I am back, briefly

I am back, briefly

Hello, dear readers.

It has taken me about 45 minutes to log back into blogger.  After such a long hiatus Google freaked out and sent me all these emails warning me I was being hacked.  

Who would have thought Google would decide to annoyingly consolidate everything into one big non user friendly account with a 1990s style interface.

It has been so long I almost forgot both my user name and password, which is not helped by the fact I have 5 separate email accounts not including the home one. 

And I found more than 400 emails in my inbox, admittedly a rather large number of spam (not I don't want to 'collaborate' with you on my blog, sorry), but others, I am embarrassed to say, from dear internet friends emailing to check up on me and share their stories. 

To those who wrote and to whom I haven't got back to yet, I am dreadfully sorry.   I pride myself on being responsive and organised, and indeed, I get at least a 100 emails most days at work, and end the day with only a couple in my in box (not perfect of course, just slightly OC). 

As luck would have it, I am having a non superstitious month, and I have a few little thoughts and writings I have put together about cancer, post cancer and all of that stuff.  

I have put this off because I was pretty certain that continuing to write about cancer would curse me with a recurrence.   I am now slightly more philosophical about these things

None of my writing tends to feature any of the following words:

• journey or cancer journey 
• remission
• courageous
• pink.

I will explain why in due course.

In the meantime, it has been 3 years since I posted. 

My how the world of blogging has changed. 

No more blog rolls.  Hardly anyone comments any more.   It seems like a less generous, inclusive space, but I am sure that that is just the natural progression of life.  People are busy, and they find new and different ways to distract and entertain themselves. 

Most bloggers have moved to instagram, in my case, exclusively.  

And so, what that means is that I feel more like I am writing for no-one and no body, and that is a good thing.  So really  it has come full circle.  

The other anniversary which has passed by is my 5 year anniversary post my diagnosis.   And yes, I seem to be still here. 

I spent that day, a day I had been dreading, and anticipating, in equal quantities, in central England in a tiny honey coloured stone village called Easton on the Hill,  and here is what I posted to IG. 

Today marks 5 years since I was diagnosed with a breast cancer I was told was very aggressive. My children were 3 and 8. I was given a special pamphlet to help me explain 'cancer' to a boy who had just started kindergarten. 

I spent the next four weeks in total shock and denial. I had two major operations and then started two years of various treatments including chemo and Herceptin. And I don't even have room to list all the temporary and permanent side effects and issues arising from that treatment. I didn't really expect to be here to be honest. 

Being a patient in some ways is easy - you just let the system take over and you always feel supported (even though in some ways it is like attending your own funeral - so many flowers!). Being the family member or friend is much harder - so I would like to thank all those who brought food and champagne, wrote me notes, told me my newsreader style wig looked great, gave me the names of a great Chinese doctor and naturopath, sent me poems and DVDs and magazines and books, pushed me to keep exercising and just generally stood by me. 

Not just at diagnosis but six months and two years later. There were some friends and indeed family members who vanished never to be heard of again. But I guess that is more about them than me and other friends with cancer tell me this is quite common. I was lucky to get world class health care and to have an oncologist with both a sense of humor and great perception who understood what I wanted which was the nuclear option. Who also said do not whatever you do throw a five year survival party - because of course it is never over and in spite of what you might read there is no such thing as remission from breast cancer, not really. I was unlucky to be misdiagnosed by my GP so please do not do what I did and listen to the man who says you are too young to have a mammogram or ultrasound and trust your judgement always and always ask questions.

Love to all 

J

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Hello

As a lawyer I get really annoyed about inaccuracies, misrepresentations and wrong information being given to me.

There is a lot of it out there when it comes to cancer.

But I can only post so many post anonymous comments on the Daily Mail in response to people who comment that anyone who has surgery and chemo for cancer is a fool or a 'Sheeple'.   I would like to help people sift through all that stuff.   I don't want people to feel bad about their treatment, or guilty, or God forbid, as if they have not been positive enough.  

