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.

Islands in the storm

It's nearly 2.30am and I'm so happy to report that the reason for the late night post is not because of prescription drugs, chemotherapy, radiotherapy or abject fear. It's because I'm still buzzing from the most fantastic girl's night organised by my lovely friend Nuala. Not everyone, but a great majority of the people who have nurtured and supported me through these last months gathered together to eat fantastic food, drink far too much wine and spend at least 4 hours shouting along to an inexaustable selection of girly songs. I have survived, I'm still Standing and despite the fact that there is Always Something there to remind Me, I'm going to Let it Be. Thank god for my friends.

Parachute parenting 2

Well things came to a head in the Domange house last night when the children decided to use one of my most precious fruit bowls (the only thing to have survived 15 years of marriage) as the centrepiece for an indoor scooter ring. Luc was the first to knock it over, cracking it from top to bottom, at which point you'd think that any sensible 12 year old would have moved it to a place of safety. But no, she put it back in exactly the same place before careering into it at speed on her scooter in a copycat accident. And this while I was cooking their favourite dinner.

I of course provided an excellent role model in crisis management by throwing my oven gloves at them and bursting into tears before calling Emily a stupid cow and storming out of the house.

Francois was not particularly impressed by me phoning him in the middle of a client meeting and insisting that he came home, 'before I killed both of his children,' and kept saying annoying things like, 'they're only kids' and 'these things happen'....he redeemed himself later however by setting up a kangaroo court in the sitting room, making them recount the whole sorry tale and then decide on suitable punishments - for Luc no computer (despite new Club Penguin catalogue) and Emily grounded - so no much awaited trip to Angel to see a film etc on Saturday.

I woke up wracked with guilt about the whole incident but it's too late now - we must stand firm.

This end of treatment thing is strange. I know I should feel relieved and happy, perhaps even a bit of that post cancer eurphoria, but I just don't. I feel knackered, utterly and completely too tired to walk exhausted. Everything is an effort.

I had been quite enjoying the Lynette has cancer story in Desperate Housewives - because despite a few completely ridiculous subplots (dressing up as Brandy the cheerleading slut in long red wig between chemo cycles and eating hash cakes to alleviate nausea - perleese) - some of it has been strangely accurate. Today I watched the most recent episode where the oncologist comes round to her house to tell her she has the 'All Clear'. Now anyone who has ever had cancer, or lived with someone who has, can tell you that doctors just do not say this. There are very few cancers that are ever given the 'all clear', or not for many years. The best they can tell you is that you are NAD (No Active Disease). There is no punch the sky moment, there is just carrying on with uncertainty - and hope.

It's about living in the moment, buying bigger clothes and spending all your money on hair straightening products - about not recognising yourself in the mirror - and wanting to tell people you meet that you have had cancer - that you are different, changed, on borrowed time. It's about feeling guilty that you have let everyone down, particularly your children, and that the last memory they may have of you is an oven glove hurtling through the air...

Good News

The mysterious lump on the other side has completely disappeared - no trace of it on MRI. I am now officially out of treatment. Next appointment in July, then in October and every three months after that for 2 years, then every 6 months for 5 years. After that, annually for another 5 years and then, if I'm still around, they will finally kick me out of the clinic. Hurrah! Or as my oncologist says, 'Watch and wait'....

Party on I say...

Parachute parenting

Before all this started I sometimes, I admit, used to look at my children and think I wasn't doing too bad a job. 'Polite and friendly' I'd have them repeat before they went to other people's houses. Now I'm lucky, make that very lucky, to get an either or.

The other day I sat and looked at them as the four of us (me, Emily, Luc and the au pair) had dinner and realised that they are slipping out from my hands, out of my control. The boundaries have become so blurred in our new family unit that no one knows what they are supposed to do, or be, any more. Loose cannon Luc deliberately goes out of his way to say things to shock or irritate whoever is closest to him and moody Mimi has a line in back chat that is seriously grating. I just about have the energy to perform basic tasks again - such as getting dressed, and even going to the office to answer the phone and print out wine lists - but have nowhere near the energy required to provide, consistent, 'firm but loving' parenting. Their role models for the last 9 months have been a largely absent father, a horizontal mother, and a 24 year old French student. Consistency has been replaced with whatever provides an instant solution and firm with the 'becauseIsaidsodon'tanswermebackoryou'llbegroundedforaweek' method - neither of which seem to be working for me. I feel as if I'm finally getting back into the game but someone has moved all the goalposts.

Work has been good - some kind of return to normality - and we are hopeful that our new full timer who starts tomorrow will turn out not to be an existentialist or a psychopath but can make wine move from one place to another without too much bother.

Francois is pressing me to go to France and spend some time with an old friend who lives by the sea on Ile d'Oleron and breathe some iodine (another old French convalescence remedy). This is probably not in the best short term interests of the children, but if I don't get my energy levels up it won't be in their long term interest either - so I think I am going to take him up on it.

Holding off booking anything until I get the results of my MRI which will show me what's happened to the ufo on the right...

Useful books for cancer warriors

Anything by Pema Chodron

Reading the wise words of this buddhist teacher is like someone stroking your head - A big thank you to Suzanne B for giving me my first Pema Chodron, When things Fall Apart. Good for anyone having a crisis - not just a life threatening one.

It's Not about the Bike by Lance Armstrong

Lovely neighbours Alison and Roger gave me this months ago but I only read it last week. Couldn't face it before - perhaps there's a time for everything - but I wish I'd read it earlier. Top cyclist Armstrong battled the worst form of testicular cancer at age 28, with mets in his brain and lungs, and then went on to win the Tour de France several times. Inspiring just isn't the word. What I like about it is the fact that he takes nothing for granted. He doesn't claim that his positive attitude is responsible for beating the disease - as he says - plenty of positive people die, and plenty of miserable ones live on. I also love the way he describes his return to fitness saying to himself, If I can still move, then I'm still alive....so he kept on moving.

Mirror, mirror

Meant to say that since coming back from Cheeseland I have endeavoured to stick to an incredibly healthy Gillian Macwhateverhernameis style three fruit and fibre filled meals a day. No alcohol - (the latest link with breast cancer study has taken all the fun out of drinking for me), no dairy, no refined sugars or flour and at least a bit more exercise than before...and yet this morning I weighed two pounds MORE than I did at the beginning of the week. How is this possible? I am completely distaught as now even my new jeans (size Grosse) are feeling a little tighter and the cords which fell off me in January are now refusing to do up. Combined with my thick thatch of tight curls I look like a cross between a prize poodle and shaun the sheep. The cancer curse continues.

