Wednesday, 23 December 2015

The Irony of Butterflies

We've not known each other very long but did I ever tell you that I'm scared of butterflies? When I say scared I mean I can't be in the same room as one. I've never enjoyed their company and have tried numerous times over the years to engage with them - butterfly houses, fields and gardens, the tattoos plastered over the nation, but no. They still scare me. 


A butterfly is beautiful. It is delicate and unique. Emerging from a much less beautiful position from its chrysalis or cocoon (however sciencey you are) into a new world. The smaller they are the shorter their lifespan and the butterflies we see in everyday life in our gardens, usually live for around a week.

But I think it's their wings that scare me. Flapping so rapidly with such determination. I remember when I was around 8 years old my aunty having a panic attack trying to guide one out of a window as it furiously beat its wings to remain in the house. This butterfly did not want to go outside into the fresh air. My aunty was screaming with fear and I watched on in disbelief as someone in their late 30s went into melt down over an extremely beautiful creature the size of an old 50p coin. I genuinely could not get my head around what was unfolding in front of me, and I still can't, but I'm sure from this event comes my fear. Their wings beat so extremely quickly and it's almost unfathomable  how something so small can have so much power and also cause such immeasurable feelings. 

Did you also know that butterflies are different from moths in their search for light? Before humankind and artificial lights, they both used the natural lights in our sky to navigate. Most interestingly they navigated at night using the light of the moon. If they flew towards the moon then they'd always go in the right direction, or something similar. Nowadays moths are attracted to lampshades and ceiling roses but have you noticed that butterflies aren't? They still seek the natural lights. Time has not changed them. They refuse to conform. So much power.

I don't really know what I'm talking about, or maybe I do, but quite frankly I don't give a shit. I can't judge myself, that is unfair. Now breathe, pause, shut your eyes and then reopen. 

I've avoided butterflies in my life, actively in all ways possible. Not too dissimilar to my avoidance of pink. But since the darkest time of my life began last week, I have received 3 butterflies. One in the form of a blanket, one in the form of a bracelet and one in the form of words....

"A butterfly lights beside us, like a sunbeam....and for a brief moment it's glory and beauty belong to our world....but then it flies on again, and although we wish it could have stayed, we are so thankful to have seen it at all." Author unknown. 

This is all I can say right now. I know you want more and you want to find some peace in what I'm saying to you. I know you want that. I know. 

The only other thing I can say is that your words to us are so gratefully received. They do more than you know. So I thank you for that. Funnily enough I'm all about words and words is all I have right now. Words is all I can do.

Do you know what? People are amazing. They amaze me. I'm amazed. 

And to the next butterfly I no longer scare me. In fact I can't wait to see you. 

Sunday, 20 December 2015

Our beautiful girl

Yesterday afternoon our hearts broke in two. 
For we had to say goodby to you.
Our love for you is a beautiful haze
Even though you lived for 8 short days 

We kissed you, we cuddled you, we tickled your feet,
And I know again one day we'll meet
Today brought a rainbow, the lightest of hue
And I wondered if it was sent from you?

Our beautiful daughter Ally Louise, 
I whisper your name and it drifts on the breeze,
The pain in my body and heart and my soul 
Feels it will consume me and leave me un-whole 

Your brothers will honour you in all that they do, 
We forever have 3 children, not just two,
I will try to heal for you, and my body unfurl
You'll be always beside me our beautiful girl. 

Tuesday, 15 December 2015

Ally and Me

So here is our beautiful daughter Ally Louise Smith. She's doing so well and kicking arse. We've changed her little bum and I cuddled her for so long last night that I almost peed myself as I couldn't bare to put her back in her green house.
All the staff comment on how long she is, as we don't say tall when we are lying down, right. She is very long.
We've completed our family and feel so lucky to have little Ally join us. Xxx

Sorry photos aren't loading. Trying my best to rectify this xx

Friday, 11 December 2015

The stork has landed

Keith and I are absolutely thrilled to announce the safe arrival of our daughter formally known as chocolate mousse.

She was born today via c section at 1237. She came out foot first and is breathing on her own. She weighs 2lb 5ozs. She has a Loughlin nose and she has more hair than me!!!

Will post photos soon but in the mean time please welcome Ally Louise Smith xxxxxx

Wednesday, 2 December 2015

It ain't working.....let's move on.

No gents. As hot as I look right now, I'm sorry to break it to you that I am not referring to my relationship. I feel bad as I can see your little faces dropping with disappointment as you have now opened the post having read the title. Now my ear hair has fallen out, I can actually hear your hearts sinking. I'm so sorry. Now please compose yourself so I can explain why we are here. 