Cape Otway by me

 

So I would like to mention my little Cancer FAQs at the side. I have just updated it, after leaving it un-updated since last November, which is way too long when you have a potentially life shortening disease.  

The reason for the delay is this. The longer I left it, the more superstitious I became that the very instance I updated it to say all is well I would have some catastrophic relapse into Cancer World. 

The same strange conviction has meant that I have not had my oven cleaned since December 2010, because the day I was diagnosed with cancer was the very day the Man Came To Clean the Oven. He did a great job by the way. But I feel that if I get him back, I will get cancer again.  (In case you are wondering, yes I have cleaned my oven in the last 19 months.  But myself, and not very well.)



From Anna Spiro's Instagram feed.

I know this is regressive, just like being a 16 year old and having some strange lovestruck repetivite thoughts like 'If this tram comes and if the boy is on it and sitting down the end then that means he likes me'.

But I can't help it. I have so little control over my life in some ways that if one way of getting that back is to have some little superstitions and phobias, then so be it. At least I don't have PTSD, which, truly, some people do get following cancer treatment.

Anyway, there it is.  Have a read and you can see where I am.

From Facehunter's Instagram feed

I am also in another place at the moment, the world of Instagram. I must confess, I am finding Instagram a great place to instantly connect with people, in a way which is really simple, and uncomplicated.   You can locate me on Instagram here . 

I have included in this post some favourite images from the last little while.   Fear not, you do not have to be inundated with images of 16 year old girls doing their nails. There are some wonderful images. 

 

 

From NatGeo's feed

 

To be honest, Instagram reminds me of blogging when I first started.  Before it got a bit cliquey, and a bit complicated, and a bit too much about branding, and advertising and making money from your blog, and counting stats, and linking, and etc etc.  Is that negative? I don't mean to be. 

I am just finding that I seem to have the time to post images to Instagram and I don't seem to have the time to blog. Feel free to follow me, but even better, go to Followgram and or sign up for Instagram if you have a smart phone and check out all the other amazing images, like Greenbeen below, who posts her fantastic breakfasts every day.

And if you have a feed I am not following, please let me know.  I still find the Instagram search function hilariously beta.   What I have found is a whole collection of Japanese people who post pictures of their very elegant, very charming cats.   I cannot resist.

via Ryukutora's Instragram feed



Stay happy, dear readers.

xo

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Bedtime

(at bedtime)

P (five year old): can I stay in this house forever?

Me:  Of course, how long did you have in mind?

P:    Until I am all grown up and me and Immy (big sister) have fallen in love with different people and we all live here together.  Me, Immy, the person I love and the person she loves.

Me:  What about mummy and daddy?

P:     You'll be dead won't you?

Me:   I bloody hope not.  (Note: bloody is not a swear word in our house as it is authentic Australian slang).

P:     (looks puzzled)

Me:   For example - look at Heddy, your grandmother. She is my mummy and she is still alive and I am grown up aren't I?

P:     Yes.

Me:   So there you go, when you are grown up, I should be alive too.

P:     Why do people die?

Me:  All living creatures have to die sometime. Sometimes they get sick, sometimes they just get old. The trick is to make sure you fit lots of life into the space between being born and dying.

P:    When will the Queen die?

Me:  I don't know for sure.  She is pretty old though. Over 80.

P:     Why isn't the Queen in the Lympics?  It's in her country.

Me:  I think she might be a bit old for running and swimming.

P:     It will be good when she dies.  There will be no one to boss us around anymore.

Me:   Not sure about that.  Prince Charles will become King Charles and unless we become a republic he will be our head of state.  Last time I looked he was pretty bossy.  About organic things. And architecture.  And the youth of today.

P:   What's a head of state?

Me: Never mind. (Note to self: need to better explain way constitutional monarchy works to children).

P:    I don't want you to die.  Or go to work tomorrow. Or leave me.  Ever.

Ever since I was diagnosed with cancer, something has been worrying P.   I know that this is an obvious thing to say, but I am constantly looking for signs that the fear he must have had to begin with is going away, at least a little.  After all, it has been almost two years now. 

