Bah Christmas-Cancer-Humbug!

Tis the season to be jolly. Mince pies, christmas pudding, chocolates, cakes, buns, biscuits, caramel treats....all sorts of lovliness. Pity I feel like barfing.

December and I feel Scroogie. I'm having a major Scroogie moment where all I want to do is banish Tiny Tim to the cold store and ration his lumps of coal to just one. Bah Humbug!

In the library the other day, I hesitated in taking my hat off - what is it? always with the hair - I was tired and didnt know if I had the energy to expose myself again. Dont worry, the only thing I was exposing was my head but still, its a heralding of my 'condition'. There were two computers across the way being used, one girl, she barely glanced at me. The other, and I have somehow developed a sixth sense about these things contained two ladies, relatively mature, in their mid forties. The hat comes off. I perceive them looking, their heads dip together, I hear them whisper, can periferally see them consult then both look up. Right...I feel particularly evil, so I look up and swivel my head, Damien-style and stare right at them....I see you, I mentally scream..and I know you're talking about me....HOW RUDE!
The older of the two offers a watery pity smile before bowing her head again. The younger lady can't even look at me. I glare...if only it was capable of running a small generator....this glare of mine...I would never need to pay an electricity bill again. BAH HUMBUG to you ladies and your badly permed updo!

I had a mini-pity party yesterday, just a mini one. It lasted for around three minutes. Thankfully, it was short lived. There was a girl in the coffee shop (Oh how we like to beat ourselves with the sticks of other people's perfection), she was gorgeous, I mean totally gorgeous, the most amazing flowing locks of coffee coloured hair, shiny and luscious, a walking advert for L'oreal 'Cause I'm Worth It!'. She had legs which went on forever, a waist the size of a thimble and the face...well, she turned around at the last minute, just when I was sheepishly, in a moment of weakness, reaching for my beanie cap to cover my patchy bald head. It was almost automatic, my tretcherous hand was inching its way, automaton across the table, in a real jesture of betrayal. Anyway, back to this Amazonia goddess, she was lovely, really really lovely, until she turned around and I realised, hey, she is just normal. Like all women. She has her flaws. It made me feel instantaneously better when I realised that she was not a reincarnation of a female Adonis. Shallow I know.

My hair has started to grow back. And its started to fall out. AGAIN! At the same time...how is this even possible? So I have new tufts of growth, like willowy rushes on my hair, interspersed with bald..... so amazingly attractive and a great conversation started, especially with complete strangers in the que at the supermarket. Though it does get a bit weird if they ask to touch it.

I think now that my hair is growing back and that I'm coming to the end of my chemo...yippeeeeee...I feel like Im about to re-embark into the real world again and I'm scared.
I'm not the same person I was six months ago, I can't just pick up the pieces and reboot my life. It will never be the same again. I will never be the same again.

I have the minor detail of radiotherapy to go through and five years of tamoxifen but the completion of the chemo seems to be the milestone, the marker for the road to recovery. Don't get me wrong, I'm setting my Sat Nav to that road and I'm high tailing it onto that track but I wonder what type of person I will be when I get onto that road. I wonder if I have lost a little of myself along the way?

It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't gone through all of this. I mourn the loss of a lot of things and especially the loss of the little bits of me that I won't be able to get back. I don't know if I will ever be able to walk into a room with the same confidence as before, to be able to approach situations the same way. This whole cancer business has left an unsightly mark, in actuality and figuratively on me and I needed a little time to shed a pseudo tear for the once Amazon within me. I will never be that way again, I've turned around in the coffee que so to speak and Ive realised that we are all not so different.

I wish it was over, properly over now, not just the last day of the chemo session but the ten days after where you feel particularly shit. But soon, soon, I will be reaching the end of my Everest climb.


Roll on christmas, some home cooking, some sleep, some mum and dad time and some well deserved rest.

Happy Christmas everyone. C x

The Baby Question

What seems like a million years ago, I was confronted with the decision of choosing between surgery or chemotherapy as the first step on this thing called my cancer journey. The choice was put forward to allow me to decide about babies.
I could start with surgery and have a window of a few weeks to make decisions about harvesting eggs, stimulating oestrogen and doing some further potential damage to my hormones. I was offered an emergency appointment with the fertility clinic as I had decided to go with surgery first, giving me approximately four weeks, back in July/August to try to gain information on this whole unknown area.
Fertility, pregnancy and babies was not something at 28 years of age that I had spent a great deal of time thinking about. So I waited for an appointment, juggling the pros and cons around in my head, soul searching to see if children was something I badly wanted.
Ask me pre-cancer diagnosis my attitude towards children and I would have probably have said something dismissive and  non-committal. Sure I have loads of time to be thinking babies...not until I'm mid-way through my next decade do I need to seriously consider 'The Baby Question'.
I had loads of time, more time than I actually needed to think about this issue. My appointment for sometime in July, arrived and was not timetabled till the end of November, months after my surgery window. So all the potential for egg harvesting etc. was pretty defunct as I am now three quarters way through my chemo and the damage is already done. Tamoxifen here I come. Potential early menopause; no escaping and five years of waiting and seeing.
When I eventually dragged myself to my fertility appointment in November, I had even considered not going and was subsequently in a wicked mood because I was thinking 'whats the point?'. I had resolved myself to the fact that I didn't want babies anyway so it's no big deal and practically pointless even going to the clinic.
But I went anyway.
Rule number one in coming to the clinic... you had to bring your partner. It said so in capital letters on the end of the appointments page...so I think that means that it is capitally important. On my high horse and in a wicked mood, as I already said, I felt totally and illogically slighted. What if I didn't have a partner to bring with me, I muttered in the car, on the drive to the clinic, practically running over a pedestrian or two for good measure.  Not only am I in the one boob, no hair department but now I'm potentially penalised for being single and wishing to go to the fertility clinic.  As a form of protest, I thought about boycotting the whole thing.  I imagined how people who find themselves in this situation and in a moment of desperation much seriously consider kidnapping some unsuspecting man and threatening him with some form of pain if he did not go along with their wicked ploy to deceive their way into the clinic.
Turns out I do have a partner and didn't need to resort to violence or crime, but I still felt in a huff, on behalf of those people.
Though on the day of the appointment I almost did resort to violence...on my partner. Walking in to the clinic he meets someone he knows, a very attractive looking, full haired women (I'm in a very unsightly beanie hat and have very little eyebrows remaining, so not feeling on top of my game in the attractive stakes!). She makes polite conversation and asks if we are going in for a swim (clinic is in a complex which contains a gym, library, coffee shop etc...any of these are plausable reasons to be going in the doors of this establishment would have done).  BUT NO.  In response to her query my boyfriend replies, 'oh, were just going into the clinic'.
Ground...open up... and swallow me! Now she probably thinks I have some kind of STI or strange mental illness, to go with my crazed look and equally crazed choice of head wear. The prospect of lying and saying were going to the coffee shop, or the library to renew membership...anything, anything but that....had not crossed his mind.
Ughhhh.
At least he is a terrible liar. A good characteristic I suppose.

So, after having a tiff at the reception desk, we make our way to the waiting area. About thirty empty chairs and us. I fill out the forms, all fifty million pages of them, and stare out the window. Disgusted at my inability.
Inability at what, I'm not sure, but I feel like a big let down. I don't know why, it's just that at 28, sitting in a fertility clinic is not the top of you're '100 things to do before I die' list.

Two minutes later I find myself in the office of the fertility man, can't pronounce his name, as its long winded and foreign and I'm too grouchy to ask him to repeat it (normally I'm good at that sort of thing). Anyway I take off my hat and hope that that speaks enough for the situation I find myself, being bald and all, but no, I need to go through in detail my diagnosis and treatment.

We talk about hormones, side effects, oestrogen stimulation and then he draws me a diagram. The body clock 35 self destruct diagram. I mean I subconsciously take on these subjects, through conversations with my older friends, clips from radio programmes, extracts from magazines, I know all about the 35 plateau.  things. After 35 years its down hill in terms of egg production.
So he charted out this graph, age on the bottom line, percentage of eggs on the vertical line. Ok, so Im with you Doc. Typical number of eggs and their decline as you approach 35. hmmm I get it, I get it. Then in red pen he draws my line...........Eeekkkkkkkk, really crap line, really really crap line, it goes down, rapidly. and by all accounts post tamoxifen in five years time, I would want to be strapped up to the starting block, having done my warm up and ready to run the baby making race right from the word go.
He mentioned my options and they went like this, stimulate ovaries at risk of messing with oestrogen post tamoxifen if the little feckers are on a go slow. Wait to see naturally if the lights come back on after the extended five year power cut, or take your uterus and plant someone else's fertilised egg in there.
I'm not a prude, I think, and I'm all for medical progression in every field. When he said this I was uncomfortable, someone else's baby in me, not that it would be someone else's baby technically, it would be mine but would it? The room is getting very hot now and I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable. I don't know if I could do that, in fact I don't know if I can do any of that, babies, oestrogen, pushing, melon...ughhhhhh.
We shake hands, I say I'll come back in eight months when I know what drug regime I'm on and we will talk further.

As we leave I pass out through the waiting area. There are three couples sitting there. They all look up as I swing open the revolving doors. Each of them have some kind of soft desperation in their eyes, well, the women anyway, and I understand how hard it is to not be able to do the one thing that you thought you could always do, the one thing that you were made to do, the one thing that others are doing all the time, all around you. For a moment they all look at me and instant pity flashes through their faces and I can literally see it. They think, God, our situation is shite but at least I'm not as bad as her.