After hair loss, Weemo and Golum impersonation, I am pissed right off to tell you that my chemo isn't working!!! All those trips the chemo day unit full of Chemo-Nan's, Pirates of the Caribbean head scarf catwalks and a parade of every wig from Priscilla queen of the desert; was a waste of time. I did get free sweets and some 'me' time away from the kids but bollocks!!!! I could have been sky-diving with Tom Hardy on my back or knitting or eating crisps and if that's not bad enough, lady C is no longer in the jungle! What a fucking week I've had!!!!

This wasn't meant to be the post i was going to write. I was going to tell you about friendship and taking an emergency poo in a car park but that will have to wait as there is an urgency to why I'm writing this.
 It's all change people, all change. It's not the end of the line but there are engineering works here and we need to change trains and pretty fucking quickly. 
See, I'm clearly off my game this week as I've just used a train analogy? Uh what? Fist yourself!

See I'm pretty mad right now. And every other emotion you can think of. I'm not mad at any person. I am mad with Voldertit. It's not that I liked him before but now I want to gouge out his eyes and eat them like lollly pops. 

I had a follow up Onlocolgy appointment last week with my lovely Oncologist  (see I told you I think you're great Dr P so please don't slip Cyanide into my next treatment) and we have concluded that's AC isn't working to a satisfactory level. Now ordinarily we would now switch treatments immediately and thus I'd be having the next stuff on Friday 4th December along with a miracle drug called Herceptin. 
However, me being me, I don't like to make things easy for people and we have this little matter of baby Chocolate Mousse. 
Babies and Herceptin don't mix. 
It's like when you offer a Vegan-non-dairy human a pork scratching. You know they really need it but if they did take it their soul would explode. See, I've done it again. That was a really crap analogy. This news has thrown me all off.

So, the shit-uation. Chocolate mousse will be 27 weeks gestation tomorrow and the plan is to evacuate the Death Star next Friday. That puts Chocolate mousse at 28 weeks and 1 day. 
Why is the 1 day important? Because in premature baby terms every day counts. 
This means CM will be 12 weeks early. This my friends is absolutely terrifying. 
Also what is terrifying is that if I stay pregnant until New Year's Eve as originally planned then there's a pretty good chance I've missed my window of potential cure. 
So what the hell do you do in this boat? Personally I want to row for shore and hide under a palm tree, burn my bald head and read my kindle while this all blows over. Realistically I've got to make a decision that encompasses everyone. I absolutely need to be here for my children and to keep Scouse from continuing to wear socks that have been worn down so much they resemble flip flops. 
I need to continue to give chocolate mousse the best chance I can. The baby was kept for a reason and that reason hasn't changed. Our baby is worth the risk.

But I'm scared to my core about a baby born so early. I am also scared that I may not get through this. Mostly I'm scared of doing the wrong thing and I kick myself every day that I can't pull a crystal ball out of my ass. 

I'm making by far the hardest decision of my life and it would appear Chocolate Mousse will be here first thing on Friday 11th December. 

So it would seem that there is no 'I' in team but there's defiantly a 'U' in Cunt, Voldertit. 
In the mean time we are rushing to sort Christmas, preparing for Pojee's birthday and remaining steadfastly hooked to watching celebrities chopping on Kangaroo cock.

I'm sorry I've not been very funny this week but I do hope you'll give me a break and come back again.

I've got cancer.............get me out of here!

Wednesday, 18 November 2015


Did you ever have a 'My Little Pony' as a kid? The really colourful one with a tale like a rainbow?
Well, I've just discovered that I am 'My Little Rainbow Pony.' 
No, I'm not off my face on roids, I haven't yet grown a tale, but boy can I pee in amazing ways!!!
I my friends, can now piss a rainbow!!

I have started my chemotherapy and the one I'm having to keep chocolate mousse on the big slide towards the birth canal is called 'RED DEVIL'. ( nods to medical nerds..... Adriamycin and Cyclophosphamide.....salutes to fellow chemo chums AC dude....waves to my mother....Chemo. Right that covers you all)

So as the name suggests, it's red. My chemo is received via a pic line in my left arm. This is a permanent tube thing that dangles out of the mother of all veins just above the arm crease and has a line that comes up your arm and right into your body.  I sit in a chair for just 30 minutes in a ward full of people who are three times my age and at varying levels of decay, whilst a nurse squeezes syringes of red juice into my arm. It doesn't hurt at all, it's by far more painful having a front row seat for the rehearsals of The Walking Dead. 