In my lawyerly way I tried to pin his worry down to something specific, which I would then try to minimise or alleviate.  Was it losing my hair, vanishing to hospital for days on end, talking about my sore shoulder, being tired, being a bit sick or being unable to lift him properly anymore?   I have never lied to him about my diagnosis, and used my best efforts to explain bad cells and good cells and chemo to him.  I was always pretty vague about the surgery I had, simply because it was such an assault to my body that I really don't think he should be exposed to that at such a young age.

Of course that was just way too complicated an approach. 

He is five.  He doesn't care about any of that stuff.  He couldn't care less about my hair or my surgery or my blood counts or my bone scans or my fear of recurrence.

He just wants me to be alive.   Sometimes the simple obvious answer is in fact the correct answer. 

I understand clearly now that he is in contact with a visceral fear of abandonment or loss in a way that I certainly was not at his age.  I don't think I even thought about death once until I was a moody 12 year old listening to A Forest by the Cure (thank you Robert Smith for giving me some great black clothes wearing/goth/moping around teenage years. You were just the backdrop I needed).  Here's another one to mope to:

On a lighter note, we have been building up quite a collection of ecologically sound bedtime reading, ranging from this classic:

I love the Lorax still, complete with the Truffala trees and Thneeds.   It is compulsory reading for all children.  And I know a new Lorax was released last year, but you can also watch the original animated film on YouTube, here it is below.

To this:

Wouldn't this make great wallpaper?  Just as I knew nothing of death at 5, I also new nothing of climate change\recycling\ endangered animals, all topics my children are Full Bottle on.

This book is about a forest which was chopped down and a city which smothers everything with its smoke,  but has a happy ending.  

Don't you just love a happy ending? I do.   Although I now have a major hankering for the Cure. Time to get Faith out again. 

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Three Ways with Plums

I was at a meeting this week and someone made a (reasonably tasteless) joke about getting cancer from a power line.  People laughed awkwardly.  So did I.  I looked around at the meeting attendees and it struck me.  No one here knows I have had cancer.  And they can't tell by looking at me (although why they think I would choose to have hair this short I don't know but there are lots of women around with Voluntary Short Hair and they look great).  If there is one thing I have loathed over the last 16 months it is the occasional look of pity or shock or embarrassment I have received when people realise I am being treated for cancer (the wig was a giveaway).   This is a good place to be in, I can tell you.

Something I have done in the last five years which has improved my life by an amount I can even measure in percentage terms (I would say 5%), it would be using one of the duopoly supermarket people to home deliver all my heavy horrible groceries like milk, mineral water and nappies.

In an attempt to further limit pointless driving around I have just started using these people to deliver organic fruit and vegetables to me. The delivery includes a mystery box of what is in season (and presumably cheap).

I think this is something people do perhaps more in the US than here, but I am loving the surprise of it. So what to do with two huge eggplants? Or other vegetables I don't otherwise usually buy like mushrooms. Last time round I got a big batch of plums. Plums remind me of my childhood, I think the plums we had then we a bit different - purple inside rather than orange, but nevertheless, I love their juicy sweetness.

(chopped plums, mint, chilli and spring onions)

The first thing I made was plum tabbouleh, with burghul (ie the traditional way).  The plums contrast very well with the grain.  Lots and lots of olive oil and lemon juice and salt and you can eat a whole large bowl No Problem At All.

This idea came from Nigel Slater' Tender Volume II, which is a cook's guide to fruit.  I have written before about Nigel, and his brilliant cookbooks.  (Nigel is on my dream dinner party list. He would be joined by Anthony Bourdain, Ian McEwan, Malcolm Turnbull, Henri Bernard Levy ands the lead singer of Muse (yes, all men. Why not, it's my dream.)).

Then I made a pudding-ey cakey plum cake with cinnamon and honey.  This was okay but not amazing but I think I may have overcooked it.  A variant on his recipe is here.  