I jam my beanie cap back on my head and try not to cry on the drive home. I'm not even sure why, he hadn't told me anything I didn't know already. And I don't even know if I even want children, its something that I've never had strong feelings about.
However...
There is nothing like wanting something you're told you cant have.

Rookie Nurse!

I'm feeling a bit miserable after my chemo session and just want to crawl into bed and sleep for a week to get over the worst of the 'chemo chronics'.  But to top things off, one day after my chemo, I need to have an injection. There is just no escaping pointy sharp needles and discomfort.
So I drag myself out of bed by about 4 in the evening (dont judge me for being still in my pyjamas on these days post chemo - Im lucky that Im even lucid!). I feel like warmed up gruel which has been scraped off the sole of a long distance runner's shoe.
Knock, knock, knock...I limp-drag myself to the door and grunt a welcome.
Brittany is here...she's new. I havent seen her before. The whiteness of her uniform is slightly blinding....Welcome the District Nurse!
Chatter, chatter, chatter, chatter...it's like white noise. She is beaming, smiley, the picture of buxom health. I glare at her from beneath my beanie hat, if I had eyebrows they would be cocked in disdain.....OHhhhhhhhhh for the comfort of my bed.
But I remember my manners and smile semi-politely, leading the way to the front room and the icky injection which Ive just taken out of the fridge, where it was nestled somewhere between the avocados, brussel sprouts, pot of custard and my house mates cherizo sausage.....
I've not had Brittany administer an injection before but Im too tired to care at this stage, so I flop down onto the couch.
She waves her hand around my face, wiggling her fingers in my general direction. Im not really sure what she is at but I finally get the idea....she is showing off her engagement ring.
Im barely conscious and couldnt give a bats ass about her newly engaged status or the long drawn out story of the engagement process. Im more concerned by the fact that she openly admits to me that she is not supposed to be wearing the ring at work. I pucker a little frown and ask a tentative 'why'. The reason being that it is a place for infection and nurses are not allowed to wear jewellery.
Hmmmm, I'm a little nervous at this admission. She is freely telling me she is not supposed to be wearing a ring and Im infection prone...she looms over me....ARGGgghhhhhhh
She whips off the top of a large needle.
I hate needles, she giggles.
Yes love...but Im the one who has to endure it.....
Something tells me she is a newbie and hasn't done many injections. I don't know what quite gave it away but the stabbing action and feeling like a pincushion might have been the sealing evidence in the case of Brittany The Rookie Nurse!
Finally there is silence and she has left. Tomorrow the nurse will be back to change the dressing on my PICC line. Yipee - something to look forward to.

My PICC is my friend.
At the beginning, the prospect of getting it in terrified me. The potential that I would have to limit my movement and curtail my left hand was a bit daunting. The thought of a tube threaded through a vein in my upper arm right down into my chest seemed a bit surreal but then week after week I realised how much I rely on my PICC line to make my chemo treatments easier, to bypass the thin,weak veins in my left arm and to make sure that the chemo drugs do as little damage to my veins as is possible. Now, the PICC is my friend and I cant quite remember what it was like not having it.
In the shower I get to wear a sexy plastic arm bands to keep my line dry and then my functional white bandage, like a widows arm band, on my forearm for day time wearing...truely versatile with any outfit.

The one thing Im paranoid about with my PICC is the 2 centimetre window of movement. It cant come out beyond that two centimetres... (oh yes the picc line can move out of your arm if your not careful and its not taped down within an inch of its life). If it comes out, then they have to go through the whole thing all over again, re-xray, remove, replace......A terrifying fate, as the pain in insertion is not something I would wish lightly on anybody. Sometimes I wake up at night with palpitations over the prospect.

Each week with the regular nurses, Denis, Tracey and Hester, I remind them, 'please be careful of the length', I oversee with total ineptitude the dressing changing, eagle eyed when the measuring tape comes out, breath held for the reading, breath exhaled in a long outpour at the good news. Its not nearly near the 20cm mark yet, so Im safe.

Then BRITTANY happens.

She is being suppervised the next day in changing my PICC dressing. I tell myself not to be silly. Everyone must learn and its important to be supportive. Denis hovers nearby, his nervous energy making me jumpy. She is all chat, her ring removed from her finger, now that her supervisor is here. She chats and chats and chats and chats and chats and chats while putting together her bag of tricks, gloves, dressing, gauze, syringe; all unwrapped and placed on the tray.
Next, the unpeeling of the old dressing. She chats and chats and chats and chats.
ARGghgghghghhhhhhhhh, she has pulled off the stereo strip and i can feel a gerk on the line.
'Denis,' I mentally scream, 'Denis save me.'
 I look down and can see the little scab on the line where it used to be attached to my skin. The distance between scab and arm seems massive, THE LINE HAS MOVED.
The room starts to get very hot, my heart rate increases. I can feel beads of sweat forming on my bald head....who sweats on their head?????
I have to ask Denis to step in and fix this....I cant quite breath properly. thankfully Im already sitting down.
Denis finishes the job and I notice his hands are shaking.
Brittany pipes up that she has had four hours of training but never actually done a PICC dressing change. I want to hit her in nose with my fist but of course refrain.....
The tape measure comes out and I'm praying please please please please
20.2
DAMN IT....
It's over 20.


What Ive been worried about week after week, checking religiously the length of the line, calculating in my head the remaining centimetres before it gets past twenty. Worrying that it has moved, being extra careful in how far I move my arm, in the stretching to the top of the cupboard in the kitchen for the box of cereal, in picking up stuff.
The unthinkable has happened. Its gone over 20, even though I have been so careful. Now Ill have to have it xrayed and probably replaced. I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to think of the discomfort the first time around.
I sigh something akin to relief. Its done now and I dont have to worry about it anymore. I have no control over it.

Thanks Brittany, you're a real stress reliever......... :/

Wayward.......

I get one extra week to recover post surgery and I decide to eat!
Every chemo session I stress about those dreaded scales.
'Up you go now, and we will weigh you.'
Unlike a lot of women out there, each time I step on those blasted scales I'm prayin'.....please let my weight be up, please let it be up!
I don't have a scales in my house, so I can only check every three weeks at the hospital.
For the first three chemo sessions it was going down, down, down!
Post surprise surgery, for that whole week (cause I was feeling a little sorry for myself) I ate all the bad things, pasties, carrot cake (there is carrots in it so it must be healthy!), full fat butter on everything, Indian take away (twice!), buns from the bakery (which as a terrible form of temptation is located across the street from my house...they now know me by name, I go in there so often...BAD!). I had corners for hip bones and I am skinny enough to audition for America's Next Top Model.
No Weight = No Chemo = No Finish Before Christmas :(
Docetaxol Day.....heart thumping, shoulder blades vice tight, STRESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
First the scales....up four pounds...wooo hooooooo.....I make a mental note to thank Jenny and Claire, the ladies in the bakery for taking such good care of my sugar craving.
Next, approval from surgeon to go ahead with chemo. Check.
Finally Im staring down the orange black bag of Docetaxol. It looks hazardous. The nurse hooks me up to the  drip and lists off another long list of side effects. I'm not really listening. Its four o'clock and with all the tests  and consultation I have been in the hospital since 9am and have had no snooze. I'm tired and cranky. I imagine what the nurse would do to me if I growled at her, I decide against it. She is, after all, hovering over me with a needle. In my head I think, 'Go AwAy lady...all I want to do is sleep.'
Docetaxol ladies in the treatment room, are identifiable by a range of dark nail varnish on their finger nails. I look down at mine, they are dark red. The colour doesn't suit me but it was the darkest shade I had in my sparse nail polish bag. It's for when your nails fall out....what? My nails will fall out.....bet they didn't write that in the 'Coping with Chemotherapy' handbook.
Supposedly painting the nails keeps the light from getting at them and reduces the chance of them falling out....who knows, Im not really convinced but I, like the other ladies, having no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes and no boob wasn't prepared to take the chance and I'm damn well going to paint my nails, even if the colour is rotten.....just so as there is a chance that they won't fall out.
I shift around in the chair...oh look, what does this remote control do....
ARghhghhghhhhhhh, holy J***s, my chair tilts back and flips up a foot rest, sending me rocketing back into a semi-lying position. My boyfriend tries not to laugh at me, but I can see him smirking. I throw him a couple of dagger looks from my eyes, smiling sweetly at the nurse who is beside me.
'The chairs are remote controlled and recline.'
Now she tells me.....
I feel completely uncomfortable and trapped, hooked up to a drip bag, for an hour. Drip, drip, drip, toxic, drip, drip, drip, chemicals, drip, drip, drip, poison, drip, drip, drip....ughhhhhh, how long has it been now, I ask.
Five minutes.
Drip, drip, drip, crossword puzzle, drip, drip, drip.
How long now?
Ten minutes.
Drip, drip, drip, soup and sandwich trolley, drip, drip, drip, no thanks, drip, drip, drip.
How long now?
Fifteen minutes.
Drip, drip, look out the window, drip, drip, so tired, drip, drip, drip, Cancer - I hate you so much, drip, drip.
I sleep.
I wake up with a start.
How....
He cuts me off.
Ten minutes left.
WOOOOoooo HOOOoooo.
Ten minutes. Maybe if I count 60 elephants ten times that will pass it quicker.
Oh, come on, come on, come on, get this f'en thing out of my arm.
Finally, at five o'clock I get to go home. I'm so tired, I practically drag my limbs behind me.
And into bed....aghhhhhhh BED.
Steroids and anti-sickness tablets are consumed. I put the bucket by my bed, a permanent fixture now in my room. I'm prepared for the pukes, a long night of puking and retching and bile and sweat and grossness.
It doesn't come for me this time. I sleep a couple of hours and feel the nausea but take my medication and I make it all the way through to the next day in one, puke free, piece!
Steroids are great, I buzz around the place for two days, cleaning the house, sweeping up the backyard, surviving comfortably on about four hours sleep.
Then the dreaded side effects...the list is long and thankfully I didn't experience all of them.
Aches and pains and no sleep for about a week.
But no puke, Ill take pain over puke any day.
Eight days after my chemo I'm back to some kind of normal. I meet a friend of mine and she invites me to a lecture in the Arts Centre. I consider it and decide to go, it would be nice to get out, to socialise, to feel somewhat normal again, if even for an hour. I consider what to wear, what goes well with dark red nail varnish.
Eventually I chose something simple, grey sweater dress, tights and boots. I slip my new softie fake boob into the supported tank top, pinning it (I have been warned to pin it, so that it doesn't fall out!Eekkkkk).
We meet for a cuppa and a chat and go into the room for the lecture, I see a few curious looks my way, I am bald after all and realise that some people need to stare. I sit down and I am at the end of the table, directly opposite the speaker. Ah well, its always good to have a clear view.
The lecture starts, about 18 people in total, all sitting around an impressive mahogany table, kinda like a boardroom table.
It's an interesting enough discussion but still, I can't help yawning a bit, I'm tired, its almost 9 o'clock, nearly bedtime. I begin to look around the room at the paintings on the wall and I glance down at my hands, which are folded in my lap and the terrible nail colour.
OHHHHHhh NO!
My boob has wondered off...it's pointing at the right wall of the room. I look up, I can't be staring at my chest in the middle of a room full of strangers. Has anyone noticed? I glance down again and sure enough, left boob is pointing straight and centre, as you would expect and right fake boob has somehow managed to work its way slightly up and to the right, it is literally pointing to the wall on my right hand side. The speaker is looking in my general direction, supposedly trying to convey his point with meaningful eye contact....or else he is staring at my misaligned chest....
It suddenly gets very hot and I begin to fidget. Panic. If only, if only...if only I was sitting some place discreet and could  nudge the softie boob back into some normal position with the inside of my arm. Or better still, if I was alone, I could stick my hand down my top and reposition the blasted thing.
I glance at my friend, she hasn't noticed. YET! Oh no... oh no...
I pull on my coat and cross my arms over my chest.  My friend looks at me. I rub my arms a little, mimicking that I'm a bit chilly. I smile, bright and fake.  It's practically tropical in the room, full of 18 strangers but I'll be damned if my wayward boob is going to give me away.
How long left?
Another 30 mins......
At least Ill sweat off the carrot cake I've just eaten.......