Back in business

Now that the third replacement for Blandine in the office has bitten the dust, I have no choice but to step into the breach and go back to the office - starting on Monday. I can't believe it but until Francois finds a suitable long term replacement it's going to have to be all hands on deck. Have lectured children extensively about their role in this (not fighting, being nice to the au pair, doing their homework before I get home) but fear it is falling on deaf ears. My child tolerance threshold is very very low after two weeks of interminable holiday and I think we shall all breathe a sigh of relief on Monday morning. Except perhaps the au pair who is as yet blissfully unaware that her work schedule is about to double.

Anyway my dreams of entering a state of delicious convalescence - in comfortable yet attractive lounging suit stretched out on the sofa with a good book and a pile of DVDs - have been swiftly replaced with visions of me tearing hair out before Excel spreadsheets and potentially researching divorce lawyers....oh well - at least it will get me away from the kids.

Born Again

It's hard to know where to start after such a long break from blogging - but as the begging emails are starting to stack up I thought I'd better check in.

Before the ski holiday I was nervous as hell. For some reason I doubted my ability to leave the country - I had a vague feeling that someone would point a finger at me as I went through the security gate and shout 'Go Back, you have cancer...!' completely illogical but until I stepped foot on foreign soil I didn't realise how deeply entrenched the fear was.

The sense of liberation I felt as we drove out of the airport in our squashy car rental took my breath away.

I decided that despite the dodgy legs and complete lack of stamina, I was going to force myself to ski every day, even if only for half an hour. Day one was scary as hell. I clipped the skis on and had to slip down a tiny but steep alley to get to the lift. My legs started to shake and I was sure I was going to fall. I kept worrying about the insurance policy we had and whether it would cover me for repatriation after chemo if I broke my leg. I snowploughed down the slope like a five year old and then had to stop for five minutes to stop my heart from beating so fast.

Poor Francois put paid to all fantasies he may have had about careering over the black runs and acted as my personal 'moniteur' - a complete star - and coaxed me down one blue piste, after which I had to call it a day. The next day was brilliantly sunny (the only one as it turned out) so I knew I had to make it to some of the higher slopes which involved a couple of red runs. Still some serious wobbling and a pathetic topple in the powder as I barely had the strength to lift my skis - but I managed about an hour and so the week continued...through blizzards, fog and pouring rain...until on Friday I managed to ski for a couple of hours straight without a tremor - and realised I was smiling.

The kids had a fantastic time - the children's village was superb and we barely saw them - dropping them off for a three course lunch at 11:45 and only picking them up at 5:30 after a 3 hour lesson and some apres ski activities. My apres ski sadly consisted of eating a plate of pasta in the appartment and collapsing in bed by about 9pm. Francois said I'd be sitting at the table looking quite ok one minute and then suddenly I looked as if I was going to fall over at which point I literally just collapsed into bed, usually before the children. I think I'd have done better if I wasn't also fighting a horrendous head cold (typcial), but I was so chuffed with my skiing and spending some rare quality time together as a family that it didn't matter.

We spent the weekend with friends in Geneva and determined not to lose the muscle strength I'd gained, I walked each day for 2 hours. Have come back completely determined to get in great shape. Now that the chemo, surgery and rads are over it feels as if I've been given a chance to live over again, but this time I'm going to do it right. The doc puts my five year survival rates at between 70% and 80% which would have completely freaked me out only a few months ago, but now they seem like rather good odds, and no reason not to live every day to the full. On Saturday night in Geneva, in a clapped out old bed, I slept for 10 straight hours, for the first time since last July.

Now looking forward to the next holiday, and the one after that. Whatever the MRI on right boob shows up next week, I know that I can handle it.

Ententes Cordiales

Well a very exciting weekend all in all. Started on Friday with the tinkling of a silver edged invite landing on the mat from Monsieur le President Nicolas Sarkozy and Madame Sarkozy (aka the lovely Carla Bruni) inviting Monsieur and Madame Francois Domange to their reception at the French Ambassador's residence in London on March 27th. The very same day that we had planned to spend a romantic work/pleasure day in Brighton. The opportunity to gawp at the gorgeous Carla close up is one I didn't initially feel I could pass up - though Francois is adamant that he will not cancel a pleasant day out (not to mention a business opportunity) to stand in a crowd of overdressed French expats in order to meet the most insufferable president of recent times. He is also incensed that the accompanying list of instructions require us to arrive over an hour before Monsieur Le President - ostensibly for security reasons - but clearly more to do with the national propensity to arrive everywhere (fashionably) late. Our friend Gerry kindly offered to go in Francois' place but the second instruction on the list requires us to bring our passports with us - so this is just not a plan that has legs, or wings, or any other means of transport - unless Gerry suddenly starts speaking fluent French and wearing V-neck jumpers...

I love the idea of swanning around the Holland Park Residence sipping bargain Champagne and eating canapes - but I guess not going will save me the humiliation of being the largest woman there, with the least hair, and the only one actually eating the canapes. I also have absolutely nothing to wear to such an event - well I have things to wear but unfortunately can't do any of them up which is not a good look for me.

Thanks to the unbelievable generosity and kindness of Joe H, I took Luc to the Arsenal again on Saturday to watch them drawing with Middlesborough. Before they finally scored he had his head in my lap wailing that he wanted to go home - I found myself saying things like 'It's not over till the final whistle blows,' and other even more unlikely remarks. He was consoled by the fact they did at least score once - and more so by the extremely healthy organic, locally reared, hand made burger from the stand outside the ground (ha ha...).

I have to say though that I have come to adore the thrill of the game - there is nothing like sitting surrounded by 60,000 supporters cheering (or swearing uncontrollably as on Sat) at your team. Despite feeling incredibly exhausted ever since I finished radiotherapy, I foolishly made a night of it going to the pub and for a meal afterwards - great fun, but possibly not to be recommended a mere 4 days after finishing 5 weeks of radiotherapy.

I probably would have come through it far more unscathed if it wasn't for the fact that on Sunday we had an endurance test worthy of a Japanese game show which involved sitting at the Hackney Empire through four hours of authentic Turkish folk dancing and singing (I use the word 'singing' in its broadest possible sense), largely performed by people under the age of 10 or over the age of 75, waiting for Luc and his friend Harry to perform their 3 minute modern dance slot. Don't ask. Francois commented at one point that at least we'd saved the several thousand pounds we could have spent on a Turkish package holiday to experience the same delights. Lucky really that Harry's dad videotaped large chunks of the show to play to his unsuspecting wife who'd managed to escape the evening with some cannily-timed prior arrangement.....you're in for a treat Pippa - or possibly a divorce.

The boys were delighted with their performance which we all agreed was the highlight of the evening. We still haven't worked out why it was in the middle of an Eastern European cultural festival - but Luc had to be almost physically dragged off the stage as he bounced back on for a final 'jump' and cannot wait for next year....ohmygod.

