Drop and Fluff

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You must think I’m a bit of a tease. Talking a good game about the big reveal in my last post and then going all radio silence on you for nearly two weeks. Sorry. But have you tried that cod recipe yet? It’s pretty delish…  See Main Course.

So here I am three weeks post op and things are looking and feeling pretty good. These puppies are definitely an improvement over the hard-as-petrified-wood expanders that preceded them (husband says they are “night and day” and I have some idea why he thinks that, considering my right “boob” was previously only a couple of inches under my collar-bone for crying out loud). Also there are no metal parts that can set off anything at airport security. So I can stop carrying that surgeon’s letter around declaring that I have legitimate bionic bits should anyone suspect I have a couple of ak-47s under there.

Now I just wait. Wait and see what will be. How they settle. Whether that right side behaves or whether it decides to get all sclerotic and tight and squeeze things out of shape… creep back into collarbone territory. I tried reading a little on the internet about what to expect after implant exchange surgery and there is a lot of talk about “dropping and fluffing,” which also applies to good ole breast augmentation post op. These are terms I had never heard before — not sure if they use them here in the UK or whether they just say “settle and soften.” But the former sound exciting and a little bit naughty, don’t they? Like something someone who isn’t paid nearly enough would do to one of the male actors in a certain kind of film before the cameras start rolling… If you don’t know what I’m talking about you need to get out less and rent more pay-per-view.

Sorry. It’s nothing that exciting. The process of dropping and fluffing seems to be about the newbies finding their right spot after the muscles and the skin round them chillax a little. I don’t know what to expect and have learned throughout this ordeal to expect the unexpected… although I certainly hope not to wake one morning and find that one boob has taken up residence under my armpit or some bizarre such thing. Seems unlikely so I’m not going to worry too much about it.

It occurred to me as I was thinking about the last year that much of this process (being sliced and diced and blasted with drugs and radiation and then sliced some more…), well it’s really been an exercise in patience and tolerance. Now I am being patient again, or at least trying to. I’m back at the gym, but can only work out my lower half, of course. Today at the grocery store I bought too many things and had trouble carrying the bags the one block home because I knew they were heavier than what I should be carrying at this stage. So I stopped and rested at the bank on the corner. And for a few more weeks I will dutifully continue to forego my lacy fluorescent bralettes and opt instead for an armour-inspired sports bra to hold things in place and encourage the twins to behaaaave, baby. Yawn. Borrrrrring.

But that will all just be a flash in the pan.

When I was first diagnosed I spoke at length to my plastic surgeon friend, Beth, who encouraged me to find a good cosmetic surgeon from the outset because, as she put it, once the cancer part is over, what you are left with is your cosmetic result and that becomes your focus. There is much truth to this. At present, my focus is indeed on my cosmesis. But that in and of itself is a beautiful thing. Because even if, in the end, the cosmesis is not ideal, it sure is nice not to be living, breathing and sleeping cancer and the killing thereof.

The key is not to become obsessed. And not to be tricked into the pursuit of perfection, which is something that befalls many who go under the knife for cosmetic reasons whether it be purely by choice or in order to reconstruct something that needs reconstructing for some medical reason (such as a dog bit your face off or you had cancer or what have you).

When I stand in front of the mirror, it is impossible for me not to see that things have been done to me. Strange things, at this point, given that there is still tape over my incisions. I try not to dwell on it. Or if I even begin to dwell I am reminded (often by my husband) that few people our age look “perfect” even without having had all this crap befall them. He does have a good point… I mean I am forty. And a forty-year-old person has (usually) forty-year-old body parts. Forty just ain’t twenty, is it now?

You know something? It is odd that ageing is a foregone conclusion, that by virtue of being alive we age. But by virtue of being human we fight so desperately against ageing and, in many cases, fear and loathe it and all that it brings.

I say bring it on. When people bitch about ageing, I get it. I do. There is a lot about it that isn’t very fun and so much of it is out of our control. But to be able to age, that’s why I did all the shit I spent the last year doing, isn’t it? I did all of that so I can watch my children grow up and find their own way and experience all of those bittersweet things that life, that ageing, brings with it.

Besides, forty is the new twenty, at least as far as my tits are concerned. Now if you’ll excuse me I have some dropping and fluffing to attend to.


Photo on 21-02-2013 at 13.21 #2

Main Course

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Howdy. If you think I am being cute and that I am about to refer to myself or my newbs as a main course get your mind out of the gutter. That said, I like the way you think…

Nope. Tonight I write about a real main course, as in what’s for dinner. I really wanted to write about cod tonight so I’m gonna. This is my blog and there are no rules, after all. Well, only my rules. And tonight the topic is cod.

It all started one dark and stormy night (not really) when I had a hankering for some concoction involving cod, chorizo and tomato so I poked around online and adapted the below from a recipe I found by Lizzie Kamenetzky from delicious magazine.

Here it is:

Tasty Cod & Chorizo Stew

This is an easy recipe requiring minimal prep work and clean-up. And my kids will eat it too. The only thing in here not good for you is the chorizo but you have to live a little so fuck it.

