Who's going to get the chicken?

…which is exactly what I was singing after a lovely walk with one of my very many fine ladies the other week. I am lucky to have a veritable deluge of such females around me, but she’s one of my favourites. Which is what I say to all of them, obvs!

Anyway, she’d only been to see Abba Voyage! What?! 

I looked into it immediately. Head carer and I are after some ‘experiences’ as time goes on; simple or complicated, free, cheap or not so cheap – as long as we are TOGEVVA. (If anyone can remember that ad from the 90s, I’ll buy you an espresso martini. More on that later.)

£102 bloody quid? Chiquitita – tell me what’s wrong? Well, I had a dream, but your prices are a financial SOS and all I can think of, you actual holograms, is that it’s just Gimme Gimme Gimme with you lot. Hasta Manana.

Of course, all of these things are in support of my #spendthatpension mission. I’m not being funny, but I am not going to need it. And while I will make sure my one and only is well looked after, I’m all about the fun, for now.

I kicked off to a good start last November. We’d been umming and arring about moving West, closer to my home patch, not least because we wanted a bit more space AND A BIGGER KITCHEN. There was potential to extend our existing one…and then we realised, time was not going to be on our side. One Friday night (every Friday is disco night at ours) I announced that, given all the circumstances, I wanted to have a new kitchen.  Head carer agreed that this would be a good, practical alternative to either moving, or extending. 

I got to work. 

On the Sunday, he was off to London for respite shopping with his son. Hmm, thought I – what could I possibly do with this empty day?

Why, go and visit Very Small Bird kitchens, at their showroom, conveniently situated not two miles away, of course! Oh – and are those all the detailed measurements of the available space of said kitchen I just happened to have about my person on that trip? Why! I believe they were. Such good fortune. I didn’t say Neptune. They really do cost a fortune. As for Surfaces Which Don’t Repel Eachother kitchens – no need! The job was slick and efficient.

There I am at VSB kitchens, in front of the positively fizzing R. Oh my word – she is RIGHT up my street. I do like interacting with clever and skilful ladies, whatever the situation. Funny ones are even better. This one was both – on steroids. I’m on bloody steroids but she beat me hands down. 

I decided to lay the cards out sooner, rather than later, by asking what the lead time would be for installation. R thought it could just about be done by Christmas. Not good enough for me, thought I.

The point of this is that I am a kitchen lover – I  love to cook, and I have long dreamt of a kitchen which would give me all of the means to do so in a better way.  I knew full well that (pathetic though it sounds) coming down to a new one, with my dream cooker, would make me smile every single day. Imagine if I could design my own, albeit smaller than my actual dream-sized one could be?

Time to deploy the C card. I had the consultant’s letter with me, just in case. I mean let’s face it, anyone can do this if THEY HAVE NO CONSCIENCE OR NO SOUL. Just saying. I decided to take proof.

R taps a few keys, makes a few calls away from the desk. Oh! They can fit us in in three weeks’ time! Huzzah!

Carer gets back from a long and lovely day up that London and asks what I have been up to.

“I bought us a new kitchen!” 

It is better not to repeat what was then said. 

The works were intrusive, but very brief, in the scheme of things.

There was much more to do to the shell of the stripped down room than anticipated – in that, we had to have a new floor, new walls, and a new ceiling. GULP.

The plasterer was summoned one day, by the head fitter, having done a coat already on one wall.

“Mate, she wants the other three walls done before I can carry on.” (I was in the room by the way!)

“I dunno mate,” said he. “I’ve got a lot on – not sure when I can get back here.”

The carer summoned an inner strength, previously unseen.

“Hahahhahahaha – what could be more important than this, eh??” .. while reversing nervously into the newly-plastered wall, leaving a Morph-like shape as a memento.

Time for the GobMeister to step in.

“Lads – it’s called a deadline for a reason. I haven’t got time to wait for anyone else.”

“See you at eight tomorrow Mrs Cardigan.”

I know – it’s so bad. But really, when chips are down and backs are against the wall, I think you can and should deploy. I’ve been doing that with the C card like ticker tape on 4^th July. But only when absolutely needed.

Result? A bloody lovely new kitchen, with my dream cooker – it is delicious, not to mention looking far bigger than the last one – and it does indeed put a smile on my face, every single day. “If my friends could seeeeee me now!”

There was brief but fun and value-laden pot-emptying with seven stirling girls who went totally mad in my fave hotel in Dorset. I wish I could remember, but it ended with espresso martinis. Divine – but near fatal in my case 😂😂😬

Hmm. Next stop on mission #spendthatpension – a holiday. Not your ordinary one – I wanted to go to a place that I’ve dreamed of going all my holiday-cognisant years. Those Maldives, obvs. I’m a walking cultural desert, so while en vacances, as they say in … (see??) all we (and the carer is the same) do is lie on a beach and read books. Where better?

Compared to the usual habit of the last ten years (a self-catering villa in Greece, which is perfectly lovely), the price hike was a bit of a shock to my pot, and to the carer. Nonetheless, off we went.

It was magical – without doubt the best holiday we have ever had – all boxes ticked, on every level. Days were spent lounging in our pool (did I say ‘our’ pool? Bahahaha – silly old me!), eating delicious, fresh healthy food, reading books and frolicking in the Indian Ocean (which was three ladder steps from our pool and deck. Oops!!! Did I say only three steps from our…) Anyway, frolicking we were, every day.  I didn’t exactly look like Bo Derek – more like Bob Derek actually, supervisor at our local KwikFit, and mostly because of the tyres he was carrying – but honestly, I really did have the time of my life. Got an ear worm now? You’re welcome.

I shall be seeing Bob again tomorrow, when he’ll relieve me of £500 for two tyres. Yippee! I could be down two dress sizes for the weekend! I’ll lie back and think of those Maldives. Yeah – that’s bound to help.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, things are getting a little complicated. I’ve been having the awesome twosome – chemo and immunotherapy – every 21 days since…..can’t even remember, it’s been so long. Bloody brilliant news! The dynamic duo has seen off nearly all of the previously innumerable tumours in the lungs. Huzzah!

As shit would have it, in the process, one of the two has caused gradual kidney failure. Boooooo! We did an experiment last cycle, and omitted the chemo element – thought to be the culprit. Wrong: subsequent blood tests revealed a further deterioration of the kidney function, such that it’s a step away from ‘life-threatening’. When my Onc woke up, he said that the kidney stuff would get me before the lung stuff. Obviously he put it in slightly more erudite terms but…I got the gist.  A Midsomer Murder-style investigation (ie, it’s not that one, has to be t’other) points the finger at the immunotherapy. Bum. The upshot is that I could have neither this week, as per the schedule.

