End of blog?

I suppose the time to stop writing this blog is nigh. It will soon be a year since my diagnosis and my life is not interesting enough to fill any more reams of internet space. Tomorrow Francois and I are finally off on a spa holiday - so those months of trawling the internet were not wasted. Mum is coming to look after the kids and I have bought two giant bikinis. Benedicte will be leaving us in a week and so far the search for a new au pair has not been an overwhelming success as we were rejected by the first two proposed by the agent - the second after I interviewed her for half an hour on the phone. My managerial skills do not improve with age.

As I lay in bed last night I thought about everything that's happened over this last year and made a decision to consider myself cured. I know that I may not be, but if I'm tempting fate then bring it on. As of today, the past is history...and the future has yet to happen.

Greta Garbo

I am only getting up for social functions which sounds much better than it is. Can't shake this damned fatigue. Having put as many sleep and rest credits in the bank as possible over last week, I still went horribly overdrawn on Saturday after a day ferrying kids all over the place followed by the fantastic but predictably late night at Beccy and Karen's summer party. Didn't overdo the drink - I was possibly the only one - but went to bed at around 2.30 and then slept until 4pm Monday when I had to get up to go to a dinner with Francois. Luckily Luc had made him a Father's Day card and Emily cooked her risotto or he'd have had a really bad day.

Anyway I am hoping that my 47 homeopathic remedies will help to combat this leg aching brain fug and I will soon be having my 'lifestyle management' appointment and trip to the dietician - thanks to the amazing Royal London Homeopathic Hospital. Another new find and a complete revelation. I'm also now on the Iscador (mistletoe) treatment as an anti cancer therapy.

I have a sack full of pills and potions - and a fridge door crammed with drops, lotions and probiotics which fall out every time I open it.

If I wasn't so tired I might be able to work out when to take them.

Rest for the wicked

Old people keep talking to me about death. I am not making this up - but in the last week three separate octogenarians have talked to me candidly and with no prompting, about what it's like being at the other end. I don't know why it hadn't really occurred to me before but of course anyone who is in their late eighties must dwell on this matter quite a lot. It's quite reassuring - suddenly don't feel so alone. (Or Hurrah, we're all going to die!)

The week has perked up enormously since yesterday when I spent a most lovely day in town. First to cancer clinic - where I was told I must rest more and conserve energy and say no to absolutely everything that may be a drain on my internal resources and that resting is the single most important thing to do in the year after treatment - more important even than diet or exercise. What thoroughly good news. Then on to Shoon - the greatest shoe shop in the world for the fat footed - where I bought not one, not two but THREE pairs of shoes (I am still pretending to Francois I only got two and one is at the back of the cupboard) and then on to Trevor Sorbie to spend the voucher I got from my old friend Susanne as a welcome to the world of hair present, where I managed to spend enough money on products to get a free towel (or possibly the world's most expensive towel). The result is a frighteningly high hair/cost ratio given that it is now even shorter than before, but I feel a lot more like a short haired person and a lot less like my history teacher.

I've talked before about my many obsessions relating to cancer - here is a list of them:

All parabens (in almost all creams, lotions and potions)
Deodorants
Underwired bras
Non organic food
Plastic
Organic food wrapped in plastic (this one drives me MAD)
Coffee
Alcohol
Sugar
All dairy produce
Meat
Microwaves
Lap tops (unless sitting on a pillow on lap)
Chemical cleaning products
Exercise

etc etc I'm afraid the list just goes on and on.

Anyway it was interesting last night on my weekly telephone support group run by breast cancer care that we all had some or all of these worries - even adding 'owning dogs' or 'living within 20 miles of a nuclear power station' on their list - but the only one thing we all have in common is breast cancer. One woman, the youngest of 6 girls, spent her life exercising, does not drink alcohol or eat dairy and is the only one of her siblings (all of whom smoke heavily and weigh between 15 and 20 stone) to have cancer. The point to all this I suppose is that it is really not worth beating yourself up.

Taking recent doctor's advice most seriously, I spent this morning having green tea with Tamsin and then enjoyed an excellent lunch at Otto Lenghi whose partner must be up there as one of the luckiest people alive. It's the only restaurant that you come out of feeling healthier than when you went in - despite having a full fat, full dairy apple and vanilla cake for pudding.

Now having a lie down, (with lap top on a cushion of course).

Written on May 20th but not posted

There is not a minute of every day that I don’t think about having cancer. And wonder whether it will come back. And when. There is nothing I eat or drink or do that doesn’t make we wonder whether it is in that fateful mouthful or gulp that I am sealing my own fate. If I stop thinking about it and give myself a break, I worry that my nonchalance will tempt providence. By holding onto the fear I worry that the anxiety will bring the cancer back. It’s a lose lose situation. I see the world through cancer tinted spectacles. I wonder now when I look at people whether they have had or will have cancer. I don’t assume that everyone other than me is fine, but I wonder why I was the one selected for this journey. Is there such a thing as sheer bad luck or is it something I did, or didn’t do? I analyse what others do – what they eat and drink – how have they got away with it thus far? I have to find a way to live in this next phase – people tell you how they knew someone who ‘didn’t have time for cancer,’ and it went away – or someone who drank broccoli juice four times a day and became a Buddhist – and their cancer disappeared. And so I veer between a rock and a hard place – A vegetable juice for breakfast and a glass of red wine for dinner. The weight of it is exhausting. It hangs around my shoulders like an iron shawl. Too heavy to take off, but much too heavy to wear.