Drip, drip (my sweat), drip drip, Cancer - I hate you so much, drip, drip, drip.

Five simple words to ruin your day......

Three chemo sessions down- three to go.
Just when you think you have things sussed....I know not to eat for about twelve hours before my chemo, I know that anti sickness drugs dont work for me for the first 24 hours after my treatment. I know what songs are the best ones to hum in my head when they are pushing the drugs through the syringe. I know how many bucket bags to get ready for the puking sessions, I know what type of food to have pre-prepared in the fridge for the day after. I know how often to space out my steriods and anti sickness medicine, I know when my body is telling me its time to go for a snooze. I know all these things after three sessions and now just to mess with your head, they are going to change the drugs.

Docetaxol.

I'm almost more nervous than when I started with my first round of chemo. I'm terrified that its going to be worse, this Docetaxol. And I don't know if I can take any more 'worse'. Annoying thing is that it doesn't appear like I have a choice.

Anyway, just to keep things exciting, they did get worse even before I sat into the chair for chemo number four.

My traitorous expander decided that it wanted out, it chickened out of Docetaxol and decided that it wasn't having any of it. Antibiotics -round two- didn't seem to make any difference to the enormous swelling and redness, so a trip to the consultant seemed in order.

For my troubles I got lanced, literally and syringed in the boob! Though I have to say, my surgeon is entertaining.

She is a bit of an enigma. At the very first day I thought 'How Rude!', now I know that she is not the 'huggy type', nor is she the 'hold your hand tightly while you cry a little' type. Nor am I, so I get her.
She is the 'no nonsense, we have a job to do, let's kick cancer's butt' type or the 'don't be asking stupid questions about your hair falling out as this is the least of your worries....as you have cancer!' type. I think she rocks.

So thursday morning, I roll into clinic with a honker of a boob and a sinking feeling in my tummy. I know as soon as I show her, she will say five simple, terrifying words, 'IT HAS TO COME OUT!'. ARghhhhhhhhhh - if a person can use up all their shit luck in one go, then surely over the last six months that is me!

Anyway, I flash her a glimpse of traitor boob and of course she makes a distinctly negative kind of sucking noise with her teeth and utters words, not the words I would have expected. 'We will just take a look'....

You know when you sit in the dentist's chair and he is looming over you with a needle and smiling menacingly behind a soft baby blue mask, and he says these stupid words 'the injects is the worst bit, everything else is plain sailing'. The injection stings and you relax a bit but  then, as he digs around in your mouth a few minutes later, ripping out old fillings or scraping out cavities and you, in your prone state are silently cursing him for the dirty rotten liar he is- because everything after the injection was downhill and only got worse!

So, my surgeon wants to take a look...is that good?...is that bad? will the expander stay? She barks at the nurse who is timidly standing by the door, her eyes darting left, right and centre, a shadow of petrification hanging over her. If she could, I know she would run from the room.

'Get a tray set up for me'. (order number one)
She legs it out of the room and comes crashing back in a moment later, implements rattling, packages of gauze and dressing rolling around the top of the trolley.
My surgeon comes back and curses, actually uses a bad word...I am stunned!
'Get half this shit off the trolley and set it up properly!'

Oh dear, I think my failed expander is causing my surgeon to have a bad day, as if its rejection is a personal affrontation to her skill. I understand, I take it a a personal affrontation to my body, the expander's weak will and wish to abandon me.

Baby nurse is replaced by older, wiser and more thick skinned substitute. Surgeon is mumbling what I imagine are profanities under her breath.  I am lying there on the bed trying so hard not to laugh...my consultant cursing, the nurses scurrying.

Two minutes later, laughing is the last thing on my mind.

She comes in and says, 'Im going to inject you, its the worst bit and everything else after is ok', ha ha ha...oh ya, learn that from the dentist did you, I don't believe you, this bit is going to be easy.
Two lidocain injections later and I find I'm the one who is using all the bad language, a fine flowing string of bad words tumble from my lips. But its ok cause I know she doesnt mind, its my way of not crying and I think she gets that.

A little digging around and the prognosis is the same, its going to have to come out. Those five words. Damnation!

So when is surgery...next week, next monday perhaps, I'd like to go see my parents at the weekend, so perhaps we could schedule in something for Monday or Tuesday...ha ha ha...fat chance!

Emergency surgery list this evening! Panic - operation today. I need to pack, I don't have any clothes with me, I'm supposed to be meeting friends later, my boyfriend is in Austria with work, I don't have anyone to bring me to the hospital, my house mate is not home, what am I going to do, arghhhhhhhhhhhh panic!

I go quickly home to pack a bag and come back to the hospital, I am distraught all the way home. Three whole months of pain and discomfort, saline expansion sessions, painful bra wearing, redness, antibiotics, no sleeping on my tummy and what...all for nothing. STUPID EXPANDER. Im back to square one, almost minus square one.

I go home and pack a bag alone, I organise my things and make my way back to hospital alone, I sit on the emergency bed and wait, alone. And I go to surgery at half eight at night but Im not alone. My surgeon is there and I know she will look after me, I know that she has been working since early morning and has seen and helped many people that day, I know that she has probably missed dinner in trying to organise a slot for me in the emergency surgery list and I know that she is on my side and will do her very best to look after me.

I know that if any one says anything bad about her, they had better answer to me.

The next couple of days after the surgery I wonder, how does she do it? how does she manage to get such a big object out such a small opening, my new scar along the base of my one time breast, a perfect two inch line, delicate and discrete, as if nothing had ever happened.

Narrative Nipples and Extruding Expanders (this could get messy!)

How to Kill a Living Thing

Neglect it
Criticise it to its face
Say how it kills the light
Traps all the rubbish
Bores you with its green

Continually
Harden your heart
Then
Cut it down close
To the root as possible

Forget it
For a week or a month
Return with an axe
Split it with one blow
Insert a stone

To keep the wound wide open.

              Eibhlin Nic Eochaidh.




I really like that poem, especially the last two lines. I understand what the poet is trying to say, like picking at a scab that is almost healed over. Not that I am healed yet, still a long way to go but you sometimes can't help but poke.

Three chemo sessions down, three to go. As my Dad keeps saying, you're half way there, at the top now, its all down hill from here, except that's not what it feels like. Yes, getting to the third session feels like a gigantic climbing spree, laden with bags of cement and wading through mud to get to the top of an almost impossible peak and now that I'm at the top, I somehow think that the next three sessions, the down hill bit, should be easier. But they will not be any easier, they will, each in its own right be as difficult as if never before experienced, when you find yourself reverting back to crawling on your hands and knees, an invertebrate all over again.