Serves about 4 adults (can easily increase for a crowd — amounts not too fussy here)

1 TBSP extra virgin olive oil
250 grams/About 1/2 lb raw chorizo links cut into coins
1 large yellow onion, finely chopped
1 tspn paprika
Pinch of chilli flakes
About 1/2 cup white wine
800g/1 28-oz can whole peeled plum tomatoes, drained
1+ large red bell pepper, sliced into strips — thin but not julienned
About 200g/8 oz canned rinsed chickpeas (if you want firmer bean) or cannellini beans (softer)
800g/1.5 lbs skinless cod fillet (preferably fairly thick and uniform middle piece), rinsed, dried and cut into large chunks
Handful chopped fresh flat leaf parsley
Kosher salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 190c/375F

Heat olive oil in large (pref. cast iron) frying pan or casserole that can go in the oven to medium-high. Add chorizo coins and sauté until just starting to crisp. Remove with slotted spoon and set aside. Meanwhile scoop out some of grease/oil mixture in pan leaving about one tablespoon liquid behind. The original recipe didn’t say to do this but you do NOT need that much grease and it’s just naaaaasty. If you want to pretend to be even more healthy you can set the reserved chorizo on a paper towel to absorb even more grease but let’s not kid ourselves too much here.

Add onion to pan and sauté on low heat for about 8 minutes or until soft. Add paprika and chilli flakes and stir to incorporate then cook for another 2 minutes.

Add white wine, drained tomatoes (you can certainly leave in some puree but you don’t want lots of water) breaking them up with the side of a spoon into smaller pieces, red peppers and chickpeas or beans. Season with salt and pepper (go easy on salt you can always add more later and chorizo is salty), stir to incorporate all ingredients and bring mixture to a good simmer.

Sprinkle cod pieces with a little salt and pepper and add them to the pan/casserole along with the crisped chorizo. Spoon a little sauce over the cod to moisten the tops and then bake in preheated oven for about 6-8 minutes uncovered, then another 6-8 minutes covered, until cod is just cooked through (when it flakes).  This does not take very long to cook — don’t overdo it.  You can also just leave it on the burner on the top of the stove and cook it there but I prefer plopping the sucker in the oven where I know the heat is more uniform because I don’t have a gas cooktop at the moment.

Taste and adjust seasoning if necessary. Sprinkle with chopped parsley and serve hot in shallow bowls, spooning some broth in. Great for dipping baguette in there. Can also serve with roasted potatoes or brown rice and green beans or a nice green salad, etc.

Bon appétit.

Oh BTW if you are going to print this out and use it be sure to delete the F-word above before you plop it on the counter and your six-year-old finds it. “Mommy, what’s ‘fuck?'” Just saying.

So enough about what’s for dinner back to my favourite main topic of late: my tits. Tomorrow is the big day and how fitting it is. My husband and I are going to trot over to the surgeon’s office and have our first viewing sans tape. Then we are going to go out to lunch to celebrate. Can you think of anything more romantic than brand new boobs for Valentine’s Day? Of course you can’t. Stop trying to.

I feel like tomorrow is going to be the first day of the rest of my life. It’s not just about the newbs, really. It just marks the end of a really weird year. A year in which I endured extreme emotions, physical challenges and learned a great deal about myself and others and life in general. In which those around me endured — well, me — and all the challenges that watching me or helping me or not being able to watch me or help me brought.

Hot damn I’m gonna buy me a nice new bra to celebrate and have a glass of rosé champagne. Bring on the cheesy Valentine’s Day cards, chocolates and all of that commercial, sappy, crap because I’m really feeling it this year.

Happy Valentine’s Day, people. xoxo

We Welcome With Joy…

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So I always wanted a third child. Looks like that’s probably not in the cards, although technically it isn’t impossible… but anyhow in light of recent events I think I am owed a birth announcement.

Therefore, tonight I write to welcome with joy… our new twins.

I haven’t named them yet. It’s just too soon to tell. They are so young, so new, so… covered with tape. I figure it would be wrong to pick names before I get a proper peek at the goods. That day shall soon come. On February 14 we will go for their unveiling. Maybe Cupid will shoot me right in the ass at that time and two wonderful, catchy, witty names will pop into my head. Until then let’s call them Jane and Marjorie Doe.

First impressions are good. They seem well-behaved, rather soft and pleasant. A more pleasing slope. Less fembot more female. And I swear about an hour ago when I bounded down the stairs I felt an ever so slight bounce in the pectoral region.

My mother flew over for the birth and then got stuck here because of the superstorm that dumped over three feet of snow on her hometown in Connecticut. But that was nice because then she just got to spend more time with me and my girls and of course with the newborns.

Waking up after being out for two hours with different body parts is a strange experience. I guess anyone who has had reconstructive or cosmetic surgery knows the drill. But when I look back over the year I have had a lot of different looks (and not just in the pectoral region but certainly there). It’s weird because I have gotten used to each look and now I really cannot remember very well what my original “twins” looked like or felt like. Not really.