Finally, plum chutney.  Very easy - chopped up plums, onion, cover with splash of water, some malt and apple cider vinegar, mustard seeds and cinnamon.  Cook slowly for an hour. You may need to add more water and check at the end to make sure it is sufficiently sweet \ sour.

Brilliant with pork.

Happy chutney eating to you all. 

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At last

This morning I had my final Herceptin treatment.

As much as I love the ladies in the oncology suite I fervently hope I never have to set foot there again until the day I die of natural causes at the age of 84.  I made them a plate of chocolate gingerbread which somehow seemed inadequate (not to say unhealthy) for all the great care they had provided to me.

I feel like I have run a particularly gruelling torturous marathon. I sat down the other day and did my 'out of pocket' medical expenses table for the accountant (thank you, evil Medicare and health insurer for not paying me for any of my Chinese medical expenses and no it is NOT a lifestyle choice).

It made me feel quite unwell to revisit all I have been through.    It was almost like going through it again.  And of course I felt relieved that I was even around to be doing an Excel spreadsheet of medical costs. Because that is what people say don't they?  That we should be thinking 'well at least I'm not dead'.  But really you could say that about any crap experience. It doesn't make it any less horrendous.

A particularly satisfying rainbow down at the beach

When I look at my treatment course I find it hard to believe I found the time to keep working.  And cooking. And being a wife.  And raising two occasionally temperamental children who have been through something no child should have to (as much as I tried to keep on an even keel and keep it hidden, they knew, as all children do, that things were not quite right last year).  

I certainly didn't have the time to write here as much as I could have or should have.

You see, it's not just the chemo which is distracting.  It is all the miscellanea, or paraphernalia which comes with a cancer diagnosis.

As a test, I thought I would see if I can remember what has in fact been keeping me busy since 20 December 2010. And lo and behold, I could.  Engraved on my soul, I guess you could say:

• two major operations
• two breast biopsies
• one MRI
• 2 CT scans
• 2 bone scans
• one liver ultrasound.
• two mammograms
• two breast ultrasounds
• 4 x fortnightly AC chemotherapy (average length - four to 5 hours)
• 12 x weekly Taxol chemo (average length 3 hours)
• 12 x weekly Herceptin infusion (with Taxol)
• 15 x 3 weekly Herceptin infusion (average 2 hours).
• 5 heart scans (MUGA and EKG)
• 1 stereoscopic biopsy.
• 4 self injections of Neulastin (for blood count)
• 6 x injections of Zolodex (don't ask)
• 11 surgical consultations
• similar number oncology consultations
• monthly acupuncture and Chinese herbal consultation with the Professor.
• countless, and I do mean too many to count, blood tests. 

And I hasten to point out my treatment was relatively straightforward with very few complications.

It's a full time job, having cancer.   These things take time.  Getting the referral, booking appointments, sitting around waiting waiting.  Drinking something awful or having blood taken and waiting a bit more.   Trying not to stare too much at the other people.  Burying my nose in a book or my IPhone.   Waiting a bit more. 

I have sat in many waiting rooms.  Waiting rooms with nothing but four year old golf magazines. Waiting rooms with ugly flower paintings.  With silly background musak. With morning TV.   With people sitting staring at the wall trying to come to terms with unspeakable news.  With people crying. 

But I have also made wonderful friends, and shared many many jokes with all kinds of people, because when things are black one can often still find a reason to smile.  

THANK YOU ALL for your words of encouragement, support and friendship.  What I would have done without you all, I do not know. 

In a horrible kind of symmetry, last week a lovely fellow blogger, Annie, who is from Queensland was diagnosed with breast cancer.  Please visit her here and give her lots of support.

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Surviving

Before we had children we used to eat, literally every week, at a restaurant called the Bengal Tiger, which kicked off my obsession with Indian food.   Once we had children we cut back on the endless restaurant dining and so I had no choice but to cook Indian at home, which I have done, almost every week, ever since.