I think its the feeling of being cheated. The chemo, in three week cycles, the first week is like hell, a slow puking, constantly painful torture, the next week is hazy and sleepy and tired but less torturous, you feel by the end of the second week almost like your old self again. The third week you find yourself offering to cook dinner, go for a walk, embrace a physical activity and you practically skip down the street, feeling, apart from the shine off your bald head, like a normal person. Then, right when you're feeling on top of things, right when you feel like your proverbial mountain has been climbed and claimed, you get stuck...stuck with a big fat juicy needle full of crap and you revert right back to start all over again.

I felt a bit broken the last session, like I couldn't go on, not that you have a choice because life does that annoying habit, continues on, and like the poet, it returns with an axe and there are many stones stuck in the wound keeping it open but you have to keep going, going, going, till you reach the top and start descending. Eventually, you will get to rest and it will be over and you will look back and wonder how you did it.

Today I thought...I am so over this cancer business. I'm so over having no hair, so over puking, so over feeling tired all the time, I am so TOTALLY OVER this s**t! I want my hair to grow back and to start feeling energetic again, to be able to go for a run or a bike ride, spend a whole day awake and not have to go for a nap in the middle of a day like a terrible two year old! Mentally, I might be over this shiznit but unfortunately physically and medically I am not even near the end yet.  And so I ate three muffins. Not at the same time....throughout the space of a couple of hours. They were home made and healthy and they did make me feel a little better.

Also, narrative nipple, well not in the plural, in the singular, is brilliant. www.narrativenipple.com - not that I am biased but its a great space for people to express themselves and listen to other people and to get it all off their chest, regardless of the size, shape or symmetry of that chest.

Speaking of which, my boob is misbehaving badly. My expander, with a life of its own, doesn't like its new home and in a moment of low white blood cells has decided that it wants to move....to move out...Now, naturally I'm not having any of that sort of business, so I have chastised it with horse tranquillizer antibiotics in the hopes that it will change its mind and decide to stay......watch this space for future potential unwanted surgery....oh the joys...never a dull moment!

I am Woman, hear me Roar (Squeak!)

Sitting in chairs last week, waiting for my chemo, the only bald (female) person in the room and a smiley woman in her mid forties comes over.  She has dark grey hair, short and a little spiky, funky in a way, with retro sixties glasses perched resolutely on her nose.
She kneels down beside my chair and I can practically hear all ears hone in on our conversation. This is a very polite waiting area, no body is having a full blown conversation, all conversations are clipped, hushed tones if its something private, soft tones if your talking about the weather to your companion in an effort to make the time pass. Everyone seems sombre and delicately respectful of whispers.
I notice the ladies across from me stop their hushed conversation and a gentleman two spaces away turns his head from his newspaper, clearly, not much scandal happens in the chemo waiting room, so all ears are on us.
'You and I have the best hair cuts in the room', she says, smiling proudly down at me (I could of course argue the point with her in a very convincing manner but I just smile weakly, unsure). 'Well done,' she continues and rubs my arm in an over familiar manner, seemingly congratulating me on being bald.  I can feel my face begin to get hot. She goes back to her seat and sits down and flashes me a two thumbs up. I cringe internally. As if it wasn't bad enough that I felt like the whole room was staring at me, now they actually are. I burrow my head back in to the useless magazine I was reading and I curse chemo for the hundredth time.

Later, some time later, I am tryng to chose something nice to wear for a coffee date with a friend who I hadn't seen in a while. I wanted to deflect from the fact that I don't have any hair, so I chose a bright red and white jumper, stripy, nautical....very fashionable. I put it on and look in the mirror. Ughhhh, my boobs don't match, one is big, one is small, they are also levelly uneven, one slightly up a bit, one slightly down a bit. I open my drawer and pull out the bolder holder that I bought for post surgery, it is plain and ugly and almost utilitarian. I sigh and think of all the lovely bras I have in my wardrobe. But this thing, which I hold in my hand, well, it does exactly what it says on the tin, it holds everything in place. So, awkwardly I put it on, having great difficulty in doing up the back of it, as my post surgery reach is not the best. Several struggling seconds later I am dressed, kinda.
I look in the mirror, red and white striped jumper, nautical....very fashionable,  and my hat, which I need to keep my head warm, it woolly and has a big bobbly bit on top...I look like Where's Wally! ughhhhhhhhh........help....I need a post cancer diagnosis, chemo treatment makeover.....I cant fathom what could be done to make me look any better. At least I still have my eye brows for this session, I suppose you have to always find something to be thankful for.

I eye my massive collection of shoes....like all women, I have certain weaknesses, not many mind you...but when I have a weakness, I have it bad and shoes and I love each other, they call out to me sometimes when I'm walking down the street from the shop windows, saying...'Take me home, nice lady, I need a new home.' To which of course I can't resist. So, looking at that pile of high heels, I feel distaste. I couldn't be bothered with heels, who needs discomfort on top of already feeling uncomfortable, head is cold or itchy, boob is sore or misbehaving, chemo is making you feel nauseous or tired; the last thing you want to do is put on a pair of friggen high heels...least of all because you cant fit into any of your blasted clothes cause your either skinny as or bloated like a whale, so can never find anything nice to wear anyway. I give up and opt for a pair of jeans, which hang around my ass like those rappers you see on tv and I feel about seventy, giving out about the youth of today! I chose a pair of converse, flat, ugly, scruffy but ohhhh so comfortable shoes.

Later, in the cafe, after coffee and cake I start to fidget. I think my friend thinks I might have cooties, I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. Bolder holder is cutting off circulation to certain body parts and is beginning to dig an unsightly rim of red into my skin. Off...Off...DAmN contraption! I wriggle out of the blasted thing in the bathroom of the coffee shop....ahhhhhhhh, instant relief, only I never brought my handbag with me...so now I have bolder hold in my hand and no where to put it....I stuff it into the waste band of my jeans and hope that I make it back to our table in three easy strides without it floppen out onto the floor of the cafe.....MORTO!
I make it and quietly put it in to my handbag, whispering to my friend. She howls with laughter and causes everyone to turn around and stare at our table, as if things weren't bad enough. I glow beetroot red and we leave the cafe, me with sheepish abandon.

PICC line and would not travel, so here I was in the middle of my bedroom, grunting as if I was moving a piano up six flights of stairs solo, my supposed trusty vest top half wrapped around my head, my arms flung up in mock surrender and there is a knock on the door....Oh.....you have got to be kidding me. I had a mental image of me falling over, unable to get out of the vice grip of the vest top, alone in my bedroom, undiscovered for days on end...bit dramatic I know! Another knock on the door....oh for flip sake. I tugged and I pulled and I shuffled till I got one side undone and then awkwardly got out of the top, flung on a hoody and limped downstairs, expecting the boiler man. I opened the door and there was no body there....after all that effort!

So now, I've no hair, I have lost the will to live when it comes to wearing bras, I have abandoned the high heels, co-ordinating accessories for non existent outfits seems pointless, I feel about as feminine as a yorkie bar. I've not had a period in months, I have started reading literature on early menopause and I wonder is pickling my beetroot a good idea so early on in the year.....arghhhhh, I feel a million years old and completely disconnected from everything.

This is part of what happens on the cancer journey, you are stripped of all the things that you associate with being feminine. The prospect of being able to reproduce, the things which define you as a women in society...breasts, hair, heels, sexiness. Its all gone and is replaced, for me, with dressings over wounds, comfort over style, warmth over fashion, practicality over frivolity, survival over sexy. I'm still female, I'm still a woman but feel removed from it all, outside the conventions. As I sit on the couch watching reruns of Americas next top model I get a bit cross with society and how it has boxed us all, whether we like it or not, in to neat categories and I almost feel glad that I have no hair, glad that in a crowd peoples gaze drifts over me, discounting me, as insignificant, unworthy of notice, I feel glad...Almost.....almost.

Take 2!

Two more days to go until my second chemotherapy session. I don't know if its a good thing or a bad thing to be prepared and know what's coming.

The basin in my room, a now permanent fixture beside my bed, is full of hair. I put it to one side and have been avoiding throwing it in the bin. It feels like binning a dead pet or something.  Sentimentality can make fools of the best of us.

We decide to go to the sea.

But secretly, I have hatched a sub-plan to our little adventure.

No hat on today either and my head is cold but free. When we get out of the car, the wind is high and the clouds are low. A perfect sea day. There are many people on the boardwalk, many people with many things happening in their lives. I look at some of them, and feel envious. The only thing that seems to be happening in my life is a disease which is slowly and resolutely taking things over.

I put my hand in the pocket of my coat and check one last time.

All accounted for, 'Let's go right down to the waves', I demand.  I half drag my boyfriend, slipping on the slime covered rocks and shells till we get to the edge. Waves, petite and frothy, tickle the shore, nudging pebbles, shells and strings of seaweed back along the beach. I, of course, would prefer hurricane spawned gargantuan waves, beating into the coast for this particular task (a reflection of my mood) but I have to make do with what I have. We are alone on the edge of the sea and I take out the bag from  my pocket.

Hair.

Lots of it, glossy and full.

I look at it a bit sheepishly, it seemed a good idea at the time, but now I'm not so sure.  Bit by bit I pick it apart and let it float from my fingers on to the wind. It dances off, free.