Sorry girls, but you’ve been replaced — and oh yes I forgot to add that they are indeed identical. Sometimes surgeons use fraternal twins but mine definitely share the same DNA, so to speak (I asked).

I know it’s customary to enclose, or in this case, attach a photo of the babies in a birth announcement. But I don’t want to get kicked off Facebook for inappropriate content and considering the amount of tape on Jane and Marjorie at the moment it wouldn’t really be a very good picture. It’s better to use your imagination anyway. (Let’s face it, 99% of the time with this subject matter the imagination is better than reality because we don’t all look like the girls in FHM).

I’ll tell you what, I’ll take a picture of them with their clothes on when things have settled down a little. And I’ll attach it to a later post. Maybe I can do a redux on my earlier post, entitled Boob Retrospective, and go through the last year of transformations leading to this ultimate step.

Well I have to go now because the girls are tired and it’s their bedtime. I forgot how much work newborns can be. At least these two only get me up a couple times a night so far and they don’t seem to eat much. It’s nice they can sleep in my bed but it will be nicer when I don’t fear rolling over on one of them and injuring her. Should be a-ok in a few days.

Sweet dreams.

Top Bollocks

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So, I’m living in London, right? Might as well take advantage of that and learn some really useful expressions. And try them out. Feel how they roll off the tongue. Such as the title of this here post. Top bollocks.

Now if you don’t know what bollocks are (yes I do realise that this is a household word for my British readers) it’s most literal meaning is testicles. And of course used as an exclamation it means, among other things, rubbish, in the British sense of the word (a/k/a crap). But what, exactly, are top bollocks?

My husband came home the other day and asked me to look it up because he’d heard it at work and wasn’t sure what it meant. “I think it means boobs.” Said Bill. Well, sure. That’s the obvious answer. But it occurred to me that it might have more than one meaning, particularly if it’s being used so liberally around the office.

Anyhow, I told him that I thought it also meant something good — like the bees knees or ne plus ultra or the like. You know how they made us yell out “top banana” at the Panto (if you don’t know what a panto is you will have to look it up because it is too lengthy an explanation but let’s just say it is a quintessentially British form of entertainment involving, among other things, acting, singing, making predictable off-colour jokes and beefy men in drag) for no apparent reason? Well if we have “top banana” why not “top bollocks.”

So naturally I looked it up on Urban Dictionary and I was right. One of the meanings is “something or someone that is the best in their company or position.” See here for examples of sentences using this brilliant term. Oh and yes it also does in fact mean boobs. As in, “she has lovly [sic] top bollocks.”

Well after about a nanosecond I realised that I had to write a post about top bollocks. It is so apt, you see. Because as you know I’m going in on Tuesday morning to get my very own set of “lovly” top bollocks and I’m fortunate enough to have a surgeon who is the top bollocks. I’m not making that up. He is. It even said so in Tatler’s who’s who a few months ago so it must be true.

You really don’t want just anyone fiddling around with your bits and pieces. You want the very best. The top bollocks himself.

This brings me to another term, one that I had never heard or indeed read before this evening. I came across it quite by accident whilst (oh yes I did just write whilst) looking up the expression “plumb forgot.” I had never written that down before and wasn’t sure about it. And to my great delight, the word “plumb” was used in the definition and example sentences for another really excellent expression. One that has catapulted itself to the very top of my list. I’d even venture to say that it is among the top bollocks of expressions and I am now going to try and use it as frequently as possible, although perhaps not in polite company.

The expression is “fuck eye.” Now don’t go confusing this with the verb “eye fuck,” which as you know or could probably guess if you are not a daft prick means to fuck someone with your eyes. No, not literally, just, you know, give them that look like you want to.

No. Fuck eye is a noun, not a verb. And here’s what Urban Dictionary has to say about it:

1. fuck eye
1. A person who can’t read a tape measure, cannot reasonably determine if something is plumb/level/square, or cannot tell if two (or more) different objects are the same color. Generally speaking, someone you don’t want doing any type of finish work on your house.
2. Someone who, at an early age, has been hit about the head something fierce, and now one eye wanders.
1. Johnny: Ma!?! How does this picture look on the wall?
Ma: Johnny, have your brother hang it. You’ve got fuck eye, son. It’s not even close to level.
2. Dude 1: Dude, seriously, you’re not even looking at it with your right eye.
Dude 2: Dude, you know I got hit in the head with a baseball when we were kids.Dude 1: Oh, that’s right. I forgot you’ve got fuck eye from that! My bad.

Um, if you don’t think this is funny you are a right wanker. “You’ve got fuck eye son.” I mean, seriously. I’m still laughing about it and I looked it up by accident about two hours ago. And try saying it, as I imagine it, with a Texas accent, which makes it even better. I have to believe that this is a very American expression.

So, to conclude today’s lesson, let’s use my British meets American expressions in context, shall we? Mix things up a bit, just for shits and giggles.

