Buddies!

Hello there, and best wishes for the festive season, I hope you’re having a good time! I know I keep coming up with reasons excuses as to why there are such gaps between my writing at the moment, but it does feel that this is a good time to post this section of that time. I’m a lucky lady, I’ve got a good crowd of friends, and they are a crowd as well, they do different things in my life, there are those who I can have a great time with, those I can share fears and worries with, those who will help me out of a jam, when I inevitably get into one, those for

Counting Down

I have an apology to make, for I think I may have been avoiding writing this post. I’ve missed a number of key moments that it would have been savvy to tie in with, the end of a friend’s chemotherapy, my own diagnosis anniversary, and more beside. I suppose there’s that sense of and ending. This isn’t the last post on this blog, but it’s the last one about chemotherapy. I wonder, do you avoid ending things? Last episodes, last pages, relationships, biscuits, things that are more comfortable being there. 

Pushing it

Be kind to yourself. Don’t do too much. Don’t be lazy. Do what you feel you can manage. Try and do something every day. Don’t push it. Accept a pyjama day but don’t make a habit of it. In the contradictory world of chemotherapy, I heard all of these things, from health professional, friends, and family. What makes it worse, is that they were all right. So, not only do you not know quite how you feel, but also it’s not clear what pushing it will be, on that day, in that chemo cycle. So I want to take you back to the day I pushed it, come and walk with me… 

Let's makeup

Makeup, slap, glitter, glam, it’s never been me really. I always like to have a go, and I usually surprise people on a night out, with just a modest amount of eye makeup. I learnt everything I know from bored lasses on the Urban Decay counters in various department stores, who were very happy to show me how to do things to fake being a proper girl when I need to be. It’s handy for weddings and things because it often means that people don’t recognise me, and I can slip by unnoticed at first at least. It has its downside though, 

An Amazing Bunch

Hi there, 

well my intention was to blog each week, but life and laziness and a small crisis of what am I doing this for, has got in the way. Apologies for that. That means I’m about a month behind my original schedule now, but providing you’ve got the time, if it takes a little longer, I’m ok with that. I had one of those moments this week where you question whether you’re good enough, whether what you’re doing is worth it, because my lovely friend who’s blogging in real time through her cancer journey absolutely nailed the description of

Hair

Today it’s all about hair. It’s one of the most divisive things about chemotherapy. People often ask “Will my hair fall out?” hoping that it might not. With my type of chemotherapy, it invariably does. If you’ve been reading along with my blog you’ll probably be very unsurprised to hear that I wasn’t really that bothered. I love change. Besides having my hair washed, the best part of going to the hairdresser is the snipping of scissors and the reveal at the end, the transformation. The new me. Do you enjoy that? 

Knowing that I didn’t have to go to work, and that my hair would fall out allowed me to pretend I was a daft young thing again, and

Drugs

It’s a weird thing is chemotherapy.

I got stuck after that sentence for quite some time. What else could I say? I wanted something to introduce the poem I’d written, but I felt like I’d managed to capture in my 6 words, the oddness and wordless quality that chemotherapy brings. I can’t really explain

The Build Up

You can’t imagine how it’s going to feel, but you’re pretty sure it’s awful. After all, you own a TV and you’ve seen grainy pictures of bald women in close up on the front page of tabloid newspapers at the garage. Everybody you know is related to/knows/met/heard about someone who had a terrible time of it. Their hair never came back the same - “it’s curly and

Young Again

This week I’ve been returning to thoughts about my age, I’m 36 this year and very happy about this fact. After all, the alternative isn’t much fun. I’ve just dyed my hair a coppery orange colour, which I realised (after I’d done it) looks very similar to the colour that my younger sister dyed her hair, when she was 20. Am I too old for this? I wonder. I begin to worry that my drug induced menopause is sending me through a sort of perpetual mid-life crisis, but my family are keen to point out that I’ve always been a bit bonkers, which is of course meant to reassure me.

Frustrations

I feel as though I’m pretty qualified to write on this at the moment, as my arm is giving me a bit of jip again. Anyway, enough moaning about things which are right now. Why does this post come straight after the last? Because I learnt an important lesson pretty quickly after my first operation, which was that this is a long game, not a quick fix, and whilst it is important to keep pushing forward; sometimes you have to accept that things are out of your control and they will take as long as they do. 

I do still push, and then accept how things need to be after, I figure it’s better that way, as it means you don’t have the regret of not having tried. I mean, the flare up of my arm, might just be because of the gym last week (where I was not lifting very heavy things, because I promised the hospital I wouldn’t - well done me).

