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...