Friend: “So, Emily, are you excited about getting a new set of top bollocks this Tuesday?”

Me: “Why yes I am rather chuffed (that’s “pretty stoked” for my American readers). I’ve got a top bollocks surgeon who is the top bollocks himself.”

Friend: “Brilliant. You would hate to have some fuck eye do the job.”

Me: “Indeed.”

D-Day

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Well, here I am one week before the last “major” step in my fun-filled journey. That’s right, people. It’s D-day. Time to get my new tits.

I guess C-day would be a more apt description of the event since Ds are not in the cards. Actually I have no idea what cup size they will be because we are sooooo scientific and just above all that pettiness — we go by cc’s, not cup sizes. Where was it that I read or heard or saw in some 80s movie that more than a handful is wasteful, anyway (cough… bullshit)?

So I’ll be all cliché and ask you to please send me positive vibes next Tuesday at 9:00am Greenwich Mean Time (and those of you who started to cry after you read that I will, alas, not be restored to my former bodacious glory can pray for a miracle after you stop blubbering. Just stop it. You know who you are).

Seriously though. It has been nearly a year since I went to the very same hospital where I’ll be going next Tuesday, let a man draw all over my boobies with a Sharpie, waved good-bye to my husband and was wheeled into the OR (or the theatre as they call it here — sounds so dramatic doesn’t it?) for the removal of my breasts. You know, it’s a funny thing. I was not nervous. Not at all. I slept like a baby the night before my double mastectomy. Because I wanted that cancer out of my body and frankly felt as though the day couldn’t come soon enough.

I’ve had a year to think about that now. I’ve been through a lot and have gained some perspective. For one year I have had expanders for boobs. Expanders are like implants but they are not meant to be permanent. They are place-holders, pocket-preparers, envelope-makers. Each expander has a metal port into which a hypodermic needle can be inserted (once it has pierced the skin covering the expander — you cannot see the ports) either to inject or remove saline, thus changing the size of the “boob.” And I’ve tried just about every look under the sun. From “pumped up” to pretty darn flat and everywhere in between. This is for a number of reasons, having to do with slowly inflating to create a good pocket and allow the tissue to stretch and recover around the expander, and having to remove some liquid temporarily to get a good angle during radiation treatments.

The other day I had a strange experience. I attended an exercise boot camp with a couple friends. There I was, struggling on a treadmill at an uncomfortable incline, jogging at an impossible pace (interval training is a bitch, particularly uphill), for me, not having been much of a runner for the past ten years. There was a big ole mirror about two feet from me and I didn’t recognise myself. I looked so slight and sort of weird. And then I realised it was because those jugs of mine weren’t there any more. And what was there wasn’t moving at all (I mean AT ALL). That plus the short hair made me feel kind of boyish. And it dawned on me that my boobs were really part of my identity.

It was just weird. I thought, “gee, my shoulders don’t look as broad as I thought they were.” And “gee, I’m awfully scrawny and lanky…” And I guess it’s because my boobs were sort of my thing, not that they were all-defining or anything but let’s just say they were one of my things. And now they’re not. It’s kind of an odd experience, really.

There are other physical changes too, which no doubt contribute to the sense of otherness. I work out more than I did before this happened. And I am a little older now. So yeah, maybe I am a little more sinewy and lanky. I guess it’s the new me. I’ll tell you something, though. The new me is definitely ready for some new tits. I hope that they move, even a little. These expanders have been better than nothing, for sure, but I’m so over them.

Want to get technical? Here’s the plan: my surgeon is going to go through the same incisions that were made during the first surgery. I’d say my healed incisions are about 3 1/2 inches across the very centre of each breast. He will remove the expanders and pop in — now here’s where it gets creative — my cohesive gel silicone implants. These implants are silicone, yes, but they are “gummy bear” implants, so-named for their cohesive rather than liquid silicone structure. They are still in clinical trial in the US even though they have been around for some twenty years (I don’t know why — ask the FDA). They are particularly appealing for breast reconstruction because they are anatomically shaped (think more tear drop less m&m but they won’t melt in your mouth or your hands) which is supposed to impart a more lifelike look to my breasts. And if I got stabbed in the boob they purportedly wouldn’t leak ooey gooey silicone all inside my insides. Rather, they would stay together, just like a harpooned gummy bear (thus the nickname).

Here’s the bad news: implant reconstruction is tricky in people who have undergone radiation. Radiotherapy damages the blood supply to the tissue that has been subjected to radiation and it also increases the likelihood of capsular contracture — or hard scar tissue — forming around the implant. It also increases the likelihood of other complications none of which I am going to discuss or am particularly concerned about. There’s always something, for Christ’s sake. The gist is that after radiation things can get kind of fucked up and sclerotic and sometimes skin and tissue don’t behave properly. Ah well.

I’m hoping that this doesn’t screw up my results too badly on the side that got zapped. Six months following radiation, that side is already firmer than the non-radiated side, which is nice and soft and ready to behave. The surgeon will try to release some of the scar tissue on that right side in the hope that the new implant will settle and form a better more natural shape. Not so firm and not so high.