It leaves a girl somewhat exposed when her hyper-metabolic cancer (see KRAS mutation, in an earlier blog) doesn’t get its regular slap round the face every 21 days. It’s like I’ve gone to Tesco with no pants on with a wine deal starting – I could go from not very much to a bulging trolley within a very short space of time, and then deal with the underdraft. (Think of the Clubcard points though.)

There’s some tests and experiments over the coming days; naturally I have insisted they ignore all protocols and give me one or t’other asap, but I also have low and high levels of other stuff which could mean other bits and bobs. When you are at this final stage with Mr C, it’s absolutely fascinating how they work stuff out, tweak and balance, come up with solutions; but YOU have to drive it. Thanks goodness I’m a GobMeister!

There’s ALWAYS an upside; this time, it means that I won’t feel totally rubbish for a few days – I’m treatment free, yeehah! I’m turning it to good use, with lots of activities in plan. I hate to say it, but it’s a bit of a relief. Since I last blogged I have been … not very good. It’s the accumulation of the toxins – really, over the last two years. Got to get to you at some point. Not to mention this bloody never-ending winter – come on weather, sort yourself out!

In the meantime, back to Grabba – oh! Abba! I’m not going to bother – can’t be arsed (it’s an effort to get the old girl out for such an adventure these days).

“So I say ‘Thank you for the Music’ – it’s free on Spot-i-fy”

See you next time chiquititas xxx

Good evening friends! How are we all? Lovely to see you and I hope your Halloween was just as you wanted it to be. Bring on the weekend – my female feline carer support team, Ms Karen and Ms Willy, can’t bloody wait for 5th November. They’re already clinging to me and him, terrified that even an accidental lady puff from their human mother’s (currently highly) unreliable back end, could be Ms Catherine of the Wheel, come to initiate their undoing. Far too many bangs going on here for normal expectations, and it’s freaking them out. 

Festively, I put a note on the front door on Monday evening – something along the lines of, ‘piss off this year, thanks very much for asking.’ I’m all heart, obvs. 

Tomorrow, I’ll be a week post chemo #3. I think the Onc has given me a placebo this time. Well, he hasn’t been arsed to do a post chemo check up on me, so either he knows something I don’t, or I know something he doesn’t want me to. I’m watching you, sunshine! All I do know, is that I seem to have tolerated the immunotherapy this time – as in, no evidence of infection; all things functioning as well as can be expected. Hurrah!! This is what I want. 

I have put myself through training for this – no point leaving anything to chance. My diet has been refined towards cleansing, liver and kidney-friendly foods. No red meat, or saturated fat; mostly veg, oily fish, wholegrains, berries, an obscene amount of leafy green veg, pounds of pulses. Also, exercise, plenty of fresh sea air – and an awful lot of R&R. None of this is a cure (if only it were that simple; eating less shite in life is generally good for health, but if your shite has hit the doo-dah, it won’t reverse things). No one has told me to do this – it’s just my instinct. My intent is to maximise the impact of the treatment, and I’ve done it every time over the last five years. Didn’t jeffin work last time, but I’m a counter upper, not a droopy downer, so I’ll carry on. 

In short, I’ve equipped myself with everything I usually eat/do, but sometimes forget if I’m not completely on the case. The point is to support the organs that got pissed off last time, with the foods and activity which will enable them to clear the shite I get pumped with every three weeks. So far so good. After about 3 days trawling the entire internet I managed to find, ahem,  evidence, that RED WINE COUNTS TOO, for metastatic lung cancer. How happy could a girl be?? 

Impossible to be any happier! I’m so wrung out on steroids I’m bloody hyper. One minute leaping to the pharmacy, declaring the world is a lovely place, smiling cheerily to farting, leaky old men; the next, flat on my back in Lidl car park laughing like a drain, so tired I don’t know if I’ve got a Special Buy or a 10-pack of furry non-slip coat hangers. Again. 

Yep – we’re into the 10-day, wide awake, Faithless ‘can’t get no…’ bonanza. Just so hilarious! 

It builds. Even though I only take them for six days, the little bugger starts accumulating; so really, by the time you stop taking them, the effect is only really beginning. I have to log sleep, bum function, nausea – anything – in a diary every day, just in case ‘not very interested’ Onc decides to ask. He hasn’t. 

I had an epic last night. Went to bed to watch Bake Off and as per, fell asleep before the result. Oh! I slept like a baby! (Bit of a bad phrase; they don’t tend to sleep that well, do they??) Until…11.45pm. Dammit. 

After that, the die was cast. I knew full well, that more sleep would cometh not. 

Fast forward and it’s 5.45am. I’ve worked out the Chicken theory of relativity (achoo!! I hope my chicky is safe); watched a few episodes of Outlaws, caught up on the actual result of Bake Off – time to sleep. For a spectacular, further, one hour. 

No matter – stuff to do! Up I leap; I’ve built in an appointment in my three week regime going forwards,  with a friend who will give me the most lush head and face massage type thingy, when I’m so tired that nothing else will help me relax. A warm, comfortable place, lots of woo woo music, candles – off I drift, as she carefully choreographs a path to utter relaxation.  I’m asleep. It is 8am. 

Out I come, dreamy, woozy, swirly – I cannot wait to get home, put my slippers on, get the metre-long hot water bottle filled, put my fluffy dressing gown over my day clothes, shut the curtains and get under the duvet. 

Crikey, my idea of a day well spent in bed has changed.

I catch the carer observing this with a mix of semi-consternation and imminent doom.

 What has happened to that woman I married? Just seven years ago?? Why so greasy, wizened, so addicted to comfy brushed cotton and bed socks, when once, only silk – and not much of it either, to be fair, would do? 

I can’t be bloody arsed – I’m knackered out, freezing, I’ve definitely got to pull another night shift to-very-night. It’s every woman for herself at times like this. 

As I catch his wistful (yet quiet, and massively devastated) glaze, I realise. Not only is he looking at the transformation of his once lithe and keen beloved – he’s also deeply worried that some of those dissuaded Hallowe’en ers have actually got into our house. 