Anyway, my wee. The first trip to the bog post chemo is a very fierce and angry stream of bright red. 'Oh my god, I've cut my foof on something!!!!!' 
How? I've stopped wearing cheese wire thongs in favour of Bridget Jones knickers ages ago. Maybe I pulled the zip down too quickly? Maybe I accidentally snipped a flap when I last trimmed.....oh that can't be it.....that was around the time Columbus discovered America. Best go and tell someone. 
"Oh that's the chemo dear, just one of the interesting side effects. You'll get all sorts. 
Funnily enough we have green and blue chemo too. Does the same thing." 
I smile and remember all my uni nights chucking back blue WKD and getting excited about the wee that would await me the next day. It never disappointed.

So through the course of the next few days the rainbow continued. After the red incident it was the Breast Cancer! Now you know I hate pink so this pissed me off.  It's everywhere I look.  In wigs in the oncology waiting rooms, running the London Marathon in the form of tutus, on all the friggin cancer leaflets and now it's in my toilet!!! Oh you've got breast cancer.....have some pink wee in sympathy. Oh Flush right off!!!!

Then it was orange. Now this was handy as I went down and added several things to my shopping list. Satsumas, lucozade and ginger biscuits. That's a Voldertit victory right there.
 It also reminded me to drink more. And of that disgusting time I saw rugby boys drink pints of the stuff in some kind of 'penis-off'. This is a breed of human I'll never understand.

Then there was yellow. Oh how I'd missed yellow. Yellow is normal. Yellow is sunny and reassuring. Yellow means a closing of a chapter and the progression of the treatment. It also meant I didn't have to keep hearing "Mummy why is your wee like that" everytime I nipped to the bathroom. Also, that reminds me, can someone please let me in on how one ever gets to wee or poo without an audience when they have kids? I can't have a lock on the door as I don't trust myself not to hide there when the kids are stamping on each other's heads. I feel fairly certain I would never reopen the door. Which also reminds me that I should keep vodka in the bathroom. 

I digress. Weemo is one of the very interesting side effects I am experiencing. That and the invasion of my everyday language. Not only have I started swearing a lot more, i actually ordered 'drug-bread' at the curry house the other night.

Waiter: Onion Bhajee please, Lamb Rogan and pilau rice. Any bread?
Me: oh yes. I'll have a chemo-Nan please. 
Waiter: very good.

A Chemo-Nan? 
And there I was....transported back to the Oncology ward looking at all the old Chemo Nan's wondering around in their pink rinse wigs or pirate bandanas. 

So I went straight home and tried to lock myself in the bathroom. 
"Mummy I need a pooh"

"Sod off. Mummy's drinking Vodka"

Tuesday, 10 November 2015

Cliche Bingo - The Cancer Remix

Cliche Bingo - The Cancer Remix

Disclaimer Disclaimer : If you are one of my readers that enjoys insults and inappropriate digs at people who mean well, then please skip the disclaimer as I wouldn't want to ruin your experience. 

Disclaimer: I love all my family and friends and I'm very much aware that when someone you love is diagnosed with a very scary life threatening illness, you don't know what to say. I'm also extremely grateful for all strangers who have reached out to me since the dawning of Voldertit. I really do appreciate all your support. So please don't leave me.... I know you all mean well and I'm of the school of 'say something rather than nothing'. So please read with a pinch of balls. 

Right. Arse wipes, mere mortals and cringe bags. A very wise woman once told me when she found out about my situation, to prepare myself for Cliche Bingo. 
It quickly became apparent to me what this meant. So I wanted to share it with you all. This is actually one blog entry that I haven't just written for me. 

A secret Facebook group kind of entitled 'edgy women with cancer meet here to be hilarious and say the word cunt a lot', tracked me down through the blog and thought I might want to join them based on my love of swearing / inability to string a sentence together, without swearing. 
Anyway this lot have been on this train for a lot longer than me and have heard the Cancer cliches over and over. They've banged their heads against many a brick wall, and visualised punching various people in the head, tits and clunge on numerous occasions, so I wanted to pay a kind of tribute to them. 
Therefore it's very sweary and abrupt but trust me when I tell you, these ladies have heard these phrases a lot!!!!!! I've heard them enough to be motivated to write about it so I feel these ladies must be doing their nuts by now.

Here's some fun, give yourself 10 points for each one you've said or heard in a crisis. 

FYI I've said 30 points worth and received 90 points worth and that doesn't include repetition. 

Right, go!

So, I've got cancer, what a crock of turd!
It's bloody shit-scary for such a fit young bird 
It's sad for all who know me and you don't know what to say, 
So don't just stand on ceremony; drop a fucking fat cliche!

"At least you don't need to shave" which is pretty fair - 
I may look bald to you but I've still got growler hair!!! 
And not to bloody mention it's still in my arm pits
If it's not bad enough that they're chopping off my tits

 "But you'll get a free boob job" which is cracking news
As I'm sick of these big swingers, scraping passed my shoes
But these have fed my children, are feminine and mine!
Would you like your perfect chest to resemble Frankenstein?