I figure if it really gets bad I can just use that boob as a drinks table. Screw it. At least I won’t be setting off any more metal detectors in the airports of the world. Because I really wanted to learn how to say “I’m not packing, I just have breast implants with metal ports” in Thai.

Anyhow that’s about it for tonight’s instalment. Feel free to ask me any questions about any of this. Really you can. I like to be technical. And you might be curious. Or not. Whatever.

One-Trick Pony

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So it’s sort of my anniversary. Or should I say cancerversary? Wait… I think I just threw up in my mouth a little in the face of such a cheesy, fabricated word. Anyhow, it has been a year since my diagnosis. To be completely accurate it has been a year, two weeks and one day. The date I got the call (“yes it does show a cancer … but you’ll have perky tits forever”) really isn’t what I think of as the anniversary, however, considering I was at least 66 2/3 % convinced that the results of the biopsy would not be good a week before the call came in.

I was not being pessimistic, people. I was being realistic. I had looked the radiologist in the eye, said “I am a big girl; what do you think” and she had levelled with me. She was “reasonably concerned” there was cancer present. So although lots of well-wishers told me not to worry and that everything would turn out fine I kind of knew that wasn’t how things were likely to go down. That was when I started dealing.

Which probably explains, at least in part, why this past December was such a tough month for me, as I mentioned in a previous post.

So how is this relevant now that December has come and — blissfully — gone? Well it got me thinking. That’s sort of a lie, actually. Because I am always thinking. In fact I wish I could turn off my brain sometimes. But it got me thinking, specifically, about what the hardest things have been about this experience to date. And I came up with something sort of interesting and to some people, maybe unexpected.

When I think back over the last fourteen months, from finding a lump in the shower, to the investigations, to confirmation that something sinister had taken up residence in my body, to surgery, chemo, radiation and all the delightful direct effects and side effects of such, to recovering after it all, the answer is as clear as a bell.

The hardest things have been (1) the waiting period between finding out that I might have cancer and formulating a plan of action (surgery + ?) after I found out I definitely had cancer, with a little bonus period after my surgery during which I had to wait yet again for more detailed pathology results leading to a further plan of action (chemo + radiation) and (2) most of the month of December, about a year from the beginning of all this crap. So there’s a pattern here, see it? It’s before and after. Those have been the hardest times. By far the most stressful. Not during. Hmm.

People who have been through this or something like it and those who have cared for them or who otherwise know warned me that the initial waiting period would be the worst. And that I might feel “down” after it was all over. The waiting was awful. It was terrifying and just plain old difficult to bear. I concur. But I did not feel down right after the treatment was over. Maybe a little adrift at times, but not really down. Until December when I got hit with a bad cold and a nasty clenching crimp in my back. That reminded me of being weak. Of having limitations. And things sort of deteriorated from there. Part of it was an obvious thing. I did not feel good physically, so it follows that I didn’t feel so hot mentally. The cold persisted and turned into a sinus infection and the back persisted such that I was uncomfortable for a good part of the day, every day. That doesn’t make for a great mood. I was downright cranky.

I know now that everyone and his dog seems to have had a nasty cold over December — some even got two colds. I am not special in that regard. It just especially affected me because it made me think about feeling unwell and the last time I had felt unwell was while I was undergoing chemotherapy. It was a lack of patience on my part. An “I’m well now and it’s over and there is no time or space for being sick because I refuse to be limited.” And the back thing was similar. It screwed up my workouts, deprived me of endorphins, made me lose a little muscle. Made me see a dip. I don’t like dips. I’m into crescendos.

I feel much better now. Much. It’s a new year and I have a feeling that despite the conventional wisdom, thirteen is going to be my lucky number. Or at least better than twelve, which, as a friend put it who also had a hell of a 2012, can totally kiss my ass.

In retrospect, although undergoing treatment was not pleasant, it really wasn’t that hard, relatively speaking. My mission was clear; beautiful in its simplicity. It was sort like I became this one-trick pony and the pony’s focus was this: kill it. I was an assassin. Single-minded, willing to do whatever it took to carry out the hit. The wire had already hit my numbered Swiss account and I would go and go until the hit was carried out.

What else made it bearable? It was temporary. I’ll shave my head today, but my hair will grow back tomorrow. I’ll feel shitty and have metal mouth and queasiness today but I will have my appetite back tomorrow. You get the gist. It was something to slog through, not a permanent state of affairs to which I had to adjust. And I started to write and then I learned a hell of a lot about myself.

I was also incredibly fortunate to handle the meds pretty well. Although I rested in bed on the afternoon following treatment and went to bed early every night, I wasn’t in bed all day and I still exercised and generally enjoyed a good appetite. None of my side effects landed me in the hospital, even though some were infuriating (such as the swollen thumb episode).

What’s my point? I don’t really have one. I’m just musing. People say I have been strong. That I sailed through treatment. I don’t really know if that is true. Maybe it was just easy for me to have a singular focus and to get through something I needed to get through. Put all life’s little stresses on hold. Sleep well at night because I knew what mattered and what didn’t. Wasn’t going to get worked up about the little bullshit over which I had spent plenty of time obsessing in the past. Big deal.