In my Buddhist moment of rational, I hope that somewhere a bird will find some and line it's nest for the Winter, keeping it warm against the cold chills. In reality, it will probably drop in to the water, get soggy and matted and cling to the slimy, green rocks like an alien, sub species. Maybe a crab will stumble upon it and eat it or something. Somehow, I try to convince myself, my hair will go on to be a productive member of society and someone/thing else on this planet will benefit from my follical reduction.

I think the excess air buzzing around my cranium has affected my brain cells.

'Does it bother you that I don't go out with my wig on?' The question has been annoying me for days. He would never say anything but the way he automatically fixed my hat on my head at the beginning of our sea side walk makes me think he's trying to hide my baldy.

There is a moment's silence. I know the answer. I just need to hear it from him.

'Ya, a little.'

Oh well, at least we're being honest. I try to explain, in halting tones how I'm done with hiding, how I'm done with the prospect of this thing taking over my life. I will not let it dictate to me what I should wear, when I should hide, how I should pretend.

I agree not to turn up to his Christmas party commando or to the office on a Friday evening to pick him up without due 'Wig Consideration'. I do have some sense of decorum, but the gloves are off.  All else is open war fare!

On Sunday night, my mother arrives. It's almost Chemo Day. Her arrival heralds anxiety and mini fear but I'm glad she is with me. I've decided to get a PICC line in and don't sleep a wink the night before, whether in fear or nervousness. Either way, I roll out of bed, in my usual undignified post mastectomy surgery manner and greet the day with less than enthusiasm.

Unfortunately I don't feel like a newbie this morning, I roll into the cancer ward and know exactly where I'm going. I know the ropes. What a sad thing, to be familiar with a cancer ward.
The staff are lovely, as always, as they stick needles in you and inflict pain. At least they have smiles on their faces.

I wait in chairs for a while.  There's all sorts (except licorice! ha ha...see what I did there?) in the waiting area, mostly older, mostly women but all shapes and sizes, backgrounds, colours and most of them I notice with a sharp eye are wearing wigs. I appreciate them all and wonder at the amazing service the hairdressers provide. Most of the ladies look fabulous and you would never tell that their hair is not their own.

I get special cream on my arm for the PICC insertion and wonder at it, as it numbs the sensation along my upper arm. I lie on a bed and watch the ceiling flicker as they insert a plastic tube into my upper arm and pass it along up my shoulder and down to a major vein in my chest.

They lied.

They said it wouldn't hurt. I felt every minute of it.

When I was done my mother was waiting for me and I was the colour of a pale whitewashed sheet. I don't know who was more surprised.

After that ordeal, I get my chemo, quick this time, shoved in through my PICC line. No monkey business, no feeding the syringe through tiny veins, ever so slowly. I feel like crap and want to crawl into a hole and die.

My mother takes me home and puts me to bed.



After several days of feeling like rubbish things get a bit better. I get fresh food every day, home cooked and I must admit it makes me feel better. I struggle to the end of week one of chemo cycle, greener pastures are within reach.

A hair brain idea!

The hairdresser at the Cancer Centre said that my hair would begin to 'release' (fancy word for fall out in big, panicky chunks) around day 10-14 of my treatment. Those dates were engrained in my head. Day 10-14, Day 10-14, Day 10-14.

From day five onwards, after my chemotherapy,  I check the pillow in the mornings and run my hands through my hair to count the folically challenged strands.  Nothing to report.
Day six: nothing to report.
Day seven: nothing to report, and so on.

I begin to worry that maybe the chemo isn't working. I peer into the mirror in the mornings and look at my eyes brows. They are getting bigger, bushier, sprouting in all manner of directions - probably because I have given up on personal grooming. They are growing wild and free, in the knowledge that I've abandoned my tweezers and will not be on patrol any longer.

My mother and my aunt remind me that a friend of theirs went through chemotherapy and her hair only thinned a little, no great shedding episodes. Maybe it won't fall out, maybe I'll be lucky.

As the days go by and my head of hair is still in place, I think....maybe...just maybe. After a while, I give up and stop thinking about it.

Day 18, bleary eyed I yawn and roll out of bed, literally. My expander boob makes it hard for me to sit up in one easy motion, so in waking, I've mastered the art of rolling onto one side and pushing myself off into a crouching position, first thing in the AM. I look totally rediculous but am slowly learning not to care.

Today is my boyfriend's birthday and I have decided that I am going to take him for a birthday lunch. My nausea has receeded and I feel more confident in venturing to 'smelly' places, as long as the smells are clean, we should be ok. I decide on a healthy, country kitchen type, rustic restaurant, a place for ladies who lunch and business men, trying to impress potential clients. We will totally fit in with the locals!

I chose something nice to wear, with appropriate breast deflection. Nothing too tight, nothing too low, nothing which will accentuate the difference is sizes of my boobs and nothing that will make me uncomfortable. That is a surprisingly hard checklist for most women's wardrobes. I put on some make up and run my fingers through my short hair, fluffing it up, to give it an 'I've just rolled out of bed and have oh so sexy tosseled hair, because I'm super cool' kind of look. It fails miserably and looks like I've had a nest of crows roosting in my barnet! I ruffle it up some more and pull my fingers through it. A handful of hair comes undone. I can feel it peeling away from my skin, a very strange feeling. I look down at my hand, at the lump of hair tangled through my digits and I form a single syllable.

'O'.

I stare for a minute and don't really understand what's just happened and then I shake myself. What did I expect, I knew my hair was going to fall out. I chastise myself as my lower lip begins to tremble and my hands start to shake.

'Don't be rediculous'. I say, in my best stern parent voice.
'You knew your hair was going to fall out. This is not a big deal. It will grow back in a couple of months. You can't have actually though that you would get through this with a full head of hair.'
I move around the room quickly, depositing the handful of hair into the bin, gathering my bag, my keys, my boyfriend's present.
'It's not a big deal.' I keep telling myself. But it is. It's a massive deal. It's my hair, my annoying, misbehaving, never styles the way you want it to hair. My hair, on my head and it's all going to fall out. I shake my head again and set off. This is not going to ruin my day.

My boyfriend and I have a lovely meal, watching the ladies who lunch and the deal making and breaking business men, in expensive designer suits. We drink elderflower cordial and order our meal with a posh accent. The waitress eyes our jeans and designer less apparel. Clearly we are riff raff but we don't care. We even eat our meal with our elbows resting on the table and I lick my knife after the main course, to make sure I get all of the sauce.

I wonder if my hair has started 'releasing' all over my jumper and down my back on to the posh couch, in the posh restaurant. I put it out of my head and enjoy the rest of our lunch.

We then decide to go for a walk, down to the sea on a brisk cloudy day. I'm delighted to be energised enough to be able to go for a walk and I tell my boyfriend in the car as we drive to the sea that my hair has started falling out. I run my fingers through it and show him the handful of discarded locks. He uses a bad word. We are both very quiet.

'Well. At least we have another thing in common,' he says, 'We're both loosing our hair.' I smile out the window at the grey clouds.

When we get to the promenade, its brisk and cold and salty. The perfect Autumn weather for a walk by the sea. A heavy wind blows along and whips at my hair.
Oh no, the wind is going to blow all my hair off and I'll be patchy by the time our walk is over and I don't even have a scarf to cover my head! I panic, then give up. Feck it! Feck it all....I just want to go for a walk by the sea and not think about stupid cancer.

We survive the walk, my hair still in tact.

The next day, I've 'released' onto my pillow, strands and strands and strands of hair. How can there be so much after falling out and I still have so much left on my head? I don't want to touch it, brush it or wash it. It's like looking after a fragile, unstable animal. I don't want to aggrivate it, I don't want to touch it, or hassle it, in case it all just falls off, in a hissy fit.

I plan to go to the hairdressers after the weekend and ask her to shave it. I'm resolute and feel really determined about it.  My boyfriend says 'Don't shave it, don't. It might just thin.' The only thing that is thin is believeing that that will actually happen.

The day is lovely and I put this whole business with my hair out of my mind. I go to the shop and then come back and sit at the front door in the sunshine, drinking some peppermint tea and reading the news paper. Absently, I run my fingers through my hair, forgetting that its mutinous. A handful of it comes undone. I shake it free and the wind catches it up, carrying it away on the light breeze. I do that a few more times until I'm convinced that I must have pulled out most of it. In a voyeuristic way, I can't help myself, like picking at a scab, I pull handful after handful of hair away and I fell disembodied from the whole experience.

The next day I hoover the house. There is hair everywhere. It's in the bathroom, on the floor in my room, on my pillow, on my clothes.
Right! That's it.
I ring my boyfriend.
'I need you to come over and bring your shaver.'
'No way. I'm not doing that. Wait and see what happens.'
I purse my lips and mentally count to ten. It's my bloody hair and I will do what I want with it. I'm the one who has to watch it fall out, day after day, hour after hour, forming a hairy coat over everthing, except my head, which is where I want the hair to be in the first place!
Calmly I speak. 'Either you bring over your shaver and help me do this or I'll do it on my own and make a total arse out of the job.'
He knows that tone. He has heard it before.
'Ok. I'll be over in a minute.'

I look in the mirror and am angry at Hair (as if it was a separate person, a life of its own). Angry at Hair for deserting me. Angry at Hair for being such a woss that it let chemo kick its arse, angry at Hair for getting every where, sticking to everything, causing a mess, reminding me every time I look somewhere and see a strand of Hair, on the counter top, in the sink, on my shoe, mutinous Hair, abandoning me! Well, I'll show Hair who's the boss.