Sadly I've been paying the price for my high octane weekend and have had to cancel everything else this week - including my much awaited visit to meet Stanley Tiger - cousin Jane's new baby. The fatigue is absolutely unbelievable - really unlike anything I've experienced so far. Any hope of losing the stone in weight I've managed to put on since January is but a distant dream as my craving for sugar and carbs becomes worthy of an 'intervention' and the only exercise I'm capable of at the moment is moving my hand to my mouth.

We are off to Shropshire for the Easter weekend and I cannot even imagine how I'm going to pack a suitcase as things stand - but am hoping that a couple of days in bed will help and the weekend of fresh air and good food may help to recharge these old batteries.

As the Sarkozy/Bruni reception approaches I feel more inclined to agree with Francois - that just getting the invite is enough.

The abyss

I shouldn't be surprised really because it was the same when I finished chemo. A grand sense of anticlimax and total exhaustion. You think you are going to feel so elated that another chapter has passed, but it's only when it comes to an end you realise how tightly you've been holding on.

I finished radiotherapy on Tuesday and went out that night to meet some of the year 7 Mums in the pub - most of whom I'd never seen before in my life. It was weird introducing myself to strangers who know nothing about my life over the last few months, one of whom I've actually met twice but didn't recognise me at all. That sense of disassociation - as if I'm on the outside looking in - barely left me. I am not the same person I was and it will take time for me to work out who I am now, how to represent myself in the world. Soon my hair will be back and from the outside I will pass as normal; the same as all the others with their everyday anxieties and ultimately carefree existence. But I am not the same. I cannot go back to being carefree - I now have to manage each day, being careful not to tread on the cracks, trying to make sense of what has happened and what might happen again. There are times right now when I feel almost euphoric at the realisation that each day is a blessing, and that I am alive, and others when the loss of my old self seems too much to bear. The night in the pub made me want to run back to the comfort of my bed with its new white pillows and soft feather duvet and lie there forever. Which is basically where I've been ever since. Just me, my painfully burnt boob, and Super Mario.

A finger on the button

Still a bit blogged out with nothing much to report. The daily radio grind is starting to get to me and exhaustion is creeping in. My skin has started to get very sore and my left boob looks and feels as if it's been hung out in the midday sun.

It's been a busy week that got off to a good start at the weekend with Mother's day. I was thrilled to be given my very own Nintendo DS Lite (white) and the intensely challenging game of New Super Mario Bros. Brilliant. At last my children understand me. Goodbye scented candles, hello RSI.

It certainly has helped the days fly by as Luc and I compete to get through the levels and the most gold coins. I am of course hopelessly behind - much to his satisfaction. If only he could dedicate as much time and enthusiasm to his piano practice, he'd be a child prodigy by now. Surely all the same motor skills are involved?

I have backed his plan to dress up as Horrid Henry for Book Day at school tomorrow which I think was a particularly brilliant move on my part as it will involve no actual costume - just a scruffing up of his school uniform and a bit of hair gel. Genius.

Other highlights of this week include the birth of my cousin Jane's little boy Stanley Tiger who I can't wait to meet, catching up on series 4 of Lost with Alison and Roger from next door and eating most of Emily's delicious Rocky Road bars. My weight is careering out of control and ever since the BC nurse told me that I am likely to put on about a stone and a half that will not disappear when treatment is over 'without having to work very hard at it', I feel there is no point in denying myself anything. This is obviously a standpoint fraught with long term danger but radio ends next Tuesday and I will allow my head to stay in the sand until then.

Francois is up in the Lake District visiting clients, so Nicky came down from Oxford for the day and night for a bit of girl time which we spent wandering around Marylebone looking for the perfect pair of silver wedges (for her) and the most expensive organic shampoo in the world (for me). The excitement I felt at washing my hair in the shower this morning is probably completely disproportionate but I find there is a tremendous amount of pleasure to be had from everyday activities.

Now I'm off to try and unlock World 3.

No Justice

Apparently my full blown menopausal symptoms may only last a year. Then my periods will be back....before the next 'natural' menopause. I had to laugh.

Freefall

Not much to report from radioworld - except that it is just that. Still hard to plan anything much around the daily visits to the machines. I'm pleased to report that I have not experienced too much 'sunburn' and the skin is holding up well with the help of a vat of Aloe Vera gel alongside the acqeous cream they give you at the hospital.

Mum has been staying this week and I don't know how she stuck it out so long as I have not been on my best behaviour. Rather the opposite. I don't know where in the symptom manual they mention that radiotherapy puts you in a very bad mood - but that seems to be the effect it has on me. She left this morning and I am wracked with guilt. I have sent her a Mother's Day card that says 'Sorry I can't be with you on Mother's Day, but the washing is done and I don't need any cash'. It should also have said - the freezer is full, there are flowers on the table and the beds are made. It's crap being an invalid, but it's worse being around one.



There is blossom on the newly planted trees in our street and I remember that when I started this journey there was no blossom - and no trees. Life, the seasons and time has marched on and still I am in treatment. It felt strange at Luc's Mother's Day assembly yesterday seeing women who are suddenly 7 months pregnant - as if their babies have come from nowhere - not to mention the hoards of new parents I don't recognise at all. It's difficult being in crowds. Everyone now seems to know what's been happening to me and I don't know what to say. 'How are you?' That's a tough question. 'Fine'. There is no other response. And I am fine really but it just doesn't cover everything. I still find hardest the people I barely know who won't take 'fine' for an answer and look searchingly into my eyes hoping to find something more satisfying. I think there is a certain pleasure - or reassurance - in being faced with someone who you believe to be worse off than yourself. I cannot deny feeling that way myself at times. But being the object of it is disturbing.



The highlight of the morning for me was when Luc begrudgingly mumbled into the microphone, 'My Mummy is as beautiful as a butterfly'. My moment of maternal glory was shortlived however, as he later admitted that he'd been forced to step in and say the line for a child who was absent. It was good while it lasted...


Emily is thrilled as on Wednesday, the lovely Lisa cut her a fringe. Emily is delighted and can't stop glancing at herself in mirrors and shop windows. She looks odd. Not like my Emily. I keep asking her to lift it up so I can see her face - but she is enchanted with her new look. She had a great time at scout camp last weekend and a blast with the choir at the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Trans - Mu-um...) awareness day at Hackney Town Hall, from which she came back with a free rape alarm...much to my mother's surprise.

I finally managed to prise Francois' credit card from him and get him to agree to a wonderful week away for us both in June - so while long suffering Mum comes up once again, we will be at a Cretan hotel spa. It is not just me who is in desperate need of a break. Poor Francois is more tired than a person should be having had barely a day off in months and I am thrilled that I have managed to persuade him to take a break.