We’ll see how the next couple of months pan out. I have a date on the calendar for the acquisition of my new tits. That’s pretty exciting. Sort of. If you told me I would move to London and a year and a half later be going in for a set of silicone tits — ahem — after having had my original tits removed — I would not have believed you. I still find it hard to believe except that anything has to be better and more comfortable than these saline expanders with metal ports that feel about as hard as boulders sewn under my skin. I’m ready to move on. Ready to take the next step. We’ll hope for the best. See where it takes me. Plan on bikini shopping in the near future.

And then the world is gonna be my oyster again, bitch.

 

Correction to Only the English

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Have you read “Only the English?” It was my latest post. Well a number of people have pointed out that “Clowns Nursery” is of course not a plant store at all, but a preschool. Of course this is true and this explains the large sign they have along the path displaying a — big shocker — clown — holding balloons which apparently greets the children and their parents upon arrival. This also explain why people ran after me the other day when I picked up a couple of bay laurels and left money and hopped on the 268 bus.

All I have to say is that I apologise for any confusion. I was having an American moment, you dig? Anyhow I wouldn’t trust those clowns with my children.

Only the English

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Everyone is sick and tired of the whining so I’ve decided to stop that bullshit, regroup and come up with a decent post. Relieved? Oh goody — me too. For a moment there I thought I was Sally Struthers.

I have some special things to share with you. I keep seeing these things out of the corner of my eye. Things I didn’t mean to notice only after I noticed them I couldn’t help but marvel, simply marvel, at their awesomeness, their absurdity, forgive me — their Britishness.

Now I know there are a great deal of silly things in the United States and strangely named towns and this and that and once my husband bought a package of almond macaroons from Whole Foods and for some inexplicable reason I happened to examine the label to discover that some joker had typed in the company address as [fill in the number] Dickhead Avenue. We both laughed out loud for a good long time about that one. In fact I still laugh about it. Because I am about as mature as my eight-year-old.

But seriously, Dickhead Avenue has nothing on these guys. And it was TRYING to be funny. On purpose.

So I’m in Boots the other day (that’s the big chain pharmacy for you losers who have never been to London and don’t know what I’m talking about — oh and by the way they even sell Boots products at Target now so if you haven’t heard of it you really are a loser. Sorry.) looking for cold medicine. Turns out they keep the good stuff (yes Sudafed) behind the counter just like in the US except you don’t have to show ID, you can just look them in the eye and swear that you are not going to cook up some crystal meth in your kitchen and they will happily sell you the stuff. Although I’ve never asked for multiple boxes. I’ll try that next time for kicks…

Anyhow I totally digress. So I’m scanning the shelf for a good cold remedy when for no apparent reason a small white box on the next shelf over toward the bottom beckons.

Exhibit A:

photo copy 2I mean, are you fucking serious? In case you don’t have your reading glasses on, the description says “Relief from the pain & discomfort of trapped wind.” And yes there is a person who appears to be female and naked holding her stomach with one hand and covering her tits with the other hand. Really? Is this product trying to be sexy? Sorry, but something called “WindSetlers” cannot by definition be sexy. I mean they even spelled it with one “t.” Appalling.

I almost bought some so I can take it next time I have a bean salad for lunch and am invited that night to a cocktail party. I figure I could fart loudly and when people glance my way, look all matter-of-fact and whip the box out of my handbag and say “what? I took a WindSetler.”

Maybe you don’t find this funny and that’s fine but you are no friend of mine.

Here’s another one that I’m including special for my friend, Kate.

Exhibit B:

photo copyThat’s right. Look closely. It’s “Tooty Pecans.” I found these at our local grocery store. I’ve passed them every other week for months, probably, but only the other day did I make the connection. In fact, there is a whole line of products called “Tooty.” As in, I assume, “tooty fruity?” Well Kate knows very well that “toot” is just a term of art for passing gas, or releasing “trapped wind” as the case may be. “Tooty” is simply the adjective. And you thought it was the sound that Thomas The Tank Engine makes. I bought some of these and I’m going right back to Boots to get some WindSetlers so that if the pecans work as advertised I’ll be all set.

My last little gem is something that I happened upon in the parking lot of my GP’s office in Golders Green.

Exhibit C:

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Okay. This is a place that sells plants and shit. So it doesn’t have to have that serious a name. But seriously, you picked the name “Clowns” for your business? I mean you’re just asking for it. I could never buy anything there because I don’t want to do business with those clowns. And I would certainly never park there because it clearly states that parking is for clowns management only. Clowns management? I wonder if even Ringling Brothers has such a thing as a clown manager. If they do he should fly right over here and park in this parking lot though because he’d have a hell of a good argument if they tried to clamp his wheel. I don’t know much about the libel laws here but hopefully the owners of this joint won’t read this and sue me because they are pissed off I made fun of their sign.

