Friday 29 April 2016


Cancer was the reason our lives were irreparably changed, seven years ago. And exactly seven year ago today was when my Mum had to have a mastectomy.

A Sunnier, warmer day than today, it's still unforgettable, the sounds and smells of the ward still lingering in my senses' memory. Or my memory's senses. Or both. Whatever, it's all still there. It's still upsetting to think about.

More pleasingly, today is also the last day of Mum's treatment; the final Aromasin tablet will be taken tonight.

This post doesn't really have any point. I don't think it has Anything New in it. I just wanted to let you know that today is important, and that, if I hadn't posted something today, I'd've regretted it. I wanted to also say that I STILL haven't given up collecting stuff to sell (100% for charity, every time) on ebay for Breast Cancer Care, Macmillan Cancer Support, and Cancer Research UK.

Some of you, my delightfully-kind-and-patient friends and readers, will know that my own shitty health guff has become a bit overwhelming in the last few years; I don't feel that I've managed to achieve the being-in-control-of-my-ailments position to satisfactorily sort out the mundane larks of "every day life", never mind the absofuckinglutely joyous "job" of listing and selling and sending the CDs and signed posters and myriad autographs.

What Lisa managed to say, more eloquently than I could, is that the bastard that is cancer affects everyone. Without any doubt in my mind, being the person who has it can be wholly destructive. I don't know how people do it. I don't know. I know that they do. But I don't know how.

I think that, sometimes, some people can forget that the family members and friends who see and watch the physical and mental changes can suffer as much as, albeit differently, the person who's been diagnosed. It's not only the person who has to have the surgery and treatment and procedures. Everyone has to get through it, somehow. In some inexplicable way, everyone has to grasp at the elusive, invisible threads, to hang on, to guide them, to find any kind of way through the emotional and soul-draining hell of cancer.

Today, we are taking it easy.

Today, we are blanketed, we are cuddling cats and mourning 21-year-old Pieman.
Today, we are drinking hot and cosy drinks and dunking biscuits.
Today, we are watching Jericho (and Cousin Rose-spotting!), Gemporia, and Poldark.

Today, we are still here.

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