There is something very life affirming about Indian food.  The orange chilli powder, the musky clove and cinamon smells, the saffron yellow turmeric, the grinding of spices, the slow slow braising of chicken, the snowy fluffy rice, all those pulses and grains, the little dishes filled with yoghurty condiments and spicy salads.   And of course there is no such thing as 'Indian' food just as there is no such thing as 'Chinese' food.  So you can endlessly discover new dishes.

(some of my Indian cookbooks)

Which is why all I really want for Christmas is this book by Christine Manfield:

And then one day, off to Agra I will go, to do something like this:

(courtesy Brandon Van Slyke *)

On Saturday it will be a year exactly since my cancer diagnosis.  On that day I will be heading off to my hairdresser to address my unsatisfactory way too short mousey brown boofy hair.  As much as my hair is driving me berko, as I keep saying to myself, at least I am not dead.   My Oncologist Who Doesn't Believe in Remission** (and who also told me that cancer is just the wrong form of energy, which is why I love him) doesn't want me to dwell on this awful anniversary, and I think that makes sense. 

Last year, unusually, I had bought all my presents and even set the table for our twenty person Christmas lunch a good 10 days before Christmas, unheard of for me. And then the next day I had the diagnosis. It was as if on a subconscious level my body knew what was about to happen.  If nothing else, this year has completely convinced of the powerful mind-body connection. Not that you can cure yourself by positive thinking, no not at all.  Those who read this blog will know I do not believe in that at all.  Rather that there are so many things our bodies know, we just have to listen. 

This is our Star Wars Advent Calendar.  I know.   Unbelievable isn't it.  Who would have thought that Star Wars was so Christian.   But my goodness the children love it.

So to the point, which is that last night we went on our once every 9 years trip to the opera.  It was La Traviata, by Verdi.  You know, the One with the courtesan (ie prostitute) Violetta who sacrifices her love for her penniless young man Alfredo only to be reunited with him and then dramatically drop dead from consumption.  That one.  

And I sat there and thought, really, so much of last year has just been about surviving.  Getting out of bed and making it from one day to the next.   Dreading the little twinges.  Over Googling recurrent secondary breast cancer.  Lying in bed at night, sleepless, convincing myself that I am fine, and just a very lucky person.  Wondering if I will even be alive to see my already slightly moody daughter become a teenager.  Hoping I will be around to teach my son the correct way to treat women and to make sure he doesn't break his neck playing football.  

Next year, I hope, will be more about living. 

So it needs to be more about swimming and sunshine:

(Byron Bay - courtesy Adrian McGruther*)

and pointless beautiful things:

And whilst we are enjoying Christmas I want you to think, as I have been, quite a lot, probably too much, about the three amazing ladies, Lisa, Ellie and Sophie, who are listed under the C-word at the right (see Alright Tit, Written Off and Sophie Feels Better), who, all three, have this year had devastating news in varying degress of terribleness.  Every day they amaze me with their guts and spirit.  And every day I curse (just a little bit) the horrible random nature of life.

* these images were in a Christmas Ecard sent to me by this law firm.  Taken by their lawyers on various travel trips. And who said lawyers were boring. 

** this is kind of a long story so I might leave it for another post.  Suffice it to say he is more about curable\incurable than statistics.  And I might note I have never shown any cancer spread, so there is nothing really to be in remission from.





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The Hair Question Part 2

I have never considered myself particularly vain.  No more than the next person.  Not straining to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.   Reasonably happy with my laugh lines.  Not a face full of makeup person.  I have always believed that what lies within is so much more important than the exterior.  That is what I try to teach my children (who are taught otherwise by so many fairy tales - ugly people are bad, beautiful people are good).

But I have to say, losing my hair was a challenge almost as great as being diagnosed with cancer in the first place.

And it was not just because I didn't look that great without hair.   Let's face it, who does?  I don't have a round face so I concede I may have looked a tiny bit better than some others, but still.

It was just that I missed feeling like myself.  I have always had longish (shoulder length) hair.    I felt colder with no hair.  I had nothing to run my fingers through, nothing to fuss with.  Nothing to wash and blow dry (well I admit that part was good).  Nothing to tie back, or clip up.   