My hair, newly anointed with soothing oils, is sticking out like someone who has accidentally shoved their hand into a live socket. And underneath, matted, moisture and oil-ridden curly tufts, prevail. What a bloody catch. If Colin Firth could see me now – phwoaaarr! 

If he could pull that off (I could help? 🙄), it’d be Mr Farcey, and no mistake. Oscars aplenty, coming his way.

The hair, anyway, has become..interesting. The alpaca is sort of still in full swing. This is the deeply-curly mullet effect, created by re-growth following last year’s chemo, but only at the front of the head – covered by longer strands of wispy old hair, which somehow I clung on to at the time. 

Now, we seem to approaching a stand off. The thin longer bits are starting to thin again- but according to the two people who really get up close to my (head!) hair, the alpaca is holding well. Meanwhile – just like chemo #1,  for unrelated breast cancer five years ago, MOST OTHER HAIR has gone. Yes – gone!

 At that time, I reported it as yet another resounding benefit of this treatment lark – no costly waxing, autumnal worries about, I don’t know, hairy ankles, plaited pits – it’s just vanished. Huzzah! Still picking out the old lady hairs on my chinny chin chin but heck – the process is but a puppy – I’ll be rubbing those sheisters off with my little finger within a couple of weeks. 

Even my somewhat hursuit brows – quite the trend with slug loving youngsters – are on the wane. Formerly a champion of au naturel, I had hearty but natural coverage – occasionally neatened – but a look that those of a certain age may describe as Dennis Healy with a brow perm. Crumbs, they were LONG. Shockingly long. Halfway up my forehead if you blinked. Not that I could – too damn LONG! So … heavy, to lift! 

Anyway – none of this matters at all. It’s not even vanity – I never had it, and the good Lord above knows I never will. It’s just the funny old side of treatment, which continues to amaze, inform and entertain me every single day. Honestly, it’s just so fascinating. 

I’m not even nearly tired yet – just revving up. The heavens are truly open; the female felines are in and manually attached. Life is good! 

Tomorrow? No idea. But I must take those furry hangers back to Lids. Turns out I didn’t need 35 after all. 

Pip pip – and keep those pets indoors, folks xx

Crikey – I think here in the UK we’re all hanging on for those this evening! In, out, shake it all about – that’s how we do the hokus pokus. Goodness knows, I’m as dizzy as a Lizzy, what with all those handbrake turns. Those Spandex must be chock full of – emissions. Ahem.

Little bit of politics there; on a Tuesday (is it Tuesday? Who am I? Where do I live??)

All good fun at Chicken HQ. I say ‘fun’ – because it is! I do not know one day to the next what the 12-15-8-3 waking hours are going to hold.

One thing is clear: sleep – as in, that stuff I used to get (luckily), for 8+ hours per night = GONE. Predictably rare nightmare that I am coming to be with this lark, after chemo #1, back in September, I got a kidney and liver infection (I did ask re: the latter! – Not guilty! – Phew!) At the time, lots of old rubbish was going on; I was sorting out the Captain’s last hurrah (went well – I didn’t go, due to known irritants and their obstruction of the basic process – plus I was hosting a visiting relative (great fun! Nice and very funny bloke!) – BUT – it was all, in retrospect, just too much to handle all at the same time, soon after chemo. Anyway, my bit of the Captain is in the garage, next to the wine rack, until I put him on top of Mum; in both cases, it’s what he would have wanted 🙄

Anyway – due to the infections, the steroids got upped – and the sleep went down.

What do we all do between 1am-5am each day?? (Boys: don’t answer).

People have recommended Horlicks, Ovaltine, meditation, listening to ‘In our time’ or ‘Poetry please’ (or, as Jack Dee once said, ‘Poetry no thank you’). No good my friends! No! My brain lights up like a bloody Christmas tree – I’m contributing to the National Grid with mere thoughts about life, the universe – and even though the answer is 42 (ask your parents, kids) – it doesn’t help.

There is absolutely NOTHING I can do about it. But; think of it like this. It lasts for but ten days. Ten out of 21 ain’t too shabby. A lot of people have their heads down the lavatoire for longer than that, every cycle. Currently, I do not. 

However – and you have to get ready for a bit of genuinely curious stuff here, my friends.

Most of my friends now know that I have Stage IV, terminal lung cancer. This is far easier on the patient, than the recipient of the news – trust me on this.

When you first get diagnosed with cancer (and you can check back to my blog on this, back in 2017), people, first of all, want to know, ‘of the what’.

That’s natural; we then do a self-scan, we think to ourselves (even for the non-causitive ones) – ‘Well, I don’t do x, y, z – I don’t live my life like a, b. c – I’m ok). That’s all Maslow – survival is our basic human need.

What is extremely interesting this time is – knowing I have a terminal situation – WHY is the first question:

‘How long have you got?’

I can laugh away (and I do – it has become hilarious to me now, and I do feel guilty) because I can see the lips forming into the H.. I can see the hesitation, yet burning desire to know.

I suppose what I want to know is: 

1. Why do you want to know?
2. Why do you think it is OK to ask me, if you are not my daughter, my husband or my bestie?

I mean, if anyone can help here, I would be genuinely grateful. I’m not arsey about it – just super curious!

Any road up, it’s cheeeeeeeemo time again on Thursday – yeehah! I am absolutely thrilled about this, because, due to those bloody infections, I was not allowed to have the immunotherapy last time. This annoyed me A LOT. I have focused intensely on diet and exercise the last 20 days (even while awake all night!); my bloods, tested this morning, mean I am ready for the full whack (obvs I asked for extra on top = denied); I am good to go, in super fit form, ready to take it on and smash it out the park.

Soooo! Quite happy, skippy, jumpy – especially as I have my Disco Daze playlist on – the thoughtful gift of my SOON-ISH TO BE SON-IN-LAW, Mr T H. Who, through my mini carer, has made me the happiest woman on the planet. Not to mention how loved up and gorgeous she (rightly) feels – woaahh! The light in her eyes and her whole being: the most gorgeous thing I have ever set eyes on, since the day she was born. Nice work Mr H. The T points are so far off the scale I am going to have to donate my lungs to you – bahahahahah!!!

I’ll find my funny bone again, I promise.

But, in the interim, to save both our blushes; the answer is, I have not asked. I have no need to know. The information is not useful to me; plus, I’m a glass half full kind of a girl (woe betide you if you leave me half empty – I’ll smash your bloody face in!). So, rather than count down, I count up. I love every day, and I look forward. To everything.

You’d be a very Dizzy Lizzy not to, wouldn’t you? 