So long....

Hey! I hope you’re well. This is something of a whistle stop tour through my year of illness, where I’m picking out the big moments for me, and others, I’m sure I’ve said, it ties into some longer life writing I’m doing, so please follow me any way you wish if you’d like to know when that’s ready. Today’s post is one of the moments that I thought (in my usual blasé way) wasn’t such a big deal, but it was. I regularly use being somewhat flippant as my first coping mechanism for big moments. I can regularly be heard saying things like “I’m too busy for lymphoedema, I’ve got a gig later.” Or “This is boring me now, I don’t have time to be ill, I’m too busy having fun and being well!”

Those sorts of phrases get me through the first moments, until I can think a while and reflect, plan, write, whatever I think needs to happen. However, please do not think that this ever gives anyone a justification for an appointment with Dr Google. I’m guilty too. We’ve all done it. Nothing good ever comes from that. Sore throat? Probably throat cancer, expect to die, soon. Feeling tired? Probably something equally awful which will curtail your life significantly. I’m not sure I’ve felt on top form consistently for a full year since I was about 20, so shrugging off the occasional ache or pain is part of life. It doesn’t mean I’m not pushing every day to make the day the best it can be. Why waste it?

How does this link into the Sound of Music ear worm that you’re currently battling with? Well, when at my diagnosis I was told that I needed a mastectomy, I was almost instantly, perfectly ok with that. I know, odd. But my thought process (for this) wasn’t unusual apparently. I had breast cancer, I was getting rid of the breast, cancerous bits and bits that in my head might become cancerous. Safest option, hey? Well, in lots of ways, yes. But it’s not always right for folk, and your consultant knows the score. I spent some time thinking about it. Would I mind having one? Would I care about losing one? (losing, ha! Who am I kidding? I know where it is, it’s at the Christie Hospital in the bio bank). Both of those things I thought, no, I don’t mind. Reconstruction was, and still is, an option. Did I want that? I didn’t think so, and I’ll talk a little more on that in a later post. 

I did a few things to say good bye. I touched my skin, everywhere. To know what it all felt like. I was very lucky and I got to have a photoshoot done which celebrated me, and documented the experience that I was going through. I have those pictures digitally, and when I occasionally look back at them, I barely recognise myself. I’ve no complaints, I’m just a different person now. I do believe in fact, a better one. I took a night before the operation selfie. In the morning of the operation, I woke early, had a really good shower, with my best poshest shower gel, preparing myself as though it was some sort of sacrifice. Which it was. This sacrifice was one small part of me, so that the rest could live. A worthy price to pay, I think. 

Which brings me to that day, the operation, (which I wasn’t aware of of course,) then the first time, waking up. I went down to theatre, smiling and chatting. I knew that I’d be waking up with less of me. What an easy way to lose weight, I thought. Nod off, and a trimmer me appears at the other side. Hurrah! It also felt like I was winning. My inner monologue was speaking in the voice of an action hero, likely a military background. “So!” it yelled, “You thought you could kill me did you?” As the words spat out in my head, I smiled inside, knowing that this was my battle win about to take place. When I woke up, I wouldn’t have cancer any more. The tumour and a safety margin would be removed. Take that, Punk!

So easy to think, so cool as I went, joked as I was being marked up, the usual big marker pen arrow, telling the surgeon remove here. I asked would they weigh what was removed? The answer being yes, I requested that someone tell me what the weight was. I entertained myself with a  sort of Victorian fairground mentality, “Roll up! Roll up! Guess the weight of the breast!” My guess was for around 550g. I was wrong. It was way more than that, 830g I learnt later. It was no wonder running has always been fairly uncomfortable!

Anyway, I’d chatted to the anaesthetist, relaxed and fell asleep. Then, I woke up. I’d prepared, mostly. I’d thought, am I ok being flat on this side? I’d decided yes, but all my thoughts had been tied into the sergeant major who was yelling in my head that this war had to be won, at any cost. I do sometimes wish my desire to live was a bit less red-faced, and more zen and easy going, but maybe fight mechanisms just aren’t. What does yours sound like? I’d love to know. We could make a whole team of superhero inner voices! I couldn’t really, truly comprehend what I’d feel like when I looked down and only one boob was there, because up until then, when I looked down, they’d both been mounding there. I couldn’t know. Not until the moment. So, groggily, I woke up and my first instinct was to take a peek down my gown at what I now looked like. Flat obviously, with a neat dressing covering what would be my wound then scar. Tidy. Fine. I know how big a moment it was because I can still close my eyes and I’m right back there, gazing down and thinking “yep, that’s ok.” before I rested my head back on the pillow and dozed a while. 