Despite the grumpiness, I feel as if I have reached another level of acceptance with this cancer thing. As I said to Catherine yesterday when she commented that she would never jump out of a plane, I wouldn't rule it out. I'm not going to start saving for a parachute jump - not quite there yet - but it is starting to really hit home that the only time is now. I can feel a little glimmer of excitement that the days will soon be mine again, and that I have no time to waste.

Vacuum

I am blog deficient. Nothing whatsoever has come to mind to write about this week, though it hasn't been a particularly bad one. Rads every day seem to bring about a sort of perfidious malaise - some may call it bog idle. Every day revolves around me going into town, getting nuked and coming home - with an occasional detour around JL. The rest of the day is spent thinking about, shopping for, talking about or preparing FOOD. It is so so boring. Mum is here this week and I have delegated some of the above to her. Yesterday I made two vats of soup - one for us and one Francois-friendly. By 2pm today there was none left. There are now another two vats simmering on the hob as I write. This is all I can think about. Better leave the blog alone.

Spare Change

Hurrah - the life belt of flab that has been appearing steadily around my middle since Christmas is not entirely down to overeating. It is the menopause. The breast care nurse has confirmed that the chemotherapy has sprung me into it without a backward glance. That would also explain my sudden urge to get naked during the second act of The History Boys at the Wyndham, and may even go some way to explaining why, having been bald as a baby's butt for months, I now have a furry face. There is no justice. For everyone who looks on menopause as a great relief from the tyranny of the menstrual cycle - I am suprised to find that there is something deeply shocking about having all that taken away overnight.

A familiar marking of the passage of time that despite our complaints, provides a rythmn, a logic, a normality to our everyday lives that is comfortable and reassuring. I expect I will get over this feeling of being somehow cheated out of another 10 years of womanhood - or young womanhood - and will be only too grateful to have another 10 years of any life at all - but today it is another reminder that I am not the woman I once was.

Breast is best

Got chatting to a woman only a little older than me at the cancer clinic this morning. She was there with her husband who was being treated for pancreatic cancer. Three teenage children and a very poor prognosis. It was the one of those rare moments when I felt lucky to have breast cancer. Despite the relentless health scares in the press telling us to eat more veg, smoke less, drink less, take more exercise and so on and on - it seems to me that cancer does not read the papers. Cancer does not care if you eat brocolli every day of your life or spend hours hunting down organic free range chicken. Cancer is arbitrary. The club that no one wants to join - yet only offers lifetime membership - a striking contrast to my newly arrived official Arsenal waiting list certificate, where I may wait a lifetime and never become a member - at a mere 44,723rd from the top.

Route 73

The radiotherapy fatigue seems to be kicking in - not helped by having a couple of late afternoon appointments which means the whole day seems to be spent on the wretched 73 bus. The morning crowd are bearable in their collective misery but the same cannot be said for the afternoon brigade - who, despite all my recent buddhist reading, invariably reduce me to considering acts of extreme violence.

Things that annoy me most

1. People who listen to music on their mobile phone - without headphones - so that the fifty people crammed in around them have to experience the endless earsplitting tinny beat from the phone's micro speaker. Hell on earth - particularly when two or more mobile dictators set up in competition with each other.

2. People who spend the entire journey talking on their mobile phone. 'Shuu-uuup Man, naaaahhh you shuuu-uuuup, wassat? Naah man, shuuu-uuup yar maaafff man'. Forty five minutes without a consonant from the gorgeous Turkish girl standing so close I could feel her breath on my right ear. I also now know exactly where and when the blonde in front of me will be holding her birthday drinks party and that the young man who got off at Clissold Crescent has someone bringing him 3 valium. Bloody Hell - should have got off with him.

3. People who sit next to you and eat Kentucky fried chicken from a box with their fingers. This requires no elaboration.

Is it just me or do these people really consider themselves to be of such supreme importance that the physical comfort of others is completely irrelevant? My father says it is better than in his day when they had to put signs up asking people not to spit on the bus.

The weekend has been quiet and I've been able to catch up on a bit of much needed rest. The bus kicked us all off at Euston on Friday so I walked the rest of the way to the hospital arriving puffed out, late, out of breath and out of sorts. Sat there looking at all the old men with prostate cancer and the old women wearing wigs and wondering how the hell I got into this predicament. Francois must have had some kind of sixth sense because he phoned just as I was having a minor breakdown in the loo and helped me to pull myself together. I was warned that one of the side effects of radio is emotional instability so I have to remind myself that this too will pass.

The kids are now wending their way to Shropshire with my father and the au pair - so silence reigns until Friday. The thrill of not having to produce 15 meals a day is starting to sink in and I have been able to lie in bed reading about Heather Mills as seen through the eyes of her manicurist without a single interruption.

My lovely heavily pregnant cousin Jane and I have been swapping crises and comfort recipes and I made her version of a Lancashire hotpot yesterday which ticked all the boxes. Cheap, copious, easy and quick (if you don't count the 4 hours it spends in the oven.) I think when all this is over there might be a cookbook in it.

X ray visions

The long silence is not due to anything sinister - rather that my life has suddenly become rather full. Full of going into town for radiotherapy, doing things with children and cooking and having my sister and family to stay etc. The treatment is so much better than I'd imagined and a week has already passed since the first - so a fifth of the way there - or 20% - whichever is shorter - or longer? I usually take the 73 to Euston Square and walk the last 15 minutes and as the weather has been glorious and the route takes in plenty of little coffee shops and delis - it is the sort of rambling I enjoy. On the way back I often find myself in JL having a mooch, or coffee, or lunch.

Radiotherapy is no more than lying on a bed in the same position every day (the lasers are matched up to my tattoos) while they shoot a high dose x ray at my boob - first from top right - then the machine rotates and shoots it from bottom left. The whole thing takes about 5 minutes - and leaves the skin looking a little sunburned - but that's about it. They say that the side effects will start to kick in after about 3 weeks - but for now I am pretty well and active with just the odd bout of fatigue. My legs have good days (like yesterday - when I managed a whole day's shopping with Helen) and less good (like today - when I have had to spend all afternoon in bed) - but I am so grateful for the good days and the bad ones seem to be getting less frequent.

I took both the children with me to the hospital separately and the staff were fantastic - letting them play with all the buttons, lie on the bed and watch me on the camera. After Luc asked me last week if you could die from radiotherapy I decided that demystifying the whole process could only be a good thing. Their different reactions to the whole thing were interesting - Emily - as usual - fairly sang froid - apparently able to read the x ray they showed her at first glance but decide that the whole thing was a lot less interesting than the planned trip to JL to meet my cousin Jane and choose baby items. Luc worried about the fact that everyone had to leave the room during the treatment, asking why it was safe for me to still be in there. He also insisted on the obligatory JL visit (I have taught them well) but for nothing as frivolous as baby browsing. He was desperate for me to buy him a diary which he now writes in religiously and secretly every evening at his big desk using his box of sharp red Luc Domange pencils.