All I have to say is, listen, bozo, if you do own this business and you are pissed off, please don’t sue me. I promise to buy a palm tree or maybe a unicycle from you to make you happy.

Where I Am Now

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In the words of the eternal Britney: Oops, I did it again. It’s been a very long time since my last post. This time I have an even better excuse. I was in the eternal city. Roma. Con la famiglia.

Still, I do feel guilty for not having written in so long. Maybe I am suffering from Catholicism by osmosis. Forgive me reader, for I have sinned. It’s been over two weeks since my last post.

Ah, it’s no good. I cannot blame the traveling for my silence. It has been a difficult few weeks for me. I have not been myself. In fact, I have been so unlike myself that I have to ask why that is. I’ve been blaming my bad back for my mood but it has occurred to me that I may have it backwards, so to speak. Maybe the back got all seized up because I’ve been mental. I will never know.

It seems so cliché. The holidays being a difficult time of year for so many people and all. But damn, there is some truth to it. And they sort of kicked my ass this year. Some people have suggested that I may be struggling because it has been a year since all of my “shit” started. This is true. But I haven’t spent a great deal of time reliving that. Rather, I have been marvelling, although that is perhaps too positive a word, about where the old me has gone.

When I look back at pictures of myself that are only one year old it seems like I am looking at a former self that existed in another age. Or maybe in an alternate universe.

I feel sort of like Sean Young’s character in Blade Runner. Like I just discovered that I am in fact not human but a replicant and that my memories have been implanted to create a past that isn’t real. Sort of rocks a person’s world, to discover that you aren’t who you thought you were, or at least who you thought you would be. This may not make a whole hell of a lot of sense to you. It isn’t easy to explain. And if you aren’t into groovy Sci-Fi movies you are really lost now. But just roll with it.

I asked my husband what heavy shit has been on his mind lately and he put it very well. He said that this just isn’t where he thought we would be right now (meaning at this point in our lives). No kidding. I don’t know about you but I didn’t spend much time worrying about whether I would get a life-threatening illness in my thirties or whether my spouse would either. But the thing is, you don’t even have to suffer what we have just endured in order to experience the feeling that your life hasn’t turned out the way you thought it would. Isn’t that in some sense the quintessential human dilemma? I mean, how many of us can look at where we are and say, this is exactly where I thought I would be five, ten, twenty years ago. If you can and you are deliriously happy then bravo (and fuck you a little bit).

I think that the last year has just intensified what we would nonetheless be experiencing as a normal part of ageing. We are getting older. And that kind of sucks. Our children are growing up. And that is bittersweet. It happens so fast. And when you chuck cancer into the mix it kind of makes your head spin.

On the other hand, I do believe that the way we are feeling now — that consuming puzzlement at how we ended up where we are now — is temporary. It really hasn’t been that long since everything happened. I have another surgery ahead of me in a month’s time. My body and my mind are still reeling from the havoc wreaked on them. Oh, and I am having a really bad hair moment, even after a dye-job and cut. I need to be patient. Patience, this will come as no shock to you, is not my strong suit.

The past weeks have taught me humility. I’d been so busy congratulating myself for killing it, for being so strong, for “sailing through” chemo, for being bionic, for exceeding expectations, for looking forward. But this isn’t a Disney movie, people. This is real life. Or at least maybe this is a Sci-Fi movie based on a Philip Dick novel starring Harrison Ford and Sean Young (and Rutger Hauer and Daryl Hannah too, BTW). Yes, I will always have my humour.

A key story line in Blade Runner is that the replicants are wired with a limited lifespan (which is not very long) and they, naturally, want to live longer so they decide to visit their creator for some answers. Unfortunately, their designer explains, there is nothing to be done. The replicants will die. There is no fix.

Boy am I glad I’m not a replicant. But I know the feeling of wanting to increase my lifespan and of wanting answers from my designer. Of being — at times — outraged at how I was made, or at least how I ended up, since we may not discover anytime soon whether this defect was hard-wired, environmental or some other factor or combination of factors. Of experiencing how beautiful life is and being tortured by the thought of missing out. Of being willing to take extreme measures to make it last as long as possible. Would one call them extreme? I know people who have gone through much worse, more extreme measures. So I should say difficult. Difficult measures.

In any event, for much of last year I was so intent on discarding the hand I was dealt that I didn’t give much thought to the difficulty of emerging victorious.

It turns out killing it really knocks you for one.

So where am I now? Well, it may true that I am not where I thought I would be five years or even thirteen months ago. But like the Romans, I came, I saw and I kicked its ass. And the important thing is that I am here. I’ll figure out the rest as I go along.

Honey Badger Interrupted

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Gee, think it’s been long enough since my last post? I sort of fell off the face of the earth for a while there. Unacceptable. I’ll try not to let that happen again. But I have a good excuse. Or I sort of do. You see, I’ve lost my mojo.