Telling folk

Sometimes we all look ropey. We get ill, our noses are Rudolf-esque and we are generally not feeling on top of our game. When that happens, when you have a cold, feel sick, trip and bruise your hip or face, you can if you wish, hide at home until you look like yourself again. Equally, if you want, in this oversharing world of the twenty first century, to make a social media post, to announce your misfortune to the world, then you can. If you are diagnosed with cancer, it’s not as straightforward a choice as that. It won’t come as a surprise to hear that I hadn’t planned what I would do if this befell me, I expect you won’t have either. Here are some of the key points from my experience.

Family

This is a real bittersweet topic for me. As you know, it was almost four years ago now that I was ill. There are stacks of great blogs out there from people who are, or have documented their journey through cancer, in real time. A pal of mine is doing that right now at When life gives you melons. Those stories are real and wonderful. I’m choosing what I now reflect as being the big, key moments in my journey for my attitude and my outlook, both at the time and now.

My Guide to Packing for Appointments

Nobody packs for appointments as well as I do. I really believe that. If I’d been allowed to join the guides when I was eleven (which is a whole other, tragic story of injustice in a Northern town) then I’d have been ace. I’m so prepared. I know just what to take with me, for how long the ordeal is going to last. I really do win at appointments. 

My Consultant

This is more timely than I expected with the news features at the minute concerning the staff at Alder Hey hospital. This is the first of my “I love the NHS” fan posts I suppose. I hope you never get to be as grateful as I am, for although I’ve paid into the system since I was 16 years old, I’ve received more than I’ve paid. What a beautiful and amazing organisation it is, staffed by such superstars. 

Picture a medical consultant surgeon. I presume you’re thinking of a man, I expect that he’s Asian (it’s a stereotype I know, but they are usually built up, pearl-like around a grain of truth). He wears glasses doesn’t he? Tall? No? Is he calm and comforting? 

Finding (or what the heck’s this?)

Apologies for the day late post, it’s been busy with exciting news, more on that at some later point, and Manchester’s enjoying it’s first sunny day it feels like - so I’m a day late. 

Today I wanted to talk a little about finding my lump. 

My family have a strong family history of female cancers, and five years before my diagnosis, I’d been referred to the genetic clinic by my doctor when I’d updated my family history with him. He was a smashing GP; kindly, pragmatic, and about to retire as he referred me. I was sad about the last point, and also reassured by his assertion that this wasn’t the sort of thing a GP does all the time, 

“In fact you’re only my second across my career” he said. 

Why was I reassured?

All Woman

This week’s post is a little different, as I’ve started writing more poetry again. I’m not about to turn this blog into a poetry recital, panic not, but once a month, I thought I’d make one of my poems, and posts suitable for here with a shorter post to introduce it.

After a mastectomy, (or two) people sometimes ask how I feel about my body now. 

“Can you ever be whole again?”

“Do you feel less feminine? Less womanly?” they wonder. They’re good questions, and ones I’m always happy to think about and talk about.

I never liked them anyway*

So why are you here? I'm hoping that you're interested in my story, or in hearing what my experience was so that you can make better sense of your own. Possibly you know somebody who's been diagnosed with breast cancer, or have ended here by some happy algorithmic chance. It's good to see you, whatever the reason. Please do let me know in the comments how you've found me, and your thoughts on the blog in its infancy.

A brief and relatively employment friendly scroll through a social media of your choice, will likely bring up comics or graphics relating in some way to the deep joy which can be achieved when a woman returns into the privacy of her own home and can take off her bra. There's truth in that, as any form of constraint is bound to be less comfortable than being free. I recall the experience well. However, that's not to say that there aren't positives to bra wearing. If you have to move around a lot, or at all with speed, they're a lot more comfortable than not wearing one.

Before my diagnosis, I admit I wasn't really much of a fan of my breasts.

Sharing Stories

I awoke this morning really thinking about this, and what I can or should do about it. I'm very aware that this topic is quite sensitive for the people who are probably exactly the people who would be interested. I know also that I cannot offer a magic wand or incantation that will make this easy.

Well hello!

Hello there!
Welcome to my blog, where my world of poetry, positivity and practicality mix with thoughts about my year spent being ill.
I know you're imagining that this won't be much fun, but I promise you it's going to be jollier than you might think.
So welcome, it's good to have you here, I hope there's something that you can enjoy.
All the best,

Michelle