Half term approaches and I have somehow ended up with 9am appointments every day while the kids are in Shropshire and I have no need to get up at 7am - but it means I then have the whole day to do other important things - such as watch back to back DVDs of Lost series 3 which my lovely neighbours are kindly passing to me one by one. Improbable though the whole thing is - there is something compelling to me about a group of people whose lives explode and they find themselves in an entirely new world, lost, afraid and disorientated. After a period of time facing all sorts of demons and reflecting on their past, they come to a clearer understanding of who they are, and adapt to their new surroundings....no surprises there then....

My hair is coming back with enthusiasm - I noticed on the bus as the sun hit my face at a certain angle that even the lone goatee hair on my right cheek had made a comeback. I had hoped it might feel it not worth the effort. The hair on my head is so thick you can no longer see my scalp shining through and I was chuffed when someone asked me how many weeks it had taken to grow so long! (Yes, it was at the cancer clinic - but I was grateful nonetheless.)

I forget that in the outside world I still look as if I've just been discovered having an affair with a German soldier so when I took my hat off in the stifling tube today had to put up with some not very discreet staring - but its a small price to pay.

Summit to summit

He's done it! Anyone who's been reading their blog will know how bloody hard it's been - but finally - after a final 8 hour misery stretch with barely enough oxygen to blow up a balloon, James (Glass) and his mates have made it to the top of Aconagua. Thanks to everyone who has already donated to his super worthy cause - he already has £3,500 to give to The Haven - and counting.

James is third from right in red - small but efficient. Well bloody done cousin!

While some of us are climbing mountains, others are having trouble climbing the stairs. The idea of walking uphill for 8 hours a day just fills me with horror. I have been reassured (sort of) that pains in the leg muscles and joints is par for the course after chemo - particularly the one I've been given - but living in a tall thin house like this one is driving me nuts. I long to live in an appartment where every room is on the same level, and I don't have to spend an hour weighing up the pros and cons of getting a glass of water. I imagine this is what it feels like to be old. I'm sure that all the lying around hasn't helped, and as my newly arrived booklet 'Coping with Fatigue' suggests a walk every day I've been trying to put that into practice. Yesterday once around Clissold Park with Geraldine, today twice round with Helen - and amazingly my legs do seem to be loosening up a little.

Another good weekend - kicked off by a trip to the opera to see La Traviata with Pippa and Nick. Thoroughly enjoyed every minute despite its uncanny parallels with my own life. Could feel everyone holding their breath uneasily throughout Act III as they suddenly remembered how long and drawn out Violetta's death scene actually is - but they needn't have worried - I found it all strangely cathartic. Have made a mental note to stock up on long frilly white nightdresses next time I'm in JL.

Saturday was filled with kids activities and on Sunday I made lunch for Geraldine, Tom and children which was lovely and normal.

There's been some discussion here about my head. Or rather my hair. Having now relegated wigs, scarves and the like to the back of the wardrobe, making do with a new cordouroy cap to brave the elements, the kids are not happy. Not at all happy. They are thrilled to be having friends round on Wednesday for a belated pancake day - sorry - best I could do - but starting to neurose about what I will be wearing (or not) on my head. Luc is afraid that people will laugh at me and therefore laugh at him (a fate worse than death) and Emily is still pretending that none of this is happening - so both have a vested interest in getting me wigged up for Wed. The au pair said she thought they were both being incredibly selfish and that they should support me, whatever I looked like - and that it isn't all that bad anyway - but I could see it both ways. I don't want to embarrass them, but nor do I want to walk around my own home feeling hot and uncomfortable - and if I'm really honest - I'm quite proud of my new super soft crop. What the kids don't realise is that children don't really care about other people's parents - only their own - but I guess that's enough.

I can't believe that I only have one more day of this relative freedom before I will once again be a slave to the treatment. I remember at the beginning of chemo, counting each one off and trying to constantly juggle the numbers in my head - 2 down, a third of the way etc. Five weeks every day just seems insurmountable at this moment, although of course I know it isn't. Just another mountain to climb.

Treatment Part Three

Either I am becoming immune to medical appointments, or I really am approaching the end of the tunnel. My experience at the radiotherapy planning this morning was more than I'd hoped for. The staff were all lovely, informative, organised and helpful. I felt as if I was in the safest hands. Dr Plowman was chatty and positive, and when I commented that I felt sure I was going to get rid of this cancer - he said - 'If it hasn't already gone'. Now that's more like it.

I've been given my appointment schedule, which apart from a couple of afternoon appointments, means that I will be given my 15 minute dose of radiotherapy every morning between 9 and 10am which suits me very well - up, out, nuke, shop. They also tattooed three dots onto me - one on each side and one in the middle - which hurt like hell. Hats off to the Beckhams - their pain threshold obviously greater than mine. I asked about turning one of the dots into a heart and the young, rather good looking male nurse gave me the kind of look you would normally reserve for an old lady on the bus.

Along with the 25 sessions, I also get 4 massages - roughly one a week - and plenty of opportunity to talk to the breast care nurse as well as a weekly catch up with Dr P.

Starting as I mean to go on I diverted into John Lewis directly after the session to buy a couple of home phones (none working) and then onto M&S to get Emily some new school uniform as she has already grown out of the stuff I got her back in September, via Borders where I got a couple of paperbacks for reading on the bus. I am seriously worried about my bank balance at the end of radiotherapy and may need people to come with me just to hold my credit cards.

So first session 6th Feb and all finished on 11th March....

Peaks and troughs

For everyone who has asked me about my cousin James' progress in climbing the highest mountain in the western hemisphere - here is a link to their blog - which sadly for James (also known as Glass or Glasson - my maiden name) makes many a reference to his diminutive stature and inability to tell the difference between a water bottle and a pee bottle - oh dear - may take some time to live that one down.... Also, I do have to say that while I'm not sure who's writing the blog I do hope that he's better at climbing mountains than he is at spelling.....!

Anyway - here's the link - and keep cheering them on - your generous donations have already raised £3,380 for the wonderful Breast Cancer Haven and there's still time to help him reach his £10k target...

http://www.humanedgetech.com/expedition/amg/

And here's the link to his fundraising page once again...

http://www.justgiving.com/jamesglasson

I'm off to see the oncologist / radiographer (?) tomorrow at 9am for my planning appointment. Not sure what to expect except that it will take about an hour of prodding, poking, measuring and weighing so they can work out the exact location and dosage for the next lot of nuking. I will also be given the first bit of my schedule for the actual treatments which I'm expecting to start some time next week for 25 sessions - every weekday for five weeks. Francois is in France so I am hoping that I will deal with any psychological fallout with my usual serenity.