See you soon chickettes x

This is a hard one to start, my friends. 

Thank you all so much for your kind comments about Das Kapitan, who was found with his cabin doors to automatic on 28^th August.

Herr L was far from a saint; and far be it from anyone to think that any of us are.

What I am most pleased about it that not three weeks earlier, he and I had gone to visit my mum’s grave in Somerset, in the village where we grew up, on the ninth anniversary of her death. We’d gone on to have a lovely evening in Wells, where us kids went to school. Two days after that, we’d taken him on the Portsmouth Harbour tour – something he had always wanted to do. We had a nice dinner at home and my lovely carer drove him the 1.5hrs back to his place on the Friday AS I WAS HAVING MY HEARING AID FITTED. Pardon? 

The old sod will have his funeral in that very spot, in Somerset, in that church, and be interred next to our mum there, in due course.

His visit was not without hilarity, of course. We didn’t get round to a Gerald Lecture as his views on the Tory leadership competition were (are!) unpublishable.

We were having a walk around the Wednesday market in Wells, not surprisingly, on the Wednesday. We reached a point at the bottom of the market square, and suddenly, a memory came to him. He stood IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PAVEMENT, back towards pedestrian traffic, and said: 

“Do you remember when…” – thrusting his stick out to the right at shoulder height – and in the process, nearly decapitating a kindly old lady behind him.

“DAD!!!” I shouted – “You mustn’t do that! I’m so sorry, kindly old lady!”

“Don’t worry my lovey,” said she. “I had my eye on him.”

A little bit of tutting later, he resumes his story. 

You know the rest.

Next victims are an elderly couple. The stick hits the gentleman’s chest. He may well have been a kindly old gentleman in normal life – but not so today.

“Watch out old you stupid old bugger!” (that wasn’t me, by the way).

I repeat the “DAD!!!!” bit and he tells me to shut up, and that he won’t tell me about the story now anyway. At this point, my FitBit has leapt off my wrist due to the explosion in heart rate, I’m redder than a sunburned beetroot with embarrassment, and it’s down to me to collect up all the dead bodies left in his wake. Dads: who’d have ‘em??

We’ll say that Gerry was definitely special – in all the right, and all the wrong ways. Anyway – hopefully he is running around upstairs trying to pinch my mum’s bum and getting her to make the tea (given he’s had to do it for himself for the last nine years – he was NOT happy!).

Apart from the sadness, there of course was some inconvenience for me.

I was contemplating this as I took my cellulite for a long walk along the shore, following the patriach’s departure.

While I have had cancer for five years – of which, lung cancer for three years now, it’s not very interesting as blog material unless I am actually in treatment. Then, I can tell you how funny it is to have all these ridiculous procedures and what a laugh the whole thing is. Dad has filled in those gaps; damn you, Dad! What the heck am I going to do now??

You know how I have always said what a lucky person I am?

Well – that luck has struck again! I KNOW!!! 

Fortunately, two days before the Dadster made his exit, I’d only been told I’ve now got Stage IV lung cancer (um..there is no Stage V) –  too many tumours now, across both lungs (poo)  to even count! No treatment other than palliative chemo, for as long as it works, and as long as it doesn’t leave the lungs.

Obviously, because I’m such an attention seeker, I have a rare and untreatable genetic mutation called KRAS. It’s known colloquially as the Death Star. I call it something else, colloquially or otherwise! The shit causes cancer cells to divide and multiply at at rate faster than the national speed limit. This means that any success with the chemo (in reducing or managing the spread) is effectively futile. Like me when I used to go and use the treadmill at the gym (Pah! Fat help that proved to be 😂😂😂🤦‍♀️), I’ll be running on the spot.

This is GOLD. Who could have such a rich seam of material to mine, until I have no mine(d). Genius!

Gone are the periods of writers’ block; nothing funny to say; boring old ramblings.

Then I had a birthday (as of now, I don’t care what the number is!).

Because I have so many gorgeous friends, for the last two weeks, flowers, cards and all sorts have been arriving. I don’t know whether they’re going to say, “Sorry your dad died, “Sorry you are dying,” or “Happy Birthday!”. It’s bloody hilarious! 

I caused this mess, because I smoked fags. I cannot, and will not, complain.

Strap yourselves in chickettes; the roller coaster, the tsunami, the big adventure, starts now.

Stay with me! The fun starts next week 😊

Jubilations to all! I hope you’ve had a super weekend of it all, even if you don’t like ‘them’ – but you got some time off. Controversial territory I know – but more, out of context goings on on the Joobs later, let me tell you!

I’m upbeat this evening. Well, chickettes, now I’ve calmed down I am. 

Get this.

I was out today at a shop which I’ll call ‘Extremely good deals for one’s domicile.’ 

I still wear a mask in shops. I’m doing this because:

a) I want to;

b) I ought to, and 

c) My Onc told me to. 

There I was, browsing the shelves for some cut price quinoa (it’s gone up to two quid a pack in Fresco’s!) – and then, two astonishing things happened. 

First, I realised I was in completely the wrong shop for such an item. 

(I’d been easily fooled earlier this year by the availability of dried yellow split peas at just 49p a bag.) 

Second, I encountered two separate occurrences of mask abuse. 

‘Ooh, look at ‘er with ‘er mask, ooo does she think she is?’ 

(NB: I wasn’t on the set of a recording of The Archers, with its indistinguishable cocktail of Midlands, Somerset, cockney, Norfolk and fake Glasgow accents. Oh no – this is ‘South Ampshire’ – this is real )

Next, in the ‘seasonal’ aisle, which obvs I’d strayed into en route to the kwinners:

‘Get over it love, you ain’t gonna get covid now you dozy mare!’

I’ve long rehearsed such a scenario.

Ooh – what I would say, how smartly and confidently I’d retort, how the mere issue of the words from my (mask-concealed) lips would send them reeling, home, to consider the insensitivity of their ill-informed remarks. 

Yes, it would go something like this, I can see it now: 

‘I’m amazed that you think it is OK to say that’ …then I’d toss my (be careful) masked face up, and flounce off in a huffy stomp. Not bad, eh? 

If that didn’t work, time for the next one (channeling the Rees-Mogg)

‘It’s you, isn’t it dear lady, with an insufficient complement of those organs which enable us to breathe freely every day, coupled with an as yet incurable genetic mutation, and a worryingly diminutive count of the blood cells which are white…Not so? Ah – my most humble apologies- one has made a mistake. It is I!’.