When I wrote this post I was full of ideas for head scarves.  In reality, I never wore a head scarf.  Not once.  I did wear hats, and I was given some lovely ones.  And I wore my trusty wig.   I have been wondering why, and I think the answer to the question is quite simple.  I didn't want people to know I had cancer.  You might think that is strange given this blog.   It's not that my cancer was a secret. I just really didn't want the flash of pity I would see in people's eyes when they saw my hairless state.

So I went with the Big Con of the wig.   And really it is amazing how many people did not realise it was a wig.  Even now, people who have seen me regularly all year find out and can't believe it.

(My Wig Disclosure Policy was as follows: if someone who didn't know about the cancer (some clients, cafe people, school people) commented on my hair more than once (including comments like please tell me the name of your hairdresser), I would tell them it was a wig. I felt mean about this because I could see the surprise in their eyes but I think if someone has commented twice on how nice your hair is you can't keep up the charade of pretending it's yours.  This situation happened to me just last week with the divine girls who run the before school program for my son.  I could see them thinking: WTF?  This woman we have seen three times a week all year has had chemo for cancer and wears a wig?!)

In fact as it turns out I never lost all my hair.  Just about 90% though.  And in the mire of chemo treatment you tend to lose track.  But I never shaved it off.  I just couldn't bring myself to do it.   And it is true it does grow back very quickly.  But the inbetween stage from pixie and cute to normal is just interminable.

I always said I could cope with hair loss if I kept my eyebrows.  Then when I lost them I said I could cope with that if I kept my eyelashes.  But they went too. 

And do you know when that happened?   In a cruel twist, my brows and lashes went, almost overnight, about 2 weeks after chemo ended.  I had read that might happen but thought I would escape that fate.  

I have learned that you really need eyebrows you know.  They add definition and structure.    I appreciate them more than ever now.   Anyway they did grow back quickly.  And eyebrow pencil works wonders although I am pretty sure you don't kid anyone with it.

So what now?  Well, slowly slowly it grows back.  I looked like Jean Seberg in the photo above for about a week.  And now it is tufty, sticking outy, boofy and not that nice to look at.  Or as my mother said, in that inimitable tactless way mothers have 'Why your hair looks just like your little brother's.'  Who wants to look like their brother?  I don't. 

And so I still cover it up.   Cowardly, I know.  But my son still prefers me to have a wig on when we go out.  And the least I can do is bow to his wishes for the moment.

For any of you reading who may be going through the hair thing, here are somethings I have learned.

1. Get your wig cut by your hairdresser.  This is really important and they probably won't charge you for it (mine didn't). They can just make it a bit more uneven, a bit choppy.  Much more realistic than the bowl shape most wigs come in.

2. Do not wash your wig. I haven't washed mine once.  You may think that is disgusting but bear in mind I don't wear it to exercise, and it is thoroughly aired every night. If you wash it is gets that way too clean look. 

3. Do not believe the hairdresser who sells you expensive 'post chemo' conditioner and shampoo.  You don't need it. You hair will come back strong and thick and new.     But do take colloidal silica.  I have and it helps.  It also helped my nails.

4.  Don't listen to others about when and how to wear wig \ scarf etc.  Do what you feel like doing. It's all about confidence after all.

And one day I hope that all chemo will not involve hair loss.  And that will be so much better for all of us.

(Images Pinterest - but sorry have not saved pinners).

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Cancer FAQs

Hi there - here's hoping you are all well on this blustery Melbourne day.

I have posted a new page, called cancer FAQs, which will  hopefully answer some or many of the questions I have had from you wonderful readers.   It's over on the right.  

Go ahead, read.  There is happiness even in cancer, I promise you.

xoxo happy weekend!

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Change

Lately I have been wondering whether the last 8 months have changed me.  Objectively I would expect that a diagnosis of cancer at 42 would change me significantly. 