Feeling pretty good at the moment, still buzzing from the weekend's excitement (despite having spent the early part of this evening explaining to Luc why I cannot just go and buy tickets for the next 20 Arsenal games and that while I have every intention of putting his name down for a season ticket, he'll be lucky if he gets one in my lifetime....) In a stroke of genius I have suggested that he practises catching and throwing every day after school so that he can try out as a ball boy when he's 12!

Emily enjoying her switch from Guides to Scouts - while she was very attached to the Guides, the one remaining leader seemed to find it impossible to organise any camping or outward bound activities. Emily now has three trips planned including a weekend on a canoe and an all day 'incident' hike. Assuming that these 'incidents' do not involve a sofa, a good book and a large bar of fruit and nut, there are times when I cannot believe we are related.

Have finally bitten the passport bullet and filled in the forms today, complete with my Myra mugshot. I was wondering about waiting another month until my hair growth reaches a number one, but decided that with Easter holidays approaching swiftly, this was one high risk strategy I can live without. Serial killer travel documents will now be mine for the next ten years. My friend Steve cheered me up by showing me his passport photo - if we travel together we'll be in serious trouble...

Five Star Football

(Arsenal hats come in very useful for bald chicks)


If someone had told me even 2 days ago that I would spend Saturday afternoon in a box at Arsenal Emirates stadium watching them thrash Newcastle (3-0) and Luc have 'the best day of his life', I wouldn't have believed it. Uncertainty works both ways.

The weekend started well with a great Friday night - food, wine, thai curry (no trips to the microwave) and friends - who had to be forcibly removed at 2am... the sign of a good evening. Francois has had to work all weekend (again) so I did the ballet/piano run, fed the kids on the run ((Un)Happy Meal for Luc and Pret a Manger for Emily who won't touch junk food) came home and listened to my meditation cd for half an hour then headed off to pre-match HQ aka the Azzopardi household where I finally worked out what the beer fridge is all about.

Walking that last stretch of Gillespie Road, nostrils filled with the smell of cheap burgers, the street a blaze of red and white, Luc's eyes shining with excitement, and the air thick with anticipation, I wondered how I could have lived this close to it all for so long and never once been caught up in it.

Expecting seats in the stands, we found out at the last minute that due to the extreme kindness and organisation of our friends - you know who you are - thank you so so much - we'd got front row seats in a box behind the goal. The feeling of walking from a carpeted corridor out to a stadium filled with 67,000 people is pretty hard to describe. Suffice to say that all the sporting cliches suddenly made sense - it was pure magic - only equalled by the look on Luc's face for the next 90 minutes....He was so unbelievably cute - ears sticking out from his junior gunners hat, waving my newly purchased red and white scarf at every goal and screaming his little lungs out - all the songs and chants - as if he'd been a thousand times before. Beccy provided an incredibly useful commentary and taught Luc some essential skills such as crossing your fingers for a corner kick and sticking maltezers between your top lip and your teeth - thanks pal!

I can still see him waving at the Newcastle supporters, shouting 'Bye bye, it's a long way home, bye bye, it's a long way home' ...and getting on the phone within seconds of the finish to chant '3 nil, to the Ar..se...nal, 3 nil, to the Ar..se..nal' to anyone he could think of....are boys born with this wired into their hard drive?

And as if that wasn't enough - after the game I was allowed to drink beer and talk bollocks at the Bank of Friendship - the perfect end to a perfect 24 hours...

Just one question...when can I go again?

The Bits Between

It is now impossible to buy a chicken. A decent one that is. I have never in my life bought that factory farmed rubbish but it takes a tv chef to point out the horrors and suddenly us loyal organic, free rangers are left with nothing but value packs of flabby, flavourless plastic chicken. Having set my heart on making a thai green curry I was forced to go to the John Lewis food hall this week in pursuit of skinned thighs - is this really the only shop in London or is it me?

Feeling much better since my midweek moan. For everyone who has phoned, emailed or sent me that year's supply of prozac, I have to admit that the act of writing it all down is its own medicine. So while you are reading my suicidal ramblings, I am actually blending coriander and lemongrass and and feeling pretty good.

Luc has been off school for 2 days with a bad cold and slight temperature - and a certain degree of anxiety. He really does pick up on my mood by osmosis. I never neurose in front of the children, I try my best to behave a normally as possible around them but they cannot be fooled. This morning - a propos of nothing - he wrote me the following questionnaire (all sic)...

1. How many cemo have you had?

1 2 3 4 5 6 Circle the number.

2. How many radiotherapy have you had?

0 1 2 3 4 5 Same

3. When you have drugs do you feel weird in side your tumy?

Yes No tick this time.

I filled it in and he then wrote

Well done. Exelent work. Next time Ill give you more questuns.

He's gone back to telling me he loves me more than I love him about a hundred times a day. When I asked him why, he said it was because he was scared I was going to die. His cold seemed much better so I took him out for a toasted sandwich and reassured him that next year we would be having double, treble fun and that I'd be around to shout at him to do his piano practice for many years to come.

I never imagined that something like this could happen to me. I still can't really believe it. I have always felt so damned lucky - but as someone said on the radio this morning - 'happiness is the bit between the painful episodes'. Perhaps giving my children that inate knowledge at this early stage in their lives will actually improve their experience of it.

So I am back to cooking my organic curry and appreciating the bits between. Luc is happily eating an iced bun in front of Curious George and has practised both hands - twice.

Midweek moan

The trouble with writing sweeping statements such as 'My cancer has gone' is that it is a) tempting fate and b) possibly not true. Depressing trip to see the oncologist yesterday where among other less important things he expressed his deep concern over the ufo on the other side - the one that I just have to live with until another MRI scan becomes possible in 6 months -though he did say it was highly unusual for a woman of my age to have cancer in both breasts. Well that's a relief.

He was rushed off his feet with several people waiting and clearly did not have the time or the inclination for a heart to heart chat about my situation. I realise intellectually that his attitude means I am becoming generally less interesting to him as his work is largely done - and only the radiotherapy remains - but it is impossible to explain how demoralising a meeting of this kind can be.

Cancer patients hang onto the doctor's every word. They try to read between the lines. They analyse every sentence, every look and every movement, looking for those vital clues that could mean the difference between life or death. Sometimes it takes days or weeks to unravel a 7 minute interview.

In any event, nothing new came of our brief chat - he is satisfied with the impact of the chemo - despite the fact that active cancer cells still remained before surgery - it is indeed good news that the lymph nodes were not affected - but there is always a possibility that it will come back.
He confirmed that I will have 25 sessions of radiotherapy (still to be arranged) every day for 5 weeks after which time I must put it all behind me, 'look after my children and get on with my life'. All good advice but a crystal ball would have been better.