Then of course, I’d repeat the huffy stomp. 

TBH, in this particular shop, in the part of the town I was, I wouldn’t expect widespread comprehension of either response. Even pre-COVID, a balaclava was advisable. I’d have been far better off consulting and then quoting my phonetic friend, Mr Foxtrot Oscar – but obvs, followed by the now mandatory flourish of a huffy stomp. Why not! 

Of course, none of my imagined responses took place – I just ignored them, left minus quinoa but, with a lovely bottle of harpic super bleach on special at 99p, and box of cat food (they don’t look too well this evening, my cats?) and trundled on home. Confrontation is not my thing.

I don’t see what’s wrong with a mask, nowadays? Pure vanity at the very least dictates that it acts as a handy chin-bag, gathering up all the offspring of the one I was born with into one neat, albeit a bit bulgy, package. Fair play,

 Anyway, home I came, flushed with the indignity of what I didn’t say (but very pleased with the bleach, I must say! Ultra white, cleaning granules – just what’s needed after a month of instability in my southern regions). 

One of the advantages of my current situation is that at the moment, I can live with this stuff very well – as long as certain sensible parameters are observed. I am very lucky, in that, the tsunami of change has not yet been forecast to reach my shore. 

Oh yes, I can flounce about in my garden every day, like Margot Leadbetter minus the marigolds, masked up obvs (you never know how many monkeys may be lurking, laden with pox for the spreading!)

But due caution is a good idea, I think. 

For example, I can’t be doing with spontaneous hugging, outside of the main and mini carers. I’d love to – but it’s not the best idea I’ve ever had. 

Consequently, I find myself constantly lurching backwards, like a cow stumbling into an electric fence, at the approach of dear friends. 

It’s as uncomfortable as when the person at the till shoves the machine your way and asks you to put your PIN in. The shop assistant throws their head so far up and sideways, while closing their eyes, that you fear for the structural integrity of their neck.

 Meanwhile, old sneaky beak behind you has already memorised the numerical input and the sound of the four musical notes you’ve just created and then sniggers with lascivious smuggery. You’ve then got to hope they don’t actually smugger you outside the shop, thereby gaining access to your diminishing funds. 

Diminishing they are. This cost of living crisis is no joke – I mean, have you seen how much smoked salmon has gone up?? 

I hope you know I was joking. About the smoked salmon. Obvs. I don’t really like it. 

Anyway back to the plot. I hope I can find it. Recently I lost my actual glasses and after turning the house upside down, I found them in the fridge. Obvious, right? another time recently, him and me were on a coastal walk, in a different county. It was beautiful, I was totally absorbed. Until the point I turned to him, because I genuinely had no idea, and asked: ‘where are we lovey?’

Uh oh!!!! Time for a hug – OR NOT!!

Because of the old immunity shite, spontaneous hugging is very much off the agenda, as explained before. This was particularly problematic over the Jubilee weekend. There were lots of things on offer in our road, but I went to one ‘do’, outside, and even then, only for 45 minutes. 

We’re a very close and friendly neighbourhood bunch – we’re super lucky. It was so fab to reconnect with everyone after so long. However – I needed to be on high alert electric fence duty. Especially as, to our mutual consent and celebration, we get even more close and friendly – some might say touchy-feely, positively loved up – as the sherbert dispenser chugs on. 

I arrived one hour into the lunchtime proceedings. No sherberts for me, as it fell many hours short of my self-imposed, best-not-before curfew of 17:01pm. Others in the road – well, why not – if I could do it, I would! 

Anyway – by then, hugs were ricocheting around the bunting and the cucumber sandwiches like a pinball machine on acid. 

I surveyed the scene with a mix of anxiety and basic defence skills. I was on high alert, code red, white and blue. 

Incoming:

Well-oiled, senior gentleman, three Pimms down, slithering in.

DUCK! 

 Next. 

Ooh – hang on:

Fully lubricated senior lady, approaching (somewhat unsteadily), widespread arms, puckering up, telling me she loves me…

SWERVE! IMMEDIATELY! 

Next:

Two amazing medics, in bound. I know these ladies to be probably very clean.

No hugging attempts. Sensible ladies. 

REMAIN STATIC- I needed the rest, to be honest. 

Next; uh oh. It’s the carer, also nil by alcomouth, but looking at me in an uncharacteristically fond way. Hmm. 

RUN FOR THE HILLS! 

I don’t think he’s quite accepted my mask wearing for husbandly-wifely snogs (unless it’s his birthday, obvs!) but after, all, I know where he’s been. Safety first! 

I’ve had a long old rant and I am sorry, just so much fun. 

Yes, there are issues, of course- they don’t know why I’ve got low this, high that – so what?? I’m as happy as a lark – why wouldn’t I be? I’m alive, I live and breathe each beautiful day- lucky old me is what I say. 

Mind you, you mask haters – join me in a dance or two. 

You can Foxtrot (Oscar) while I do the Huffy Huffy Stomp. 

Deal? 

See you soon lovelies 🐔 

Good evening spring chickettes – are you hatching and matching? Or needing to despatch in order to hatch?? 

I’m a bit reflective this evening. 

Mind you, that’s the first time I’ve even had time to reflect on anything except the state of my…’back bits’ … who’ve been leading me a very unmerry dance (not one you’d see on Strickters) for near two weeks. 

This is down to the enormous cocktail of drugs now needed to keep all my bits and pieces functioning. So I need X in order to keep Y at bay; then they don’t like eachother too much so I need Z to stop them from arguing. But neither X or Y interact properly with A, B or C; mixologist I am not, but something, at some point, has to give. 

Turns out, it was my bowels – yeuuuccch! Mind you, I do like a good Dirty Martini! 

All of that 400 thread count white bed linen – now looking like that classic F&B colour, Shaded Shite, in 478 fell swoops. I’ve got more black grapes hanging out my backside than the entire Chateau Neuf du Pape vineyard over in that France.

I can’t go up to Wonderdrug again for the ‘an-u-thol’; they’ve put a restraining order on me and reported me to BA – Bottoms Anonymous – apparently 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️  

Anyway, back to the thingy. 

Two of my friends have recently died of this stupid disease. They both lived in our road. One was in his 80s; the other, only just turned 51. Their cancers were such that there was absolutely NOTHING, on God’s earth, they could have done about them. There’s this stupid phrase about ‘he/she lost their battle with cancer’. 