About a week ago I got a cold and at the same time my back started to cramp up. To give you a little background (so to speak), my dorso is a piece of crap, generally, and this is not the first time that it has acted up. In fact I think the trouble this time around started in October when we travelled to Gordes, France and I woke up with a crimp on one side after sleeping in the hotel bed. Maybe it hasn’t quite been the same since then and I’d managed to ignore it to the best of my abilities. Which is no longer possible.

So my back, in conjunction with a nagging, sinusy cold, has somewhat flattened me. It has been a humbling and frustrating experience. Because for the first time since I was on the juice this past spring I have felt limited. Add that to the common stresses of the holiday season (travel plans, Xmas shopping, yadda yadda) to which I feel I should be immune (now that I’ve had cancer and should have perspective on the important things in life and shit) and boil it up and it equals a big ball of spirit-crushing bah-humbugness.

Seriously, I feel like I sailed through chemo only to be levelled by a much lesser adversary, or rather adversaries. The common cold. A stiff back. Holiday woes. Pathetic. Absotively, posolutely, pathetic.

When I felt the funk coming on I tried my mantra (“come on, you pussy!”) but it fell on deaf ears. Now that I am not being treated I just don’t cut myself the same slack. And I feel like my body has once more become the enemy.

It is not lost on me that I am coming up on the one-year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. Last Christmas, you may have read in early posts, was spent in the Boston area undergoing a battery of scans and biopsies which unveiled the unthinkable. Could this milestone be affecting me? I honestly do not know. Maybe.

Last Friday I had my six-month check-up with my oncologist here in London. I can tell you that at my three-month check-up with the breast surgeon I pretty much sashayed into his office and didn’t give the thing much thought. But this time I decided to try a different tack and go completely mental.

I scheduled my blood test two hours prior to the appointment to make sure that the results were back prior to seeing the oncologist. (They do things fast at this place and one hour is usually enough. I know; it’s odd. Try to get a landline or a bank account in the UK and it takes eight weeks but you can get your tumour marker test at lightning speed…) Despite my brilliant plan I was fifteen minutes late to the appointment for the blood test. It was raining. After I arrived I sat in the waiting room for ONE HOUR before they finally called me in. At this point I had worked myself into a real lather. I tried to read the third Stieg Larsson Girl With… book on my iPhone while I secretly stressed about the blood tests and whether they would be done in time for the oncologist and God forbid before everything shut down for the weekend. This, even though I know perfectly well that such blood tests are not that reliable, and certainly not determinative of whether one’s cancer has come back (at least breast cancer — I don’t know about other kinds).

A tumour marker test can turn out negative yet you might have cancer and conversely it can be positive and lead to unpleasant investigations which then reveal that you are in fact cancer free. So I really think that I got myself worked up just because. It was symbolic. It was something to stress about.

When the nurse finally called me and did my bloods (they call it bloods here this is not a typo) and flushed my port for what I hope is the last or at least penultimate time before I have it removed next year, I allowed myself to calm down. Then I went to lunch and ate a shrimp and mango salad at Le Pain Quotidien on Marylebone High Street while I watched a woman with an infant and a toddler try to order lunch while her toddler lay on the floor and had a classic tantrum, beating his fists, shrieking and generally being a real pill. This didn’t bother me in the least because it was not my child and I was therefore impervious to his bull shit. I almost found it charming, since my children are now older.

Then I went back to the doctor’s office to wait, again, in the lobby. I met my husband there. While we waited I observed a woman get her “goody bag” of medication from the pharmacist who explained each drug, what it was for and what to expect in terms of side effects. The patient had a very short haircut and it looked like her hair had started to go from chemo or else she had hacked it off in anticipation. I felt very sorry for her. It almost made me want to cry, watching her. And as I observed her sitting there as I had done only months prior, I thought how terribly odd it is that I feel so very far away from where she is right now. Out the other side. Back ache, cold, holiday stress and all. Maybe that’s why I have been so pissed about being off my game. I am used to feeling GOOD now. And I have no patience for this crap.

Everything turned out just fine, of course. My check-up was dandy and that was that and we went on our merry way, parting company with those at different stages of this unpalatable and bizarre journey.

So I think I’ll give myself a little pass and try not to beat myself up too much. It’s been a hard year. I’ve been through the ringer and as much as I’d like to pretend that I am “normal” now I ain’t quite there yet. I might get sick more often. And I might take longer to recover from it when I am. My nails are still a terrible mess, many of them partially detached from the nail beds (yesterday a grain of rice got wedged right up under my right middle fingernail and I managed to get it out with tweezers — that was fun). And I’m starting to look weird with this bushy ashy hairdo that has begun to look a little less cute and chic and a little more “mom with bad haircut who desperately needs a dye job.”

I am human. I am fallible. But at the end of the day I am still the honey badger, damn it and I will get through times like this and come out smiling. I am Andy DuFresne, who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side. (If you haven’t seen Shawshank then please go watch it, for crying out loud).

To help me along on this path I plan to get my hair done and do physio for my back until it stops this nonsense. I also might have to visit Prada when we travel to Italy later this month. I know, that last bit was totally random. But I have to keep you on your toes.