Francois very sweetly offered to take me to John Lewis after the appointment (desperate times) but I didn't have the heart. Just wanted to go home and worry. He then suggested a quick trip to the pub as kids were both out which I initially refused on the basis that 'I can never drink alcohol again or I may get secondaries...' but then realised how pathetic I was being so reneged. There is always a choice - but sometimes it's hard to see it.

We were going to go to the old fashioned, friendly pub on the corner, but while passing Ryan's Bar on Church St Francois spotted friend through the window so we changed plans. While he was catching up on old times, I was left at the bar next to a drunken old Scot who lunged at my headscarf, nearly knocking it sideways, saying 'You in chemo then?'

Having asked me what my prognosis was (I only forgave him because he was drunk as a skunk) he declared that he was an alcoholic (no kidding) which meant that luckily he'd have a fast and painless death from a heart attack or stroke and not a slow painful one from cancer.

Oh my God!

Have ordered a book called 'The certainty of uncertainty' from Amazon and am never leaving the house again.

Spend spend spend

What happens to a girl who's been deprived of shopping for 6 months? I'm sure I do not need to spell it out. One long brown 'coatigan', one deliciously soft knitted dress, several presents for the kids and a North Face ski jacket later I am in self imposed house arrest.

I must be feeling better as my little barometer boy has reverted to type and spent half an hour before bedtime shouting that he hated me because I wouldn't let him play on the computer and Emily burst into tears this morning when I said she couldn't go to youth club tonight as she is too tired. Isn't life wonderful.

Great time with my sister Helen - it is a shame that it takes a life crisis for us to realise how much the ordinary, everyday pleasures mean to us. I vow to spend far more time doing things I enjoy and far less time trying to please everyone around me. I seem to have been given a new set of priorities which I always knew existed, but didn't have the motivation to enforce. So much of what I did until this point in my life was based on fear - fear of failing, fear of being judged etc. I wouldn't say that I am now not afraid of anything, but the list is pretty damned short.

I was asking a fellow sufferer yesterday about the impact of radiotherapy, and she said it was fine but left her incredibly tired. Not sick, ill, terror tired - just normal tired - the kind of tired where you're asleep before your head touches the pillow......I can't wait.

And Francois has insisted that we spend a week in the mountains in April - an old French remedy for all things convalescent, Snow or no snow - I will be more than content to walk around breathing fresh fresh air and wearing my lovely new jacket...

The small hours

You’d think I’d have conked out like a light after today which is now yesterday. But no. The sleep switch is still set to wide awake as it always is these days. Have crept downstairs again to think about things and wonder whether I can really allow myself the luxury of not worrying. The oncologist will give me my risk factors and talk about ‘the bigger picture’ when I see him on Tuesday but despite having the best possible news I can’t quite let go of the nagging doubts. This is a strange feeling. As if I’ve come to the end of a journey I’m still in the middle of. I fear it may not be wise to let down my guard completely, because even in best case scenarios there is always the possibility that the cancer will come back, even though there is a good probability that it will not. Uncertainty is still the only certainty - even if the odds are getting better.

The children, and Luc in particular, is like a little barometer of me. Tonight I told them that the good news and we opened some Champagne and had a toast to which he raised his glass and danced around shouting 'No more cancer!' I still feel as if I'm in a film where nothing is real and I can see myself from the outside looking in.

Why is it I never feel as I think I'm going to? At every step of this journey I need to regroup, re-evaluate and reconsider. It is exhausting. I know that tomorrow and the next day and hopefully for many days after I will feel real and profound joy at doing simple things that have been so difficult since July. I can't wait to watch a TV programme all the way through, to read a good book and to cook again - and maybe one day I will put my head on the pillow and fall asleep for 8 straight hours. For now I wish there were no nights, only days.

Life is sweet

I soon will have nothing left to write about, or even talk about for that matter. Today Mr Carpenter who shall now be known as the lovely Dr Rob, gave me the best news ever. My cancer has gone. None of the lymph nodes he removed were affected (even the ones that went blue - showing that the tumour was draining into them) and my margins are completely clear. This means that it is unlikely to have spread. We had another chat about his wonderful needlework and I'm all set for a precautionary 5 weeks of radiotherapy. Will talk to the oncologist about that next week.

I'm not sure that this would have happened without the support of so many amazing people over the last few months who have kept me together in mind, body and spirit and to whom I am truly thankful.

In true pre cancer style, I celebrated immediately with some extensive sale shopping in Marylebone High Street and a fab fishy lunch washed down with two glasses of Champagne with my sister (who needed sustenance after blubbing all the way from Dr Rob's office to the restaurant...) Have come home with oysters from Fishworks and two boxes of cakes from Patisserie Valerie...

Yippee!

New Year's resolutions

I don't know whether it's post op euphoria but I can honestly say I haven't felt this happy in years....I once asked the counsellor at The Haven if she thought it were possible to ever feel happiness again after a cancer diagnosis and she assured me that not only was it possible but that the quality of the happiness would be better and more profound than before. Hard to grasp when you're in the middle of chemo and feel as if your life is over. Having got the biggest part of the treatment over, every single moment of the day seems to have something to recommend it.

Matt and Suzanne came for impromptu supper last night which was when I realised I'd forgotton how to cook. They very bravely sat through cold, congealed, overcooked pasta with clumpy mushroom sauce followed by leftover Xmas sweets and lychees for pudding. And to be quite honest I couldn't care a less. It was so lovely to share food and trips to the microwave with them that the quality of the food seemed irrelevant. They may not agree....I did, however, spend a good part of this afternoon reading a Bill Granger recipe book - realise I will have to get back in the game at some point.

I am also so excited about the return of hair to my head (nowhere else yet - nose still drips without warning) that I have all but abandoned head coverings unless in very public (or very cold) places. I know I look like a straight cross between a tennis ball and a welcome mat (a soft and fluffy one) but again, I don't really care. Is it something about getting the unidentified object out of my body at long last? Probably.

My sister is coming up tomorrow for a couple of days to accompany me to the consultant for my path results on Tuesday and thankfully to cook for us all so I promise to look and learn...


Spent some time in hospital thinking about my New Year's resolutions which have boiled down to this:

Learn to play the guitar
The lovely and talented Steve Stanley has already agreed to give me some lessons and a new set of strings for the doggy old guitar that's been cluttering up the sitting room for 14 years...

Say yes to everything I want to do
Invited to a 50th birthday party in Spain in May where I don't know anyone except the birthday boy and as yet have no childcare but have said yes.

Get incredibly fit
Have booked cheap ski holiday in Avoriaz for 5th April - just a couple of weeks after radiotherapy finishes. Have no idea how much skiing I'll be capable of but I promise to at least walk around in the snow, go up and down in the lift and drink plenty of vin chaud - ok ok - I haven't had a complete personality change...