This is total bollocks. 

There’s a point at which, however brave your spirit and your intent, the shitter will get you. Not in every case, of course! NOT all cancers are the same, and I keep making this clear to people – a cancer diagnosis DOES NOT MEAN it’s time to dust off the old vinyls and get The Doors out (this is the end.”?….) IF, and only if, you’re in a situation where the little shit has so taken over your body, it has totally disarmed you, and you have no weapons, no defences -it will win. This is becoming more rare, thanks to many things.

My friends and neighbours, recently passed, had no weapons or defences. It wasn’t their fault. They’d both been diagnosed, one a lot sooner than the other; there was nothing on this planet they ‘did’ to get the bloody thing (unlike some!) and they tried everything and anything to keep it at bay. A battle implies an interaction between roughly equal parties. In these extreme examples, there was no equality whatsoever.

As a boring old bag, I keep saying to people: if there’s anything in your day to day health which is not normal for you, notice it. Write it down. I’ve got a friend who has noticed that her husband has started nodding off on the sofa of an evening. Personally I think he’s pissed off with her constant re-runs of Bargain Hunt. But just tiny things; notice it, log it, carry on. If the list is getting bigger and more diverse, act.

Ladies and the other lot – check your breasticles and your testicles (🤢🤮🤮)

Smokers and ex-smokers – if you’ve fagged it for 40 years- ummmmm… I may have news for you. If every cigarette had the words: ‘this is the one which will give you lung cancer’ – (and that is true, actually) – would you smoke it? I’m fed up with people saying to me, when they know full well I’ve got incurable lung cancer: “but I only smoke 5 fags a day, so I’ll be fine!” You probably won’t be, in fact ♥️

Anyway – I said I was reflective, possibly too much so. All I know is that I’ve been incredibly lucky. I’m still here to tell a tale or two. What more could you want?

This is for the gentlemen we recently lost  – from us, with heart, love, and strength –  and for who they didn’t ever mean or want to leave behind. 

Chickens, we pray 🙏 xxxx

Sent from my iPad

Good evening pancake-weary pals! Did you actually have them? 

Yesterday, in plenty of time to respond and indeed COOK, I quizzed the carer regarding pancake day.

Me: ‘Shall I make some lovey?’ 

Him: ‘NO!’ (Overly harsh reaction, thought I.)

Me: ‘Why not?’

Him: ‘I’m going to running club at 7. Be back at 9ish.’

Running bloody club?? Wtf is that – and, when did you want to start running of an evening, in the pouring rain, all the while neglecting your duties to your ailing (bahaha) wife just as she’s settling into bed for the new Marcus Wareing DAILY programme about him and his (gorgeous face, body, legs, scent 💭) new smallholding and kitchen garden?? Unbelievable- they say there’s a care crisis in the UK – I totally get that now.

Later on, the bed was all sweaty, no hands to be seen above the duvet- AND IN COMES FORREST!! How selfish that carer of mine can be. On his head be it – at least I got to see an enormous bunch of parsley, a pair of plump purple beetroot and a fairly substantial parsnip amid the lot. Who’s the loser now, eh, Forrest??  You keep going to your spotty, sweaty, geeky running club. Go any day – I’ve recorded the series 😂😂😂😂 Happy bloody days!! 

I’m sorry we haven’t spoken for a while. It’s not you – it’s me. No, it really is. Let me try to explain. 

It’s a bit weird with the old treatment. Chemo (NB: not all chemo; just the regime I was on, for my lung cancer – and as you know, not all chemo for each cancer is the same.) For me, with lung cancer, was totally different to the chemo I had 4 years ago for breast cancer – by which I mean, the side effects, the whole process. Also, what non-cancoids tend to assume is that all treatments are the same, depending on the cancer you have. 

I’m as adamant as the carer with his pancake denial as I have been in previous posts on this matter. I can’t be arsed to do the link thingy now – but if you’re following this back to WordPress, go and see my posts from – can I believe it- five years ago. My Canciversary (the time I was operated on for my first primary (breast) cancer is five years this week!! Ok, ok, I’ve got half a left tit and a scraping of right lung left now, but who cares? Not me, and that is for absolute certain. 

Anyway! I was digressing. 

I’ve had a funny old experience since finishing radio almost three weeks ago. 

On my last day, the 30th of the daily sessions, they got me to ring the bell and say hurrah.

However, I couldn’t concentrate – the printed message next to the bell was so poorly written- no punctuation, terrible attempted rhyming – I think it’s why I got emosh in the filmy bit ! Soooo annoying 👹

So, what now? 

Side effects, of course. With my cancer and therefore, my radiotherapy treatment, (again: please note – none of these treatments are standard, off the shelf: they are bespoke to YOU) you end up not being able to swallow (every cloud!); my back looks like a piece of burnt toast (fine: but not much good without an inch of Lurpak on top (eh Julie??!); I’m knackered all the time; and possibly more breathless than after an episode of Marcus and his lovely (lady – pnaarr) garden. 

So what? 

All of this will pass. And if it comes back, which of course we know it will, it will pass again.

I signed up for the Macmillan Plank Challenge. The aim is to find the biggest plank in the UK. Naturally my gorgeous friend smiley T thought I’d win it hands down. As it turned out, you’re meant to do a plank every day in March. 

I’m not collecting for this – I’m doing it because after I’ve gone off Marcus (pah!) the old man might forgive my jelly belly. I have changed my will since I started becoming obsessed with having cancer, so the funds are covered. (Note to self:  must tell carer.)  you were meant to set up a Facebook page for it all, but to be honest, all the nastiness on the site  started weeks ago so I disassociated myself  – it was so saddening.  Mind you, I got a T-shirt today! eBay here I come 🙄

When you have the C word, every bugger comes after you for sponsorship money, all for worthy causes, because they know you have cancer and they think you’d like to donate. 

I wish sometimes people would step back, and think. 

Do these people think we have bottomless bank accounts? Have you considered that we might already be contributing to the charities which mean the most to us?  Who have helped us the most? 

Oh my gosh – tiny rant – sorry, but not sorry.

I’ve had an amazing experience the last 24 hours (Marcus! Back in our bed, you naughty boy!!)

I (by total chance) connected with a lovely, hilarious friend from sixth form (look it up, kids) – so that’s around about 30 plus years ago. Turns out this person is just as funny, brainy and caring as they ever were. NO! Never a Marcus situation; just a beautiful friend.