"You've got to stay positive" for whose sake? Mine of yours?
I'm well aware that all my tears can't meet with your applause.
"At least it's in your boobies, It's the best cancer to get". -
You what? It's bloody cancer! Not a razor by 'Gillette'!

"But you're too young". I know that. My life has far to go 
but I'll state the bleeding obvious, cancer knows no friend or foe. 
"But Age is on your side" - ok, I know I'm not a granny
But I'd rather just be cancer free with grey hairs on my fanny.

"It's only hair. It grows back." - my wig though bloody itches 
And how'd you feel representing Roald Dahl's friggin Witches?
"I can't tell you've got no eyebrows, you can't see they're drawn on"
But thanks for just reminding me you stupid-ass moron 

"You've got a 'good head', it's lovely" not just for radio
But 'good head' is synonymous with great fellatio 
I can't help but link the two. I know. I'm a disgrace
But when you say 'good head' I hear 'you've got a blow job face'!

"You're lucky your ears don't stick out, as I did suspect"
Yes I'm lucky to miss out on the Toby-Jug effect.
"And think of the hairstyles you can try while it grows back"
Andy of Little Britain or an unwaxed hairy crack?

"My mates neighbours brother had cancer and he's completely fine"
So I smile and nod whilst knowing it's way different from mine
'He ate cous cous, sniffed dog shit and bathed in tears of virgins
You don't need chemotherapy just offer prayers to gherkins'

 "You'll kick cancers ass!" This one has me in bits
As I visualise the attempt to kick myself straight in the tits.
"You look amazing". Mid-chemo.  Hang on, give it some thought,
Should you be told you're stunning when you look like Voldemort?

So dear readers, what can you say to someone who has cancer?
Honestly, I've no idea, I can't give you an answer 
It's just too fun to mock you but perhaps a little cruel
As its best to say something than to say nothing at all.

So here's one for my ladies who prefer to laugh than whinge
Wanky arse flaps, shit head, butt, penis breath and minge
Cunty mangled tit rag, smeggy willy hat
Eat shit you bastard Voldertit you fucking evil twat.

Monday, 2 November 2015

Shitty Titty Gang Bang

Shitty Titty Gang Bang

So, the two week wait. This is a term most women on pregnancy sites deem as the time in which couples pretend to suddenly want loads of sex, for no more than five days; to the point in which ones period is due. Lady then spends every day counting down 14 days when it is acceptable to start playing with her wee, crossing her foof that she is pregnant so she doesn't have to break out the crotchless knickers again two weeks later. ( Hey family members please ignore this. This is called 'embellishing the truth for dramatic effect'. Our kids were immaculately conceived. It's that Albatross with a back pack that dumped them in the garden. Not the lady garden I might add. What? Shut up Heidi)

Anyway, this is not that kind of two week wait. I would much rather be playing with my piss than playing with my life. 
Two weeks. Well what happens in two weeks? There's like 10 episodes of Emmerdale, 36 shitty nappies, 4 x-factors, 2 bin collections and 336 waking hours of touching cloth. Sleep is for whimps right? Well apparently so.  

In those two weeks I did my best to crack on as normal. I went to soft play with the kids and yacked with other mothers about weaning and the like.
Perfect mum 1: "oh gosh I would never give my Tarquin sugar. It's tantamount to lacing his organic cous cous with Ricin."
Me: "Gracious, nor I." (Don't mention the friggin dib-dabs they both had before we left)

I chatted with the 89 year old Doris on the high street and made the stupid mistake of asking an old person how they are.
Me: how are you?
Doris: oh well you know dear, I manage. I've got this hip you see, it clicks. Then there's my Sciatica, oh and my wrist, gives me hell in this cold weather. My eye isn't what it used to be and there's an ingrown toenail on my left foot.
Me: Oh I'm so sorry to hear that. (Too right you're hanging out your ass...your eighty fucking 9. You've the breath in you lungs to tell me the whose who of the NHS ailments webpage. Grown a diamond out your ass lately have you?)
You take it easy my lover.
Then I watch as Doris manoeuvres off up the high street towards Costa, reinacting her recent win in Ninja Warrior UK.

And I carry on as mummy. Chastising Pojee (age 2) for calling his Nanny a 'wrinkly old crone' (his vocabulary is amazing). Cleaning up Potatoes numerous Poo-nados equipped with a poo claw on the white lounge wall. Making sure the kids don't live on Birdseye hashtags 24/7 and being forced to read 'daddy pig loses his car keys' every night, twice. That stupid pig! No wonder they say Pork causes Cancer!!!!!

In amongst all this madness, and the weekend before THE RESULTS, I head off to the Cotswolds with my dearest Uni gang....yes dear reader, you might be shocked to learn that I actually have a degree from a real university! Woooo get me! 

