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.