amusing, always heartfelt. Great writing.

So there you have it. I could go on. I should go on but it's late and I have at least two more blog posts to write before my deadline runs out and I hit the first of November and this website turns into a pumpkin (a what ? sorry folks, wrong story - that's how tired I am). See you in the morning...

Pink is the New Black...

Well, it's about that time again. We may not have had the long, lazy days of summer that our Mediterranean friends take for granted each year, but with autumn approaching, I vote that September's colour of choice should be brown. Brown is the colour of crisp, changing leaves and end-of-summer harvests. Brown is the colour of jacket potatoes and hot buttered muffins. Brown is the colour of knee-high boots, thick, chunky jumpers and all things warm and autumnal. But if brown is the colour for September, then what should be the colour for October ?  

Why, it's pink of course. 

Pink ? 

Surely, I hear you ask, with the summer season fading fast we should be getting into darker, more austere tones, not moving on to bubble gum shades of pretty or even prissy pink ?  But of course, for those of us who have been riding that train into Cancerland for far too many years, we know what October brings forth. For October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. And this is the month when you'll find an abundance of this sugar-coated colouring.

Now I have to admit something. I actually love the colour pink. Really I do. I am currently the proud owner of a pair of pink court shoes, I have pink t-shirts, even once bought a pink corduroy skirt and I can even recall being given a pink 'tag' belt by my partner many moons ago - such is my love for this effervescent, saccharine, pop art colour. For someone who has spent most of her life living in jeans and trainers, it might seem strange that I would feel so at home in a shade of colour more favoured by Barbie. But I do.

I guess I like the colour pink because it's bright, optimistic, it cheers me up on a wintry day and it goes well with the darker shades that I tend to wear all year round. It also looks really, really good against dark skin (as Ms Jourdan Dunn is illustrating so well above).

So I'm not too bothered about the colour of the branding, as long as the message is strong. Although I know that many of my metastatic blogger mates would disagree. Some of you out there in blogsville feel that images of smiley, pretty women wearing pink t-shirts and brandishing pink ribbons distracts us from the true reality of breast cancer. Simply - that it's a nasty, nasty disease that kills women. And I can see their point. Because simply put, it does. But the problem is more complex. The eternal dilemma for those who work in the media, is how to raise awareness and keep the advertisers happy while producing images that are shall we say, easy on the eye ? They assume that no-one really cares about the over 60s getting breast cancer (even though this group is the most at risk from this disease) because I guess they assume that it's no big surprise if they do. And they also assume that no-one really wants to see gruesome pictures of ulcerated breasts or emaciated cancer patients on chemo - especially not their advertisers. So, because pretty pictures of women are often used to sell everything from chocolate to cars, it is not surprising that interviews with slim, white, attractive, young breast cancer survivors tend to fill the pages of the glossy women's magazines. And all the better if they are career women who enjoy a middle-class lifestyle because these are precisely the women that the advertisers want to target.  Trust me on this one, I know. I've worked in this business for over 15 years. 

But the real problem with this stereotyping is the perception that it gives to other women who don't fall into this category. I have heard countless black women with breast cancer tell me that before their diagnosis, they always assumed that breast cancer was a 'white woman's disease'. In certain parts of the developing world, breast cancer is seen as the 'rich, white woman's cancer'. It is seen as a disease of affluence. But when we look at the statistics, it seems that we women of colour might be the ones who are most at risk from this distorted perception. In reality, although black women tend to be diagnosed less than white women, we tend to be diagnosed at an earlier age, have more aggressive cancers and are diagnosed when the cancer is at a more advanced stage, making treatment more difficult. Women of West African origin also tend to be diagnosed with what is called triple negative breast cancer. This is breast cancer that doesn't have oestrogen, progesterone or her2 receptors. The only treatment that can be given is chemotherapy. And this naturally limits the number of options they have for subsequent treatments, should they need it. For more information about this, this article is a good starting point.

Now I know that this month is important. It's important because it encourages women to examine their breasts. It informs people to look out for warning signs and symptoms, and it attempts to remove the stigma of breast cancer. But as a marketing brand, it surely needs re-working. And fast, before more women die through ignorance or complacency. So what will my contribution be to this Breast Cancer Awareness month ? What can I do to make a difference ?

Well, I write this blog because it helps me to process what I'm currently going through. And by doing this, I'm hopefully raising awareness to all different kinds of women too. But I don't fundraise and I'm not sure how much I really make a difference to anyone's day-to-day life. But what I've noticed while I've been immersed in cyberspace is that there are lots of fabulous, fantastic women who do make a difference. They put action before thought. They inspire me to get out of my self-absorbed head and write about stuff that might actually inform people. So for Breast Cancer Awareness Month... I'll be mostly flagging up these phenomenal women, looking more at the differences in breast cancer in black and white women, looking at how differently primary and metastatic breast cancer are viewed by public and press and listing the things to say to a cancer patient that might actually help rather than hinder them (thanks Paula for the great idea !).

But firstly, I'd like to give a high five to phenomenal woman, Julia Fikse for her website, Save The Tatas. I only recently discovered this site and subsequently had a series of e-conversations with Julia about race and cancer. What I like about this site is that it's a non-profit making organisation which uses money raised through donations and the sales of its products to fund much needed independent scientific research on cancer - research that one day might help us all to overcome this disease. 50% of their profits over the last six years have been used in this way. For Breast Cancer Awareness month, Julia is kindly giving away this t-shirt

(especially hand-picked by moi) to one lucky person. All you have to do is follow my blog and tell me how you'd rebrand Breast Cancer Awareness Month to include all women - regardless of colour, creed or age.  I'm looking forward to hearing your ideas...