This isn't a 'sorry you might die' holiday, it was booked waaaayyy before recent events. It was meant to be a 'managed to get rid of the kids, let's drink wine, eat loads of junk and sleep in all day' weekend. The kind of weekend every woman with kids of a certain age, dreams of. Men take note: we don't need fancy jewellery or posh nights out, we need you to bugger off with the kids for the weekend so we can sit in our pjs and do sweet FA.

We rented a nice little house in house in Shipston-on-Stour, and we were SO lucky to have a parking Nazi living next door who I toyed with the idea of running over several times. After all, I reckon I could get away with a few crimes now. 'But I have cancer your honour, I was out of my mind.' Diminished responsibility anyone?

So this is the first time I've seen these ladies since my diagnosis and the sweet prospect of 'terminal'. So of course there are tears, declarations of love and a bucket load of questions. The first night my friend climbs into bed with me and offers to stay until I fall asleep as I confessed I'd been having nightmares on the rare occasion I fall asleep. She listens to me as I cry extremely quietly into my pillow and tells me that she can't guarantee everything will be ok but she can guarantee that when my hair falls out, for this, I won't be alone.

On the Monday morning she drives me to the station and I make my way to Bristol where Scouse picks me up. "How do you feel?" He asks. "Honestly, like a woman on death row" . I don't know whether to piss or shit myself or spew. 

We arrive at the hospital and I wait for my Oncologist. So this is it. This is where I find out if I'm currently Terminal. I wonder how she's going to tell me? Will there be hugs? Head tilts? Tears? I deserve tears as I'm so marvellous and special. I want tears. Actually no. What I want is to be curable. I want chemotherapy. I want a chance. I want to be here for my kids as long as I can be. I want to see Pojee start school. I want to potty train Potato and marvel at the joy of when he curls one out on the carpet. I want chocolate mousse to actually be old enough to remember me and not just watch me on a video in 10 years time and wonder who the bloody hell is that bald, yet brilliant woman? It's clearly her fault I'm stuck with this nose! 
So I cross my fingers and I go in when called.

I'm about 10cm dilated at this point. We both sit down and I brace for impact. 
"So you know the tests are clear". 
"The tests, they're  clear. You know this." 
Uhhhh no I don't. "Oh right, well someone should have rang you last week. We can't rule out lungs at this stage as MRI's aren't great with lungs but the cancer is just in your breast and lymph nodes so currently you're in the 'potentially curable' bracket"
At this point, Apollo 13 launches in my rear. I'm ecstatic!!!! Drop it like its hot mofos, Schizzle my nizzle onclogist-izzle!!!! Or something that sounds excited.

"Wow you seem pleased for someone with cancer. Now the hard part starts, you Will have [ insert medical jargon that basically says that I'm going to be whipped, poked and burned akin to a great S and M novel] treatment that will take over a year." 
She then explains that when they chop my tits off I could be facing 'terminal twat face' again as they can't determine how curable I am until that point. 
But as of now I'm in that bracket and I love it. In fact I could marry it. Then I wouldn't have to marry Scouse! Woooo hooo. 
So it's bloody great news and I get Chemotherapy, radiotherapy, tit removal and hormone treatments. Bring it on butt munchers. 

I go home with a big smile on my face and I kiss my kids and I rub my baby bump in celebration. Mummy's got a bloody chance and by the power of grey skull I'm going to shake it by the nut sack.
I pop potato to bed and go to Pojees room for story time. 
"Mummy you're so beautiful (ahhhhhh) can I have daddy pig looses his car keys?"

Oh for fucks sake bring me a sausage!!!!

Thursday, 29 October 2015

Terminal Velocity

Terminal velocity

Terminal? What? As in airport or a turn of phrase or a bloody death sentence? 
Terminal is not something I associate with myself. No. I'm not a dried up haggard old prune, melting in a bedsit somewhere. I'm bloody here, and I don't feel ill at all and I do bloody yoga for Christ sake!
Of course I didn't actually say this but I bloody well thought it, whilst pointing my head forward at the Oncologist, very hard indeed!!
Terminal? Have you ever thought about what that means? No me neither and I wasn't about to bloody start now I can tell thee! 
So, yes you might be terminal blah blah bollocks blah in which case there's no point in chemotherapy as it won't do fuck all. So saddle up and wait two weeks while we work it out. We can give you drugs to prolong your life though but you won't be in the curable bracket. So we will see you in two weeks. 
We, (Scouse and I) walk out of the room in a daze. Typically there's a women in a massive fuck off pink wig sat in the waiting room. Oh god, the pink is upon me, get me the hell out of dodge. I'm worried we may encounter a bloody tutu in the lift so we take the stairs. No tutus here, just a strong smell of human nerves and I swear a blood stain on the floor. Probably some poor sod whose bled out their last sense of control.