There is no point dwelling on the nasty changes like increased neuroses or bitterness or resentment. (Mind you sadly there has been a bit of that floating around the house this year).  No, I am thinking more about positive behavioural and personality changes. 

And yet I am still not sure really if I am that much changed inside.  I continue to surprise myself - first, on diagnosis I didn't cry and scream for a week in manner of Bronte style heroine with heart broken by cruel man.  Second, I feel so different physically (much better, in fact) that it is a bit odd that on the outside I appear to be the same person (albeit with some Hair Issues).  

When I finished chemo I got a lot of little booklets from the hospital about how to cope with this new period with no treatment (excluding Herceptin, which continues till next April). 

If all the pundits are correct, this is a hard time, where you feel empty and a bit directionless, and even depressed.   The treatment provides structure and something to think (or even complain and moan) about.  Life with no routine treatment means that a large gap opens up, which is there to be filled with horrible thoughts of the future and possible recurrences of cancer.  Every little twinge makes one think 'arggh shoulder cancer, or stomach cancer or foot cancer or lung cancer or mouth cancer or eyelash cancer..........'  My surgeon calls this hypervigilence and it is very common in post chemo patients. 

In the manner of a controlling lawyer I have developed a 6 point action plan to try to get me through the next little period. I have implemented most of the steps, and it is really helping.  I will post on that next. 

But even then I still have moments when I despair just a tiny little bit, and think why on earth has this happened to me?  But those moments then go, and I look at the blue sky, and think that things are probably okay.

These are the areas where I think that I may have changed. 

1. I smell the flowers.

The absence of picking flowers in my garden has been annoying me for sometime.  But if there is one thing my garden can produce in spades it is Daphne.  Here it is looking flush and smelling lemony.

My husband occasionally said to me during chemo 'please don't rush around' and I would say 'you have no idea how completely incapable I am of rushing around.' And now I am still in a rush free zone. Yes I am busy busy of course isn't everyone, but I am deleting things madly, walking slowly, and smelling the world outside. 


2. I feel more empathy.

I think I have always been a reasonably caring person, but now I can feel others' pain more tellingly.  If you have been pregnant you will recall how the tears start to flow when you see images of famine in Africa or lost puppy dogs on TV.  Well I am like that the whole time now.  This of course is the true meaning of compassion - that feeling of sharing the pain, of connectedness.  I still feel raw to the touch, I think, and that makes me feel things really intensely.

I was given quite a nice camera for Christmas. I have barely used it but am now starting to experiment with super close ups of flowers.

3. I am more aware of how I spend my time.

I am aware every day of how many books I still have to read.  The pile on my bedside table is towering, and that doesn't even include books on my Kindle. 

As an aside, can I recommend another book to you all?  If you read one book this year please make it this one.  In Anti Cancer, Dr David Servan Schreiber talks of his brush with cancer and what he has learned since about leading a life which repels cancer in all ways. This is not just about diet, although that is important (he mentions specifically green tea and turmeric and many more), but about ensuring despair and helplessness (not necessarily stress) have no place in your life. 

So with all these books to read I am trying to rationalise wasted time.  And sadly that does mean less time on the Internet.  I just can't justify it anymore.  I am still visiting you all, just not commenting as much.  I hope you all forgive me.

4. I am less interested in controlling my children's behaviour.

I still have some way to go on this one, but I am learning to pick my battles a bit more.  I have a very strong willed son, and it is exhausting trying to get him to conform all the time.  And what's more, I think it is bad for me and causes me anxiety. 

So now, if they want ice cream for dessert when they haven't eaten 100% of their dinner, then frankly, that is fine by me. 

(son having roll into ball tantrum in the street. One of his specialities)

Do you know what happens when two stubborn strong willed impatient and argumentative people live together?   It is fireworks and that has long been the way for me and my son.  But now, I am trying to learn new ways to manage him.  I am still disciplining him, but trying to be so much calmer in doing so.  