My boyfriend arrives and we go upstairs and I kneel, contrite in front of him, my head over a basin to catch all the discarded strands.
'Should we say something?' he asks, 'like a prayer of something.'
I can't see him as my head is bent at the neck, waiting for the killer blow (shave) but I know he is mocking and I blindly reach out a hand and punch him half heartedly.
I smile and grit my teeth.
'Let's get this over with.'
The sound of the shaver starting up makes my heart skip a beat and suddenly I see whisps of hair, then bunches of dark glossy locks, then suddenly clumps of the stuff driffting past me, away from me, into a basin.

It's so final, so sad.
I say goodbye and  kneel back on my haunch after the shaver falls silent. I run my hands through, well, through nothing, there is nothing there, just ruffles of stubble. I stand up and peak into the mirror.
Oh my god...Im bald!
Doh...of course Im bald. What did I expect, I've just shaven off my hair. I shake my head at my own sentimentality and reach for my wig.
It's a really nice one, sharp cut, a shoulder bob with sweeping fringe. It's really nice. I put it on and look good, if only my real hair was such good quality and always perfectly behaved. I like it.
But it's not mine. I take it off and fling it on the bed.

My boyfriend has to go, so I thank him for his help and say I'll see him later.

I go upstairs and choose something nice to wear. I'm very particular about what to wear this day. I check in the mirror and get a shock, oh my god, I'm bald...doh, obviously I don't have a very long term memory.

There's nobody home, so no one to see me stall at the front door, keys in hand, a little shakey. I take a breath and open the front door, stepping out. It's sunny and warm and I can feel the sunshine on my head, the prickly bits of stubble stand to attention. I lock the door and turn onto the street. Our neighbour from two doors up is out with her kids, she looks up and smiles and then freezes. 'Hi'.

I keep going, my heart thumping a little. At the end of the street I turn and head to the shops. I think I must be a masacist. Every time I walk past a dark shop window and glance in it I get a shock, oh my god, I'm bald!

I phone my boyfriend.
'Hello', he says.
'Hi. Just ringing to say I'm walking to the shop.' Feeling stupid now but had to ring someone to tell them what I'm doing, as if I need a little bit of moral support.
'What are you wearing on your head?' he asks, cautiously.
'Nothing!' I feel like giggling, as if I'm doing something naughty.
He pauses on the other end of the phone. 'Ok. Call me after and tell me how you get on.' I nod and hang up the phone, reassured that I'm completly off my trolley. Why could I not just put the wig on and be done with it. Because it's a lie, I feel like it's me hiding and I want to be free of this thing, not hiding from it all the time.

Some people stare. Some people don't. I keep my head up and walk calmly down the street. All the children stare, one little boy peeps around his mothers legs and tilts his head, looking at me quizzically, wondering about me. I wonder about me too sometimes.

I go all the way, to the furthest shop, to buy a lottery ticket (I'm feeling lucky!) and a newspaper and then I walk slowly and calmly home, enjoying the sunshine.

I get in the door of my house and close it gently behind me.

Phew.  My hands are a bit shakey and I need a minute to calm down. That's done.

I survived. I pass the mirror in the hall and glance at it. OH MY GOD...Im bald! Doh!
It's going to take me a while to get used to my new look.

The Nose Knows Best!

It's all about the nose at the moment.

After my adventure to the hospital, I spent two days basically lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, too out of it to care about anything.

A tumble weed was blowing in the bathroom, next to my 'products' shelf. I hadn't cleansed, toned or moisturised in days. I felt like a scaley vagrant, unwashed and unclean.  I hadn't washed my hair in days, though subconsciously, I was arguing with myself, that the less I washed it the less likely it was to fall out...perhaps.

I was hot. Sweaty and hot, unwashed, ungroomed, uncaring... I wanted to lie still and stare at the ceiling. I began to enjoy it, the various cracks in the plaster, the little discernible patterns that they make. But then my bladder kicked in. Insistant, constant and irritating. All the time, at any hour, I was forced to drag myself out of bed, to go the loo.

My bladder broke me in the end. I had to get up so often that I decided to venture downstairs and sit on the couch and stare out the window instead of at the ceiling.

I opened the door to the sitting room and shuffled in.  My housemate was happily sitting on the floor, rugging! She is a craft genius and had decided to make her own rug, using a hesian sac and some wool.  I took two steps into the room and greeted her.
'Hi, what you.....' My voice trails off.
What is that smell? Oh my god, the smell....
The smell of the chemically covered, stale coffee hessian sack makes me want to vomit. I skirt into the kitchen, breath held, apologising to my house mate and made a quick peanut butter sandwich and skirt back upstairs, shallow breathing all the time. I needed to be in my smell free room, and near the bucket which had taken pride of place, right next to my bed.

At night time, I need three t-shirts and a hot water bottle, as in the middle of the night, I sweat so much I have to change my t-shirt, move to the other side of the bed and plonk the hot water bottle in the sweaty patch, so it dries up. (gross, sorry!).

The next day was better, I get up and ventured downstairs, my nostrils at the ready. My boyfriend had wrapped the offending hessian sack in a black plastic bag and shoved it under the stairs. I tentatively test the air with my nose for smells and get the all clear. I brave it and ventured to watch an episode of 'True Blood' with my housemate.  As I sit on the couch, I dutifully fulfill the doctors orders, knocking back two of the super antibiotics and settled down for an eyeful.

The room gets very hot. I start feeling uncomfortable. Oh dear, the room is now very cold. I think I'm going to be sick. I have to get upstairs to my room, to my bed, to my bucket. My ears start to ring.
I make it into bed and lay down, calming my irratic breath and heart beat. I don't feel good.

Two hours later I wake up. I think I might have passed out and then fallen asleep. These antibiotics are making me feel really strange. I reach blindly for the packet of and read the small print. They are used to treat a range of things, most notably Gonorrhea. The list of side effects are never ending. I reverently put them aside. Next time I take my dosage, I'll be more prepared, bucket at the ready.

Three days later... I feel pretty, oh so pretty, oh so pretty and witty and.....in much better form. I can go a whole day without puking, I can eat little and often without wanting to barf it all up. I have even been for another little adventure. This time, much more pleasant. Yesterday I went to the post box down the street, all on my own. When I left the house, I felt as if I was suffering from agraphobia, as step by step brought me futher away from the comfort of knowing I was close to my bed, my bucket, my panadol and my duvet. After about ten steps I began to enjoy the sunshine and the feel of the wind in my hair. (I guffed at the irony, I didn't know how long more I would have hair but it still felt nice).

Another day later, I agree to accompany my boyfriend to lunch, not that I will be eating anything but I will go with him and watch in fascination as he eats all manner of foods. I am confined to eating plain potatoes, bananas, rice cakes and peanut butter, anything else and I risk instant nausea.

We go to a restaurant and sit down. It's really hot and  I take in a lungful of air, the smell of spicy food hits my stomach and unashamedly assaults it, until I feel the grip of a wave of nausea wash over me.
PANIC....we are in public, in a restaurant, and I'm going to puke, OH NO!
My boyfriend eyes me across the table. 'Are you ok? You look a bit green'. (Thanks dear!)
'No. I need to leave.' I tell him matter of factly.
'Do you want to sit outside?'
It's dull and grey and not very appealing but anything is better than sitting here.
'Yes, Yes. Let's sit outside.' You'd swear we were in a tropical sunshine island, such was the enthusiasm with which I barreled out the door and onto the chair in the lovely, clean, fresh, spice free air. A gentle clean breeze keeps all smells at bay.....heaven!

The waitress arrives and I apologies, clearly without thinking what I was saying.
'Sorry, we decided to sit outside as I couldn't take the smell.'
'Excuse me? Our restaurant does not smell.' She looks at me with complete idignation.
Oh no, my brain is on a go slow.
'No, no, sorry, I didn't mean it smelt bad, it was just the smell of the spices.' Her face has turned stoney. I'm trying really hard not to laugh.
'Do you have peppermint tea,' I enquire.
'No. We just have ordinary tea.'
'Ok'.
'Would you like a cup then?'
'Um, no thanks.' Ordinary tea right now is akin to Satan and would make me sick, there and then. The prospect of drinking a cup was like suggesting drinking a cup of boiled dishcloth water.
The waitress rolls her eyes and stalks back into the restaurant, no doubt to tell the kitchen staff to spit in my boyfriend's meal.

He looks at me across the table and we laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity of the situation.

Oh, it's so nice to be out of the house, sitting, talking, feeling normal.

A woman comes out and sits at the table next to us.  She smiles in our direction and lights up a cigarette.  The smell wafts over to me.
I turn green and clasp my scarf to my face.
So much for a light lunch.

Nose knows best and if you're smart and undergoing chemo, you will pay attention to it.  Only five more sessions of chemo to go. I better invest in some clothes pegs, so I can leave the house!

Anti sickness my eyeball!

Dance in my pants anti-sickness (aka nettle knickers) was about as useful as a paper umbrella.

I woke from my snooze, disoriented but feeling ok. Tentatively, I did a mental inventory, everything seemed to be in working order, none of my organs had spontaneously melted away due to the chemo cocktail.

I even felt brave enough to have some tea and toast.

I was walking around as if a war mine was encased within me, prised and ready to go off at the slightest jolt. My stomach lurching at every step.

I have small snacks, like advised and drink water. These anti-sickness tablets are working. Ok, so I feel nausious but I'm not sick. My heart goes out to my brothers girlfriend, five months of this...constant morning sickness. Yet another level of new found respect for new mums.