Anyway, we walk up the hill to the NCP and get in the car. It's a bit quiet. He doesn't talk, I don't talk. We've established no ones talking. It's awkward. Someone say something. Then I think of something to say. It's really sad, it's gut wrenching and extremely sickening. A lump forms in my throat as I turn to him and say "oh bollocks. We're guna have to get married!"

We both feel physically sick as the reality dawns on us that this is what may happen. This can't be happening. It's so fucking unfair. We are too young. We have our whole lives ahead of us. How can the world be so cruel? I can't stand the lack of control and the uncertainty of what this spells for my life. It's as if I'm walking into a jail cell and someone is slamming the shitty doors behind me and stuffing the key up their rectum. I've got two young children and I'm pregnant!!! I'd look awful in a wedding dress! 

We go home. He eats dinner. I don't. (This in itself is a miracle as I bloody love my food). We sit on the couch. I cry at how unfair life is. In fact I scream bloody murder into my hands. I go cold. I feel numb. I want to rip my tits off and through them out the window but I fear for the health and safety of the passers,  by so I refrain. 

We go to bed and he starts bloody snoring the selfish twat. How can you snore at a time like this? Maybe it's the sound of him crying in his sleep, bless him. I get up and wonder around in the dark. I go to my baby's room first, potato. He's grunting away, he does a little fart. I love his farts. I'd miss them. I shut the door and I go to Nojees room. He is asleep on his double bed, (this bloody kid doesn't do singles), he's width ways and I straightened him out a climb in next too him. His breath hits my face, clearly this kid had garlic and a nappy for dinner, but it smells wonderful to me. I kiss him as Dracula would kiss a garlic bulb, and I snuggle up to him. 
I imagine lying in a hospital bed and I wonder... How the fuck does a mother say good bye to her children? Especially when they'd be too young to remember her?
Then another tear roles down my cheek and into my bloody ear!!! Well I'm fucked if that's happening to me so you can kiss my hairy Bristolian ass!!!!! 

You've picked on the wrong norks! 


Saturday, 24 October 2015

Storm in a tit cup

Ok so hello Volder-tit. It's not nice to meet you, you wanker.
Dr Boob goes onto explain that although I have a very nasty type of boob rot, that it is survivable if it is contained within boob and surrounding lymph nodes but there are no guarantees and the survival rates are a lot lower than with standard breast rot. 
My first thoughts are my baby that is now at 14 weeks gestation and how on earth this will affect it. He puts his hands up as if at the end of the firing range and says that although he isn't suggesting it, that many women in my boat would consider a termination to allow for certain treatments and tests. Oh balls. I know that's what you dear reader are on earth does she make that decision. Well dear person , for me it was bloody easy. No. No thanks. Let's move on.

So the next few weeks are a blur of scans and tests. Heart scenes, baby-avoiding x-Ray's, blood tests, full body MRI to avoid damage to baby. Now this was an interesting one. Have any of you been cremated in a passed life? Well a time that you can actually remember? Well I think I've come close to the experience. The room was bloody boiling and your slid onto a tray and fed into the tightest tunnel ever, head first and told not to move at all. The ceiling is so close that if you were that way inclined you could lick it. Now I'm told that a full body MRI is incredibly rare but I was having one as I'm pregnant and can't have full body x-Ray's. So I was slid up and down a few times as a sausage on a grill is regularly slid in and out from under a grill pan. I feel like I could now map every inch of that bloody chamber (FYI Southmead, your scanner has a little scratch about 4 inches in from the top of the tunnel which if you squint looks like a little rabbit) and that will be fixed in my mind. 
The tit MRI scan was an interesting one too. I led on my tummy and had to flop each of my norks into a little bucket and leave them swinging there for 30 mins. All the while being forced to listen to Terry pissing Wogan. Now that was horrifying to a 32 year old I must say.

Now in all honesty I can say that until I met my Medical Oncologist (for us plebs, that is a chemotherapy Dr) I don't think I truly appreciated the gravity of the situation. 
She has turned out to be the most blunt and a little doom and gloom but actually this works for me. So these are the following things that I learnt from her:
- you are keeping baby which is brave. As a result we can't guarantee from the tests that the cancer hasn't spread to lungs when we get the results
- there are risks of miscarriage and abnormalities to the baby if you have chemo whilst pregnant
- if you postpone chemo until after the baby is born you will die
- there are no guarantees that chemo will work 
- your baby will need to be born early so you can start more aggressive treatment. If you postpone this, you might die
- this will all be extremely hard work and a long process
- you will have 4 rounds of chemo, then a premature baby born around 30 weeks who will need neonatal care for 3 months, you will then have weekly aggressive chemo every week for 3 months, then a mastectomy, then radiotherapy and hormone treatments. You will need to take steroids!!!!!