So ! This is for you, MP – and for all of us who never had a pancake.

Must go: I’m Wareing thin 😬🙄🙄😍😷

Sent from my iPad

Good evening lovely friends! 

It’s been a while, I am sorry. I usually blog at about 9pm on a weekday, but at the moment, that’s three hours after I’ve gone to bed, which makes typing a bit challenging given my secretary/carer is busy watching literally any sport going, while preparing my healthy Bircher museli and organic beetroot juice for the following day (bahahaha!) 

It’s a bit of a pain at home just now – not because the carer does not actually make said museli or juice – but that our washing machine is broken and so is our heating. The latter is not too bad for me, given that I’m a walking radio-iator. – anything needs cooking, just shove it up my jumper and – PING! – done in 30 seconds. As for the washing machine – all I can say is never, ever, buy a Hotpoint. I’m a walking hotpoint at the mo, but my drum is still thumping,  my motor is on full throttle and my belt… well, it probably just needs loosening. #awks

Speaking of which, all well at Zap central. I’ve done 17 of 30 sessions; the old skin is blistering and bleeding, and I’m a bit knackered, but honestly, nothing to complain about. It’s quite interesting, this treatment lark. For lung cancer,.  you get your surgery through your back; chemo through your arm, and radiotherapy through your chest and back. My legs are feeling a bit hard done by to be honest. 

Radiotherapy for my breast cancer four years ago was on the opposite side of my chest. I’m all for neatness and symmetry, so having two sets of burnt skin across the same meridian is bloody ideal! All I have to do is Hinch my boobs (her bespoke cushion treatment, even evident in the Zap waiting room) then I reckon I could put it all on Instagram and set a new trend – Hinch my Heffalumps, – with a #, obvs). 

Speaking of the old Lady Lumps, January always signals the first of the two bi-annual mammograms I have, to keep an eye on that little (completely unrelated) tinker. In fact, I was lying prostate on the CT scanner bed waiting for my radiotherapy planning scan for lung cancer, when someone marched in from next door saying:

“Ms Austin! I see you are here!” (I’ve never changed my name at the NHS, nor my marital status, so I do bother to reply).

“Your mammogram is due; do you want to come into the department after this and get it done?”

Unfortunately I can’t, I need to go to the radiotherapy department straight after the planning scan. She is NOT impressed. 

“Fine. Next Wednesday, 9am.”

This, I discover, is not negotiable. I attend. 

The upshot is, of course, that I need to go and get a follow up physical examination from my breast cancer consultant. It’s the same hospital, but different buildings. I need to arrange it so that I’m not late for my fixed appointment under the zapper,  but doesn’t mean I have to wait hours, as I’m a bit knackered at the moment and I wouldn’t trust myself to drive home.

I tell you what, it’s a bloody nuisance running two separate cancers! It’s like working two jobs; it’s necessary, but in this case, with none of the financial advantages. I’m getting my physical exam on Wednesday next week, but given everything is a bit sore and, er, moist, 🤢it’s not going to be ideal. Two readers of this blog will know what an absolute joy it is even to be looked at by this particular genius – swoon – but hey ho, he can prod, squeeze and stroke away…I will do my best to get through it 😂😂

Meanwhile, back in the microwave, we’ve been having enormous fun. The radiographers are fantastic- super cheerful, energetic, professional – and we laugh out loud every single day. I mean, Janka did get locked in the loo yesterday, just as my appointment started (wonder why? 🙄🧐) but she was laughing about it afterwards, and I took her tulips for her trauma. 

A few weeks ago, we (I!) had the delight of a trainee, Kwasi, for the week. (Not that one; he’s one of the few of the cohort who probably doesn’t need to look for another job at the moment!) My radiotherapy unit is a training hospital, and I’ve been so inspired by the way the radiographers teach, on the job. More to follow. 

Each day (for lung cancer, and, importantly, where mine is), you get strapped down on the table, naked from the waist up, arms over your head, holding a gripper thingy. The vast majority of the appointment time is taken up by checking and cross-checking your alignment under the lasers, just to make sure that when the zapping starts, they’re not doing the wrong bit. In my case, that means the heart and the oesophagus, so, best be careful. 

They do a practice run with all the kit first. It’s like lying under, or perhaps at the centre cog, of a windmill. On each fin or sail of the windmill, a different bit of kit is attached, with gaps in between. So, there you are, looking up to the ceiling (which they’ve turned into photographic light panels with a blue sky and the odd cloud; thoughtful); then the machine whirrs into action. Up comes the main zapper; passes over. Next, a CT scanner; whoosh! Is it time for the X-ray? I do believe it is! I’m not sure what the Asda shopping trolley or the wheelie bin were doing there, but hey, it breaks up the monotony! 

Then of course the  girls leg it to a safe room, press some buttons and leave me at the mercy of the windmill. 

Along with the ambient sunny sky pictures, they also have music playing. It’s of variable quality, although I’ve got to give it to them for Radio Gaga 😂😂

Back to the lovely Kwasi. We’d got to Friday and this was his last day. As a treat, the girls let him choose that popular new release, Music to Microwave By (not available on Spotify). So they all leg it to the safe room, and I’m there with my windmill floating by. 

Up comes funk and soul, by the deep, disco bucketful. I’m not allowed to move, of course; very difficult, and very annoying! The big shouty horn noise sounds, to signal that the microwave has pinged. The music is still blasting. In they all come, dancing, and I’m dancing while lying down on the table, with my arms up and strapped into the gripper over my head. All of us are in fits of laughter. I mean, I don’t know if Kwasi passed the training – the fact he’s probably been administering radiotherapy to my left leg for the last five days is irrelevant- but my goodness, there’s a silver lining to every cloud, and I am having SO much fun. 

We had a lovely moment yesterday. My radio chum J had her last of 30. Protocol among us cancoids says you do not ask ’what one’ you’ve got, (she wore a dressing gown, me a tunic: it denotes what half of your body needs zapping) but we are all hugely empathetic to one another. There’s been days when I’ve seen her crying in the waiting room. She is a much younger woman than me, so I feel especially sad to see her like that. We can’t hug but we’ve always wished eachother well.

Anyway, yesterday, all the staff gathered in the corridor, with flowers, chocolates and a card, and filmed her ringing the bell three times, to say that her treatment was done. I wish her all the love and the luck in the world.