As the evening light fades and the curtains are closed, I settle down on the couch for the night, thinking 'maybe this won't be too bad'.

An hour later, I cling to my old friend, the toilet bowl for dear life and hurl up food which I recognise from two days ago.

An hour after that and I'm still regurgitating until there is nothing left.

An hour after that, incomprehendibly, I continue to throw up, phantom puke as there is absolutely nothing left in my stomach.

When its all gone, I kneel back on my heels and feel better, no nausea, no sickness, nothing in my stomach, just empty.

I float off to sleep like a weak kitten, dreaming of monsters - cups of terrifying tea and plates of tretcherous toast.

The following morning I eyeball the packet of anti sickness tablets given to me and wonder.
However, like a good patient, I do as I'm told and knock back two of the things before rising from bed.

Three days of nausea follow, small meals when my stomach is settled, more nausea, intermittant puking and general feeling like warmed up refuse.

I have limited my diet, it seems. My internal diet regieme organiser has dictated that I will feel ill at the prospect of drinking tea, anything with sugar will make me quiver in my boots, if it comes in a tin - confine it to the bin, if it comes in a packet, wrapping, cardboard, any packaging at all actually....then it will make me feel nausious.

Spuds.  It turns out I love spuds, with a tiny bit of butter, mashed up with a pinch of salt! Peppermint tea is the only tea I can stomach. Fruit and veg are ok, as long as they are not really strong flavours (onions are an absolutle no no!) and wholemeal brown bread.

Oh, and peanut butter. And 'C'est ca!' That's it. The limit of my diet. But if that is what it takes to keep from feeling nausious, then that's fine by me.


Day four and I feel semi human.

Day five and I can't really manage to get out of bed. I lie there with my eyes open staring at the wall, willing some energy to spread into my limbs. When its time to use the loo, it takes every ounce of energy to get moving. I wonder if this is the low cell day. I crawl under my duvet and sleep. Man, it's hot. I check my temp, 37.9. Not 38 so I stop panicking and go back to sleep.

Day six and I've had an adventure. I've moved all the way from the bedroom to the sofa downstairs and managed to sit up and have a twenty minute conversation with my friend. My boyfriend comes over and we watch a film. Its hot. Hot. HOT! 39.1 degrees hot to be precise.
I take my temperature again. Then do it with another thermometer, just to be sure.

I have a little argument with myself, should I call the helpline (strict instruction.....if your temperature goes over 38 degrees you need to call us). Yes, yes, I argue with myself, but I've been wrapped up in a blanket, stealing my boyfriend's body heat, it's night time, they will be busy, I feel fine, apart from temperature. Round and round I go in my head, trying to argue the pros and cons out until my boyfriend places the phone in my hand and practically pushes the buttons for me.

Hello, I say brightly, trying to convey a mental picture of health and wellbeing, I have a bit of a temperature and was just checking in.

Forty minutes later and a referal from the chemo helpline, I'm ushered to Accident and Emergency. I'm sitting in front of a nurse cursing most foul under my breath as she pathetically tries to get blood from my stubborn veins. Two attempts later and she gives up, saying she is phoning someone from oncology.

I'm exhausted. I lay down on a bed/gurney thing in a theater space. They put me in here, away from the ruccus of Sunday night A and E patients. I am thankful. My boyfriend perches awkwardly on the most uncomfortable looking chair. If they had designed it in the shape of a spike it might have been easier to sit on. His long legs jut out from it at terribly awkward angles. I keep apologising. I'm so sorry for all this hassle, such a pain for you to have to be in A and E with me, so sorry. I think I pass out as next thing I know a hairy homeless man is standing over me about to rob me.

I sit bolt upright, a rush of blood to my head.

What is going on?

'Hi, I'm Doctor Hanley'.

huh?

He is about my age, has a massive head of floppy hair and a beard to match, a pair of cord pants and scruffy skater shoes. Mental, I chastise myself for judging a book by its cover. He is quiet and gentle and attentive and asks a million questions, most of which I answer no. Questions along the lines of ....'Have you ever....
had diabetes
a stroke
heart palpitation
alergies
mumbo jumbo
pink elephants in tu tus
a massive yellow bunny rabbit living in your cardigan sleeve....

no, no, no, no, no, no, yes (but only for a couple of weeks till he could find a new place to live!)


I felt like shouting at him, I'm perfectly healthy, Ive never been sick in my life, never been to A and E, never taken a sick leave from work, never even had the flu...I'm PERFECTLY HealthY.

Apart from the fact that I have cancer!

I answer his questions. He draws blood, successfully, first time. I resolutely decide - forget this sticking me with needles every five minutes and chasing after terrible veins, I'm getting a PICC line.

Chest xray, echo, bloods, urine, listened to heart, take my pulse : four hours later he gives me a cautionary warning, takes these antibiotics, the complete course and keep an eye on your temperature. You can go home (HOME....the magic word. I refrain from doing a high five and keep my face a mask of calm) but you have to be sensible. Any change or chest or stomach pain, you need to call us.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I nod my head obediently. Anything you say.

I just want to go home.

F :) :) K FEC!

Chemo Day.

Or more precisely, night before chemo day and I'm rolling around in my bed with the worst period cramps and all I can think of is 'Give ME a break! This is the worst timing.'

4 am - one panadol later and I'm finally asleep.

7.30 am - I feel like pestilence, with a bad hair day. (Side bar, I went to the cancer support centre and asked the hairdresser for a hair cut, which she spent 45 minutes doing and it turned out great. I felt a bit bad, as in approximately 10 days my hair is going to fall out and I'll have to just go straight back in there for her to shave it off.)

Anyway, as is always the case, when you are on second day of a new hair cut, you wake up in the morning and it looks like a large tongued cow snuck into your room in the middle of the night and took to sucking on your new 'Do' for hours on end, till its just at the right level of horrendous.

I stumble out of bed and in an effort to remain calm I drink a cup of warm water with lemon and do some gentle yoga, hoping it makes a difference.  But I'm as antsy as anything and to make matters worse - I have THE most GIGANTIC right breast! I silently wail at the absurdity of the situation.

Clearly my brain or hormones have not realised that I have had a mastectomy (did they not receive the memo) and I have swollen menstrual boobs except the expander boob has swollen to twice its size and far outdone my other, normal boob.

I contemplate putting on a support bra to strap it in but give up, being completely lopsided (physically and mentally) on today of all days is the least of my worries.

When I get to the car park of the hospital I feel like being unwell, even before I start but I get out of the car and hobble to the cancer suite. Unlike my pre-assessment, when I went in and was confronted with being the new kid on the block (kid being the word, as I was, by far the youngest person there), I had more of an idea what I was doing and when my disc buzzer went off I resolutely trotted off down to the treatment wing, my boyfriend in tow.

Lovely comfy chairs, reclining, TV screen, nice view out the window, friendly staff - like any of that was making a jot of difference. My heart was trying to climb out of my chest and do a runner on me and my hormones were rebelling. I was beginning to tear up and I was silently praying, oh no, oh no, please not now, I can't break into sniveling sobs now, I need to get through this as coherently as possible. I bit my lip and tried to distract myself from the oncoming tears and turned my attention to my poor boyfriend, who was slowly edging his seat nearer to me, as the look of panic, fear and teary terror flitted across my face. He started talking about paint for the walls of his new house. A conversation ensued about magnolia verses white.

The most boring, uninteresting but panic distracting conversation I've had in a while.

The nurse arrived with a tray, a rather large tray, with a rather large array of injections. Gulp.
She turns over my arm and grins at me, 'First Day?'

I nod my head.

'Good, lets hope we can get some juicy veins this morning'.

Juicy veins...oh no!

They were pathetic, tiny skinny wimpy veins and I had to immerse my arm in warm water to try and get them to wake up. Eventually the needle, after a couple of attempts, struck something and the pumping of toxins began.

F is for..
Not sure. Flora bore alice or something like that (Fluorauracil). White, harmless looking, side effects: sore mouth, ulcers, loss of taste, lower resistance to infection.

E is for....
Not sure. Epic rubies or something along those lines (Epirubicin). Ruby red, as the name suggests, side effects: hair loss, nausea, vomiting, lower resistance to infection.

C is for...
Not sure. Cyclopse hiding (Cyclophosphamide). White, innocuous, side effects: lower resistance to infection.

Five syringes in total, slowly drip, drip, dripped through, with saline as a chaser. I think I would have preferred to pump 100% vodka through my veins than the cocktail of choice which the nurse charmingly gave me.

My thin, puny vein stayed triumphant till the last, only two small syringes of anti-sickness drugs to go.

The holy grail for cancer patients, anti sickness drugs. They looked pretty harmless to me.
The nurse was serious for a minute, eye balling me across the drip line and her blue gloved hands.
'Side effects..', she says.

Oh holy....not more side effects.

If I had a list for all the side effects I was going to be subjected to it would be as long as the bayeux tapestry.

I concentrated on her words completely, dreading what was coming.

'Have you ever sat on a bed of nettles with no underwear on?' she asked me calmly.

My brain froze at the mental image, tying to decipher if I had misheard her words.

'Ummm, no.' I responded meekly.

'Well that is what one patient described this as. Not everyone gets it and it comes on after about thirty seconds and only last for about 30 seconds.'

I look at her aghast as she slowly pushed the small vial of clear fluids into my vein.