Bollocks! I'm going to be a bald, fat dribbling mess who may grow a beard!!! This sucks.

- oh and actually if the tests results do show the cancer has spread you will be terminal . Any questions?

Saturday, 3 October 2015

Oh For Fucks Sake I've got Cancer!

Now i know i said that i wouldn't use that word again but it didn't seem to work any other way. 
So lets start from the beginning of Volder-tits journey. In February 2015 i was sitting in one of those bloody feeding chairs that look minging but i have to admit are a godsend. I was breastfeeding my 5 month old little boy called Potato when i noticed i had a red rash beginning to form on my right nork. 'Oh great I've got fucking mastitis' i think. What a pain in the ass. I WhatsApp my NCT friends who i know have had this before and they tell me that i should be in a lot of pain and have a fever. I don't. Well i remind myself how 'hard as nails' i am and don't seem to feel pain the same way as these mere mortals. So i leave it to clear up on its own as I'm sure it will. It doesn't and in April i figure its about time that i got some advice as i was under the impression that it would have fucked off on its own by now. I make an appointment with my GP surgery only to have a pretty shit experience with the worlds biggest bellend. 
Dr Bellend: Hello. What can i do for you?
Me: I have a red rash on my boob. Its been there for two months and its spreading. Im breastfeeding my little boy but i don't have any fever or pain. So i don't think this is normal
Dr Bellend: You have mastitis. 
Me: Im not in any pain at all and i don't have a fever.
Dr Bellend: You have mastitis.
Me: Ok. But is that normal to just have a rash? My little boy cant feed off of that side either. All he does is bite me.
Dr Bellend: (Huffs - what a bellend) Do you want me to look at your breast?
Me: (not really you cunt but why wouldn't you want to? My boobs aren't that bad)
Dr Bellend then proceeds to lift the sheet off of my boob in a flapping motion that can be likened to him trying to flap a spider off of a blanket and then says "you have mastits."

That was it. He diagnosed me in a nanosecond. I then asked if he was sure and he proceeded to tell me that if it wasn't mastitis then it was folliculitis and that the treatment was the same. I then declined the antibiotics as he said it would go away on its own. Then i left.
Luckily Dr Bellend was such a massive Bellend that i went home and stewed on this encounter and decided that fuck this i was getting a second opinion. I called and asked  for a female Dr. I went 10 days later. I explained what had happened with the previous Dr and she gave me a full examination, went through some questions with me and assured me that i had mastitis. She did however stress that i should take the antibiotics and then return if they didn't work. I was happy with this and thought no more of it. I went away with my friends and didn't take the tablets immediately as i wanted to drink. Little did i know i had just got pregnant via immaculate conception. I then began taking the antibiotics and then we moved house. I then went to Spain to visit my aunt and uncle. On this trip i felt quite unwell for most of the time. I put this down to tiredness as the bloody kids wouldn't sleep the whole time we were away. I spent one afternoon yacking my guts up and then came back and discovered i was pregnant! So this was about the end of June 2015. I then began to notice that my nipple was retracting and i had dimples on my skin. Great this infection is getting worse. I returned from Spain and registered with a new Dr who then examined me and said that she was also a breastfeeding mother and didn't think i had mastitis She sent me for a biopsy.

I went to the Bristol breast clinic and sat with all the old ladies in the waiting room feeling quite guilty for taking an appointment away from one of these old Doris's who really needed the care.  I went in and went through the motions and was informed after an examination that they would need a tissue sample and that the anaesthetic would hurt. This needle went in and i can honestly say i didn't feel a bloody thing. This did seem strange. He then asked me to return on the following Friday 11th September for the results. 
I must say things did begin to play on my mind from here on. I analysed their body language  my mind and their intonations in the questions they had asked. I then decided that there was to be bad news ahead. 
But what the fuck was wrong with me?
Of course, i did what any 32 year old curious woman would do.... i googled!!!! 
Well, i was careful to stick to the factual and well known websites and avoided sites such as '' and ''. The top 20 search hits were Volder-Tit websites and i thought 'oh shit here we go'. After looking at documents about lumpy tits and the like i found a very short paragraph on Inflammatory Breast Cancer. In short it said 'this is the one you really don't want'. Its that prostitute i mentioned before. 'You will most likely die'. Blah blah get fucked blah. Here are the symptoms.... you have them all. Oh dear. Oh well it could be an infection so don't panic yet. So i did what all rational people do....i panicked. 