As an aside this is how I get the children to eat meat.  Slit open some little pork or beef sausage and fry gently with some butter and chopped garlic, pressing down with a fork to create smaller bits.  Add half a tin of chopped tomatoes and cook for 15 minutes. Serve with spaghetti and Parmesan. 

5. I want to make the most of things

During chemo I bought a new car. I suspect some people thought that was a bit strange, but once it happens to you, you realise that life doesn't stop just because you have cancer.  You still have to live, work and love.   You can't say 'oh I might die so I had better not do that'.   In fact it is the opposite. 

Next on the list is a little shack with a sea view, something we have always wanted to do but avoided for reasons to do with debt.  Do you know what I say to debt now? I spit on it.  Or laugh at it.  Conservatively and with a fair interest rate of course.

In an ideal world my beach house would be Scandinavian, a bit grey and brooding, salty but with clean lines.  Here is something to really live for:

6. I don't feel as sorry for myself as I used to.

Someone left a comment here about the 'downward social comparator', which is about realising that no matter what you are living with, there is always always someone going through something worse than you.   Like the young woman in my meditation class with three small children who has been told her cancer has spread and that there is no hope for her.  She is on chemo and a drug trial indefinitely, which is of course code for as long as she lives.   Or the woman I met at a dinner with a slipped disc and such chronic back pain resulting from a failed operation that not only can she not lift or hug her children but she cannot even get out of bed without taking 7 painkillers.

To me, these situations make my recent life look reasonably okay in comparison.  And they certainly make my regular Sunday Afternoon Folding And Putting Away 10 Loads Of Washing (something I was a bit apt to complain about) a walk in the park. 



What about you?  Have you been changed by an event? 


(Images (1) Pinterest (6)(7)(8) My Scandinavian Retreat)

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End of Chemo Cake

I finished chemo last Monday.

When the nurses pointed this out to me, I frowned and said, yes but it is not my last intravenous infusion, because I will be turning up here every 3 weeks for 9 months to have Herceptin.

It was then I realised that my practical side was overwhelming the side of me that should have been saying HOORAY and THANK GOD that I have, six months to the day since my surgery, finished this nightmare experience.  Of course I realise that it is never really over.   But 'active treatment' as they call it, is now at an end.

In the last half year I have:

• gained a new and deep respect for the medical professionals in Melbourne.
• thought a lot about life and death.
• lost all my hair, most of my eyebrows and some of my eyelashes and gained my freckles back.
• read 43 books.
• confronted head on my very worst fear: getting cancer young. 
• spent a lot of time watching the children play and realised how much I still have to teach them. 
• continued to work at about half capacity which has been frustrating but well worth it. 
• felt so much gratitude for the support and wishes of family, friends, strangers, blog friends, acquaintances, the guy in the coffee shop, the stray business person I meet with who remarks on my 'lovely haircut', the mail man, the lovely girl in our local toyshop, the woman at Mecca Cosmetica, people in the oncology suite, the carpark man, the friend I haven't seen for 7 years who lives in Hong Kong who sent me the sweetest email last week and on it goes. 

So this weekend I:

* Baked a cake to celebrate:

Recipe from Delicious, a magazine which has really grown on me. So much more down to earth than Gourmet Traveller or Donna Hay.    It has cornflour in it and so is very very light and fluffy.

* Bought this book online (really cannot believe how cheap Book Depository is):

I wrote about Nigel Slater's memoir here. I have a small crush on this man.  I would love to cook for him.

* Made a 6 point plan for the next 6 months (more on that soon).

* Bought a painting. Yes it's dark and moody and that is why I love it.  By the Tasmanian Turner.   (It is of Bass Strait). 

* Picked some of these for floating in vases.  It really annoys me the way camellias don't survive in vases on their own.  We don't have as many picking flowers in our garden as I would like.

This to me looks very like the Chanel camellia...

* Ate some macaroons which I buy at La Belle Miette 

In case you were wondering these flavours are strawberry and vanilla and violet and blueberry.  He also does an amazing Pimms and pomegranate version.


Isn't life fantastic?  So much to enjoy.  

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