Say no to everything I don't want to do
Work in progress

Stop biting my nails
Dream on

Onwards and upwards

Just to let you know that I am back from surgery - and on fighting form. I cannot believe how relieved I am that another step of the journey is over, and that it appears to have gone well. I am not cracking open the Champagne as I will not get the all important pathology report until Tuesday, but certainly from an aesthetic p.o.v. Mr Carpenter has excelled himself. My left boob intact with nothing but a couple of neat scars which will probably fade to nothing. I wonder if he would consider making me some curtains...

Having been in a state of utmost anxiety the day and night before the op, the recovery itself was really quite pleasant - thank you BUPA for letting me go to the London Clinic where toiletries are from Molton Brown and the food on a par with a reasonable gastropub. The nurses were angels and I was completely and utterly spoiled for the duration. If it wasn't for the fact I was very keen to see the kids and empty the sky plus box they'd have had a hard job prising me out of bed this morning.

I was also very excited to meet a real live breast care nurse who was able to answer many of my unanswered questions and whose phone number I now have tattooed on my forehead. Thanks so much by the way Anna Liebowitz!!! How long has it been since I have seen you???!! I will most definitely contact one of your guys next time I am lying awake having a cancer angst moment - I had forgotton about that though I was given the number at the beginning of this journey....

Having information and someone to talk to is so vital in maintaining a positive attitude - something which is now thankfully restored to La Domange....

I was also incredibly touched to receive a lovely card from Clare Campbell and all the staff and kids at St J of A - containing - and I know many of you will be deeply jealous - a headteacher's silver sticker award!!! I am not only the first person in this house to receive one but apparently the first parent to be awarded such an honour. It is sitting safely in the flap of my diary to be framed and treasured - and brought out to annoy the children....

Can't type any more now as left arm still a bit wobbly and I've just replied to nearly all of my 64 emails (thanks everyone) but will keep you updated on this girl's progress...

Moment of truth

Finally had surgery confirmed for tomorrow. No food or drink after 12 - hospital at 3pm - and surgery at around 6pm. I haven't been at all worried about this until the reality set in and now, of course, I'm wondering whether to leave notes for everyone in case I never wake up. There is also the realisation that whatever has been lurking deep within me for two and a half years, is about to be unmasked, unrobed and laid bare. A prognosis in the offing.

At each new twist in the road it feels a bit like being diagnosed all over again. I know now though that resistance is futile and the best thing to do is to let the shock waves ride over you until you come out the other side.

My high jinks at new year were followed by two days in bed, aching from head to toe - which I believe from talking to fellow sufferers on my website is par for the course after chemo. That and a left leg that just goes dead from time to time and has permanent pins and needles. One of the frustrating things about this is the fact that there isn't anyone who is accessible on a day to day basis to tell you whether what you are experiencing is normal and to guide you through symptom management. Apparently in France there is a team of doctors you can talk to but here, apart from having a blurry 3.5 minutes with a consultant every 3 months or so, you are pretty much left to fend for yourself.

Took Emily shopping for black boots today and got a fab pair in the sale at Russell & Bromley - almost a reasonable price - along with some teen lingerie (say no more). She seems to have grown in the last week. I felt tired and grumpy and snapped all day at her and long suffering mum instead of enjoying the quality time. Everything seems to have so much more significance than it used to. I always used to be grumpy but it didn't matter. Now everything matters.

Luc went to bed feeling ill again as he always does the night before I go to hospital. I forget sometimes that if this seems interminably long for me, it is forever and a day for him. He came back from Shropshire so buoyant and thrilled with his new room and I have knocked the stuffing out of him. I know that once I am up and about again he will be fine but I know that this will change the course of my childrens' lives in a way I never imagined when they were born. It's a hefty responsibility.

The house is back to its pre Christmas chaos with all beds taken and no personal space at all. It's like living in a commune. And yet every person is here because of me so I can't complain. Though of course I do.

The au pair came back from her holiday laden with gifts including - and I think this wins her the coveted top au pair award - a fresh truffle - which is nestling in a little jar in the door of my fridge to be lovingly grated onto fresh pasta with mushrooms for my final meal tonight. I wonder if anyone would mind if I ate it alone, in bed? Given my current mood they will probably rejoice.

Happy New Year!

The exclamation mark in the title is there for my great and gorgeous friend Nicky with whom I spent a brilliant day yesterday. Bought fab furry lined brown boots in the Brent Cross sale - completely thrilled that I could actually do them up. It was only when I got to the till I realised that they were labelled Gabor 'Comfort' which evidently translates as big girl boots. Still I have searched high and low for such a useful item to add to my meagre wardrobe so am very happy. Also stocked up on clothes for the kids having spent an hour fighting with Luc on boxing day about his outfit and realising that he only had one (dirty) pair of trousers and one (ankle flapping) pair of tracky bottoms to choose from. All his tops had short sleeves and had become navel grazers over the autumn. Emily has turned into a child who no longer wears socks so I tried to get her a few items to keep her top half warm. She seems to think that the ideal outfit for sub zero temperatures is a pair of shorts over leggings worn with canvas pumps and a skimpy t-shirt.

My week of rest and relaxation has gone by in a flash. New Year's Eve was fantastic - and I can honestly say one of my best ever. Ate, danced, drank and sung until 3am - and survived - a bit like the old days - maybe better. Seeing Nicky was lovely - with no kids (her four farmed out to various kind friends) we came back home, ate yummy thai curry (cooked by Nicky) and watched Little Miss Sunshine (so funny) and chatted until the small hours. Again - a bit like old times.

Apart from a quick blood test this morning to ascertain whether my bloods are good enough for surgery on Tuesday - spent the rest of the day sorting out heaps of toys and junk from Luc's room and putting them neatly back into his new wardrobes which look fantastic. Francois commented that if Ikea sold these things ready made they would not be enjoying the same success. He is in the Ikea afterglow right now having built something with his bare hands -clearly a crucial part of their marketing plan.

Kids are having a great week in Shropshire - entertained largely by my sister Helen and brother in law Mark who've been carting them around the countryside - including a trip to Wolverhampton to see Dick Whittington starring the Crankys and Dirty Den (sorry guys - would loved to have joined you for that...) Emily stayed up for New Year's Eve for the first time and told me that all the adults were drunk and started jiving - some things are the same everywhere.

So just a few more days of freedom before next week when hopefully my op will go ahead as planned - it will be hard to get back into the treatment reality - but the break has been more than welcome.

Happy and healthy new year to you all - and thanks so much for everyone who has sponsored James so far. The Haven are thrilled! (Just one more for you Nic...)

In case you missed out on December's blog - here's James' web page link again - please do have a look at what he will be doing in 2 weeks...http://www.justgiving.com/jamesglasson