There were a lot of conversations in the following days ranging from 'Don't be fucking daft, you're too young to have it' to 'oh my god you're going to die'.
 I was settling somewhere in the middle. 
As results day loomed i began to convince myself that it was something bad but it was going to be manageable as long as it wasn't the inflammatory thingy. I said to Scouse (my chap and father of the kids)  as we had our last pre-life-swallowing-results Costa at the hospital, "Its fine as long as its not inflammatory'.
We waited in the old lady waiting room, looking at ladies and one chap, in various forms of decay and i began to get angry. A) they were 45 minutes late seeing me b) i still felt like a fraud and was expecting a nurse to just hand me a prescription and C) if i had to pee one more time in the foul minge-stinking toilet i was going to shit frisbees!!!
Then the nurse came and called my name. 'Yes!' i thought, 'tablets!'
She informed me that i needed to follow her. She was taking me to see the Dr. She led us further to the back of the hospital. It was getting quieter and quieter. 'Fuck!' I thought, 'shes taking me straight to the morgue!' We arrived at a location called 'Breast Care'. Was this a good or bad area? Scouse didn't say a thing. The nurse led us to the door and i was still 50/50 at this point. Then she opened the door and i saw them. Not the dr or the paperwork. It was the cushions! These were bad news cushions! All cheerful for positivity but at the same time they seemed to say "im so sorry. Here sit with me. Ill cushion your sorry ass while that guy with the clipboard shits all over your life". These cushions said it all. It was bad news.
Dr Boob: Im so sorry but we have found some cancer. 
Me: what type is it?
Dr Boob: Its a rare one called Inflammatory
Me: Oh Fuck
Cushions: We're so sorry.

Me, myself and I.

My name is Patient Zero. I say this because i feel like i am the first person to ever have had such shit luck. I am 32 (the beginning of wrinkles and yellowing teeth), pregnant (actually this is bloody awesome but see next few words) and i have Breast Cancer. (mother fucking wank!) 
I dont just have standard lumpy breast cancer that comes with well examined statistics and a fairly good prognosis. Oh no, i have Inflammatory Breast cancer, the one that involves lots of head tilts and strained smiles from medical people and lots of looks of 'what the fuck is that' from general Jo public. Its nasty, its aggressive and it spreads quickly - not unlike an angry prostitute waiting for her next fix of crack. 
Now, can i just say that i actually hate the word Cancer. It sounds crawly and something that rots old people in their beds. Therefore i would now like to banish this word and refer to my Cancer as Volder-tit. 

I don't want to bore you with the ins and outs of who i was before this happened but i think you may like me more if you know a bit about me. Or you can at least realise that i am a human being who is not completely defined by this situation.
I am brilliant. I don't say this as because counsellors would tell you that reminding yourself that you are brilliant makes you feel brilliant. Nope, i say this because I've always believed it and will continue to believe it for the rest of my life, and when I'm gone, people will say 'oh she was brilliant'. 
My friends will tell you I am great to talk to and excellent for giving advice. My work mates will tell you I'm incredibly strong and positive. My family will tell you I'm independent and kind. My chap will tell you that I'm infuriating and self centred. My kids will tell you I'm 'beautifully and gracefully' because Peppa Pig makes it impossible for them to think for themselves; and everyone will tell you I'm funny. 

The very basics of my life are that Im a Police Officer in the Metropolitan Police. ( For all my international fans, that is in London, England). I have recently moved back to my original town not far from Bristol. I have two children, one Scouse chap, and a manky tit. I have a large family and a lot of very excellent friends who are currently driving me nuts with all their bloody questions (please don't stop giving me attention - and/or food) and I've got a bun in the oven named Chocolate Mousse. (Again kids judgement clouded by the most influential things in their lives)

So, before i start the next chapter, I'll give you an introduction. 
So picture this....You relocate from London to your home town as you're desperate for some free child care as you want to go out more and get drunk. You find out you're expecting child number three by some complete fluke of nature. That'll be three kids under three. Fucking hell if thats not bad enough eh! You are taking some long maternity leave and are due to start a masters in Real Estate Management when bam!!!!! The Volder-Tit train drives full force into your life. Emptying its chemical toilet all over your face!

flamey boob rot and the impending doom.

Firstly, lets get one thing straight. I am very honest and quite sweary. This will not be well written or poetic in anyway. It will be me sharing with you, the shit that is now flowing full throttle into my life. If you are searching for pink tutus, hugs and girl power then I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. This blog is really so that a) i don't have to keep updating people on what has happened each day and b) written in the hope that someone will think its worth turning into a book or making me famous so that me and the kids can live out the rest of our days on a farm in Somerset drinking Cider and tearing around our grounds on quad bikes. So there. If you don't like it, fuck off. If you do, welcome, please buy my book.