I tense up, my nether regions alert, waiting for nettle knickers.

Nothing.

Phew.

She takes out the syringe and loads up a different fluid for anti sickness.

I relax.

OH OH...Dance in my pants, DANCE IN MY PANTS. Ouch, EEeeeekkkkkkk! I shuffle my bum around in the seat. My boyfriend looks at me, the nurse looks at me, my eyes are bulging.
'Nettles?' asks the nurse.
'mmmm hmmmm', I reply. Unsure if its wise for me to speak.

'One woman liked it so much', she confides in me, 'that she asked for a second syringe'.

I baulk at the notion. One session of nettle knickers is enough for me, thank you very much.

One hour forty five minutes later and my first chemo session is over.

I sigh with relief. I feel a bit overwhelmed when I come out into the brightness of the day and think, I need a snooze.

I go home and wait for whatever is to come next and in the comfort of my bed I cradle my traitorous gargantuan boob.

The cheek of it, to misbehave on this of all days.

I drift off to sleep and in the back of my head, I know its only a matter of time till FEC comes a knocken'.

A Ribbon of Red Amongst the Constant Black

My anger.
It is immensely small, tightly loose in the pit of me.
A billowing, whipping ribbon of red amongst the constant black.
I want to unleash it into the tornado wind and watch it whirl into a frenzy.
Bang the dustbin lids of it together in the peace of morning silence.
Matador its bull horns around the arena, to the shrieking of the crowd, for all to see,
Smear it in people's faces in the quiet square of a Parisian banlieue, causing a spectacle.
I want it mounted on the wall of a large country manor, its devil horns a reminder to those who poach.
I want its nose pressed to platitudes, good wishes and well meaning, snorting contempt.
The roar of it, as it locomotives its way through a country dale, breaking the peace.
My ribbon of red amongst the constant black,
Holler and pierce the quiet of your lives, so you know. So you know!
But you'll never know, what it is to surrender the vein to the needle, to the Cancer Master.

Two aunties, three breasts and an expander.

In my last week of relative freedom before my chemotherapy starts, (five days before I meet my Oncology team, gulp!) I thought, in my wound healing state, it would be a good idea to embark on a trip to the capital to do a spot of babysitting for my brother.

In my pre-ER positive mind frame, this was a fantastic idea. Post cancer diagnosis and freak out over fertility, I'm now not so sure.

When I get to the capital and sit on the cross city commuter train, surrounded by a returning school tour of ten to twelve year olds, the irony was not lost on me.  They chatter animatedly to each other.

I silently begin to hyperventilate.

I love my nephew, he is one of many nieces and nephews. I think I will be 'using' them a lot more in the future, in my potentially childless state.

In the apartment, with my sister as co-babysitter (well, chief babysitter, I have to admit), I watch a snot nosed, round bellied two year old crash through the place, wreaking havoc in his wake. He decides to empty my handbag, item by precious item on the table top. Then he decides to repack my hand bag, item by item, in carefree abandon, squishing all manner of things in to the bursting bag.

His vigour is catching.

***

Meal time - CHAOS!

'More', said in a tone of definite expectation, is his favourite word. He has a belly apendege to match his most ulilised expression.

He takes great pleasure in shoving pear, yogurt and fistfulls of grapes into his mouth. He even decided to join my sister and I for our meal; never one to say no to a new dining experience.

Popadums, rice, jalfrezi, naan bread and some tikka masala later, his eyes round and dilated, obstinately trying to remain open, sniveling tears of frustration as we put him into his cot, encased in the cutest pyjamas I've ever seen.

Silence.

With children, this is a rare occassion. Should we uncork a fine bodied red, feast on some grown up treats which allude the beast child...like nuts or hard sweets, forever denied to poor Jack. No, instead in a crazy notion of abondonment, we get into our jammies early, watch a half hour of television and collapse into bed.

11.30 pm - crying in his sleep, wakes me up.

2.00 am - I wake with a start, thinking I heard him, no, nothing, back to sleep.

3.00 am - I sit bolt upright in my bed, his crying waking me. My sister gets to him first, rubbing his back or doing something else important, I blindly, sleepily reach for his soother which is on the bedside locker, back to sleep.

6.00am -  Standing up in his cot, little fists clenching the bars of his prison, crying but his eyes are closed, so are mine in a short instant of time.

7.30 am - He is shuffling around in the cot, making strange noises but no crying - heaven - back to snooze land for me.

8.00 am - Holy Merciful......'What is that Smell?' I wail at my sister, who is prone beside me, potentially dead from toxic gases.  She has a cold which is thankfully affecting her nasal passage and has not yet been affected. I wait a few moments. There is no escaping the noxious smell...... Nappy changing time.

I make the coffee and breakfast, my sister does the honour of the nappy. I suppose having only one boob has its advantages some times.

Note to all those out there, Indian food and grapes do not make a happy nappy combination.

It's time for more food, I pick him up, gingerly balancing him on my good, unstitched side and think for a minute, this might never be me. I might never have babies of my own and I look at him and feel guilty.
Guilty because I don't feel a massive hole in my life, I don't feel unquenchable loss.

I panic and plop him into his highchair, bustling about the kitchen to get his breakfast.

I'm a terrible person. A terrible female person!

***

It takes more organising and team work to get him into his pram and out the door than it does to launch a small business.

I push the pram, badly down the corridor, colliding with the wall and corners on several occasions.  We carreer out the door and into the street on our way to the creche; a baby, two aunts, three breasts and one expander.

I feel empathy for new mothers, embarking on new experience, after new experience.
It may not be an experience I will ever have, as after this whole ordeal, I may need timeshare on my nieces and nephews, to feel that special feeling of love you get when you are with children.

For now, I must content myself with my own new experiences and try to get through them. What I learned today, is to concentrate on today and not think too much about tomorrow, you cannot plan and invariably, plans change.

Also, there is no power steering on buggies.....

Pathology, Panties and Petrol.

It's been a week since my operation. My boob is still massive, tight and swollen but now its size matches the other 'normal' breast.

It's the little victories that now matter the most, begin able to tie up my hair, being able to open a jar of jam with my right hand, stretching, not needing pain killers and then there is the stuff I miss, sleeping on my tummy, my nipple, my dance class, going for a run.

I even feel guilty listing the things I miss, I am so fortunate so far in all the things I can do.

I walk around now not wearing a bra. I would never go out without a bra before.

I think perhaps in loosing my boob, as replacement therapy, I have magically grown a pair of balls!

I perhaps will dare more.

My new boob still has the right shape, kind of. I was worried when I glanced down at my chest the day after my operation that it would be flat, as if plained away, a dip in the middle of my chest; vacant. But when I looked, it was flippen massive, bigger than before, swollen of course, but I gave a silent 'Yipeeeeeeeee', I still have cleavage.

Today is Pathology Day. Should I be excited or nervous, it's like the big unveil.

I've even bought new pants, in preparation. They are purple and pink, girl boxers, with a toothy hippo on it stating 'Peace, Love and Hipponess'. A bit naff, I know but I thought they were humourous.

So I don the panties and walk to the hospital, (wearing other clothes as well, of course) listening to Diva music to give me a bit of courage. There's nothing like a bit of Beyonce in preparation for pathology results.

The good thing about having Cancer is that they don't make you wait in chairs for too long. When the surgeon calls my name, I see a lot of women and some men, glance up. I have long hair and am fit and healthy looking and I have two breasts, this confuses them and you can see the look of puzzlement fret across the faces. If anything, I'm not the norm.

That too is evident in my pathology report.

I have to take small victories where ever I can get them.

It's 6cm in diameter (Little silent cheer - they said it was approximately 7cm, one less than expected).

It's grade III (No cheer for that as it's kind of shite).

Its ER positive (Again, no cheer).

Its PR positive (Two positives and not in a good way).

Nodal involvement 4/14 (Cheer, that's a good score, go on the lymph nodes, hearty warriors, holding out against marauding cancer cells, only 4 fell at the last hurdle).

It was close to the skin and the chest muscle. (Gulp)

I feel a squeeze of panic. The surgeon looks at me and says sternly, 'Forget this fertility business, my advice to you is to start your Chemo... NOW!' She is fierce, and would kick Beyonce's butt in an instant.

I nod my head and concede.

I had been mulling over the whole prospect of eggs and harvesting a great deal whilst sitting up in my hospital bed, draining into my three bottles and had silently and weakly admitted to myself that all I want to have to think about is getting better, not pushing out babies.

The eggs will have to wait. I can't think of anything but my cells at the moment.

The surgeon eye balls me from across the table.

'Yes. When do we start?' I try to sound proactive but the echo of my own false bravado sounds strange in my ears.

We talk dates and she tells me I will be booked in for my first expander session soon. She says that she has left some air in the expander.

I glance expectantly at my fake breast.

An appointment for saline solution, three weeks time.

I ask a question, which I know she hates, she seems adverse to questions, adverse to sharing too much information. I feel like I'm in school again, asking stupid questions but I go for it anyway.

'Does the air come out when you inject the saline?' I hold my breath, expecting a rebuke.

'It doesn't matter what you put in there, you could put petrol in and it wouldn't come out.' She gathers her papers up and exits in a flurry, attempting to arrange multiple appointment for me as she goes.

I sit for a minute and imagine myself hooked to the petrol pump at the local garage, filling my expander implant.

If anything can go in there, then maybe I'd prefer a nicer liquid.

Gin maybe?

If only.

Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

                                                 Jennifer Joseph