Life goes on

Tried to blog while away but unfortunately the wonders of modern technology do not seem to have reached L'Ile d'Oleron or indeed Candes St Martin....and as I am too stingy to pay for one of those mobile phone cards I had to give up on the web for two whole weeks. Which, now I think about it, was probably not a bad thing. It forced me to do other things, such as read, stare out of the window and sleep. Arrival at the one horse airport of La Rochelle brought about my worst nightmare as officious passport lady questioned me in great detail about my bizarre change of hairstyle since the Myra pic was taken just after my dx. I was forced to admit that my new curls were not a lifestyle choice but even then she couldn't get her head round the dates - passport renewed in October with photo taken in August. And all this with about forty fellow travellers standing up close and personal. Bitch. Anyway - I was allowed through with a rather dirty look -evidently all terrorist suspects use that obvious ploy of cutting long hair short and going for an oap perm - throws them off the scent every time...


Anyway - Anne's house was a wonderful tonic - bedroom overlooking tranquil lush garden, swimming pool, enough sun to swim, sunbathe and walk along deserted stretches of golden sand. I had a slight meltdown a couple of days in when she commented that I really didn't think or talk about anything other than cancer - and she was right - but it needed saying. I felt as though I was being allowed to let go of it all, at least for a while.


The second week was spent at our house in the Loire - first visit since I found the lump there last summer. Again, a wobbly weekend, but ended up sleeping and sleeping - morning, afternoon and night - which I think was exactly what I needed. I slept so much I started worrying about it, but then as I started to emerge I realised that it was ok, that it will take a while for the energy levels to return and that fighting it wasn't going to help.

Francois spent the entire week working so had absolutely no let up other than a couple of hours on the driving range and mealtimes so the kids were thrilled at the arrival of Geraldine, Tom and family which provided them with some welcome relief from comamum and absentdad. They also brought the sun and I was sad to leave.

Then came the long trek home via Francois' elderly aunt and uncle for a night - with my memory loss once again evident as I found myself completely incapable of remembering our well trodden shortcut from their rural retreat to the motorway. Even holding the map upside down didn't help - it was like looking at a map of China. I don't know how he puts up with me.

Spent much of the time since yesterday trying to get parking permits from Hackney council (slightly more difficult than getting a Green Card), shopping, cooking, attempting to change my mortgage provider (don't go there) and finally lying in a heap on the sofa catching up on Brothers and Sisters - my completely top favourite show. The entire cast of thirtysomething are slowly making appearances as fiftysomethings. A wonderful sense of continuation and purpose - not to mention many uplifting scenes featuring Rob Lowe who I admire in an entirely intellectual capacity.

Life goes on.

Spare tyres

The blood test I had on Monday while complaining about my frozen fingers has confirmed that I am in full blown menopause. Apparently as the ovaries shut down and oestrogen levels drop, the body frantically tries to compensate by producing high levels of hormones from the pituitary gland which create all these other unpleasant symptoms - including the sluggish metabolism and ability to put on half a stone over a weekend. The brutal loss of womanhood pales into insignificance next to this uncontrollable weight gain. How shallow am I?

In the raw

I wrote a whole blog entry in my head the other day when I was nowhere near a computer and now I find I have five minutes to spare and can't remember at all what I was going to say. The memory loss is not getting any better. This weekend I planned two separate social events on Saturday before realising that I wasn't actually going to be here at all. I am assured that chemo brain lingers on - along with the burgeoning muffin top. The day after my fab welcome back party I crawled along to the local leisure centre and took out a guilt-inducing Come ten times a month to break even membership which has actually turned out to be not too bad. I can now manage a pathetic 12 lengths of the pool and have suffered the humiliation of two yoga classes, the first of which involved a lot of toppling or lying down for a rest and the second of which pulled a muscle in my neck so now I can only turn my head to the left. I do wonder whether my stomach is just too big for yoga. How is it possible to bend over and touch your toes when there is a lump the size of Mount Everest to negotiate? But I will persevere. The upside has been a definite improvement in my legs' ability to get me where I want to go and a general uplifting of mood - though this could also be down to the brilliantly summery weather (up until today). I sent off to Boden for some large warm weather clothes which arrived today - in the rain.

Feeling unfamiliar lack of medical appointments so booked myself into the GP on Monday to discuss the strange way that my hands seize up in the night and I have to click them back to life in the morning. 'It's not cancer,' he said (ohmygod I hate these post cancer hypochondriacs she's going to be in here every five minutes for the next 15 years) 'It's fluid retention.' Fluid retention? Fantastic - there is a fluid fairy who comes round at night and pumps me up which explains why every time I get on the scales it's moved up a couple of notches. It's not fat...it's fluid! Which led me to my latest rather cliche post cancer phase.; raw food. Have just ordered the definitive 'breaking wind' cookbook full of top tips on making spaghetti from uncooked courgettes (spirolina machine £149 all good kitchen suppliers) and crackers from non wheat gluten free grain (dehydrating machine £239) washed down with wheatgrass juice (long stem juicer £69.99). Unfortunately I will not have any time to work to pay for any of the equipment as I will be far too busy making non dairy gm free vegan cheese and sprouting alfafa to hold down a job. I am in deep denial about the amount of money I have spent since last summer on non medical cancer expenses and plan to stay that way for a bit longer.

In that vein, I am off to France for a week at my old friend Anne's house on the gorgeous L'ile d'Oleron in Brittany followed by a week in the Loire with Francois and the children. It occured to me how much has changed in a year as between the new Marion Keyes in my suitcase I have stashed packets of rare green tea, Kriss Carr's Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips and Dr Haushka chemical free suncream. Plus ca change.