Thank you for your company this evening! I’ve missed you ❤️

Pip pip xxx

Felicitations for the fabulous festive fiesta, my alliteratively appreciative amigos! (#toomuchleftoverbaileys)

Phew – I hope your guts are not too busted, and you’ve room enough for 500 at your outdoor gathering in two sleeps’ time. 

Chicken HQ has been quiet but pleasant over the last few days. Not least because we had turkey, of course…chicky has done a very good job of hiding herself, wisely so. 

I’m starting a high dose, high intensity course of radiotherapy tomorrow – huzzah! Every day for six weeks. It’s not a cure – it’s a mitigation. There’s no more surgical options for me. Fine! 

Anyway, this one sounds very good. Apparently, my skin will burn off (yawn – did with breast cancer radio 4 years ago, got litres of E45, blah blah), I won’t be able to swallow easily (bonus: excuse!); won’t be able to tolerate very hot, very cold or very spicy things (not ideal but can live with). Besides, and more importantly, I’ve known friends of mine who’ve done that with no complaint. I won’t be complaining- never. 

Who – and I mean WHO – actually cares? I’m bloody delighted – it’s a step forward to control the as yet uncontrollable, the unknown, the theories – let’s crack the f on is what I say! 

I posted the following earlier in the year. I have modified it slightly, but here is the context. 

I’d been feeling super rough from chemo – I have to admit, that regime was a fcker. I was sat in my greenhouse just crying, because I felt so awful. I was saying to myself: “just three days, the last chemo, and then  it will be over, and you will feel better” (cry, cry, cry – soooo pathetic). 

When my carer was driving me back from the treatment, he was telling me about the petrol queues and the fact that people were again fighting over pasta in the supermarkets. I was furious – and, at myself, for snivelling, about something that would pass for me, in a short time. When we got home, i walked (albeit a bit ragged looking 👹) straight down to the seafront and the following poured out in 12 minutes.

Gratitude 

To cold and pain I have no claims
No daily fight so breath sustains.
No challenge but for modern world; 
No fear of futures yet unfurled.

There is no wolf outside my door,
For Fortune means there’s always more. 
No wretched route from hand to lip,
No capture on a sinking ship. 

This tide, it glides so soft and strong, 
As certain as the swallow’s song; 
As with hope she soars her miles,
To warmer lands, on airborne smiles.

And as I sit beside this shore,
I feel a love right to my core. 
For what we have, we must exalt
Lest greed and gall become default. 

No reason, cause or abject blame – 
We all arrived here just the same.
But pause and ponder if you will; 
Hope for others’ peace and still.

I think we (me) all need to think more about others, and i know that we all do; just saying. Whatever faces you, right at the moment, can’t be as bad as what others face every single bally day.

Thank you as always for your amazing support for yet another bloody year ❤️

🤦‍♀️Crikey, I need to find some new material! 

Happy New Year chickettes xxxxx

Sent from my iPad

Well aren’t we all, given it’s the Bake Off final, I’m a Celeb and Masterchef Professionals are ALL NOW ON! A right old TV fest if that’s what you fancy; right up my street but obvs not for everyone. 

This is quite a quick one my friends as, every time I swallow, I’m reminded of the perfectly not very nice thing I had yesterday. No, not a homemade lunch from the carer (wouldn’t know!); afternoon delight from the carer (sorry, mini-carer, that doesn’t really happen, as your mother is indeed very old and prefers to watch Escape to the Country of a pm). 

No – I had to go in for an EBUS. Endobrochoscopy under ultrasound.

At this point, I need to acknowledge and applaud two partners of two of my girlfriends (ie, there’s four in this marriage; I’ve not crossed a line, and if I had, I would have applied the correct placement of the apostrophe. Lady bush intacta.) These chaps are going to lol when they read this, and pull me right down for not womanning up. How they did/do it in their treatment, I don’t know. 

The intent behind this is to take biopsies from the lymph nodes which sit outside the lungs. Given the little love has made its way into the lymph nodes in the lungs, with what they call extracapsular spread (described to me as the pips bursting out of a grape – should’ve got seedless if you ask me), it’s time to see where else the squatter has pitched up. 

I had been dreading this; given my last bronchoscopy had been a rigid one (metal tubey thing, therefore under general anaesthetic), and what with me and my terrible gag reflex ( stop it, Bristol Sares!), I can’t say I was awash with excitement. 

This was to be a floppy, vs rigid (and lord knows fellow post-50 girls, how often do we hope for those these days??) bronchoscopy, with a camera and a pair of scissors attached. I mean, not an actual pair of scissors – but something snippy to do a clippy of anything angry-looking down there. 

Fully prepared (early night before, nil by mouth, persuading myself I don’t mind big things being shoved down my throat 🧐 – not a familiar experience), up I turn.  A door opens and I’m amazed to see that I’m on A WARD. With two others, one of whom looks like she passed away several weeks ago, and a gentleman opposite who, quite frankly, doesn’t look like he’s even going to get into the room where they do the thingy. 

Gulp.

The thingy room is a mini operating theatre, locked off, just beyond the ward. The gentleman goes in – all I can hear for the next 30 minutes is coughing, gagging, shouting, a massive great THUD; and then back he comes. Looking remarkably similar in terms of the state of his mortality as Fanny Adams next to me – who might well have passed again already.

My turn. I’m thrilled, can’t wait to get in there. I’m concerned they’re wheeling me in on a bed when I could perfectly well have cartwheeled – and I needed the steps – but hey, it’s great, I’ll go with. 

First up – cannula- easy. Except I get the very new student nurse and…due to the blood thinners for the PE X 2, I bleed like a stuck pig all over the floor. 

Next stop: local anaesthetic spray to back of throat. To be honest, the experience and effect of that was so great, I thought the whole bloody thing was done there and then. The effect was that my throat was so numbed I could not feel myself swallowing. Which told my brain I was choking. Uh oh. 

Then, the sedative drugs, through my (literally) bleeding cannula. Ahhh – relief at last, thought I, as the woozy boozy cocktail went in. 

‘We’re going to put the bronchoscope in now’, said someone, far off in my fairyland dreams. 

I remember a long wiggly thing going in places I didn’t want it to…gagging and coughing and extending limbs..and maybe, possibly, fighting back. I vaguely recall a doctor telling me to calm down. 

Next thing I know, I’m in the recovery room and they’re trying to wake me up.

Usually, the clinician who’s done the procedure is there to tell you how it went. I asked the nurse if they were coming round. She went very pale. 

They called the carer after two hours and told him it was time to come and get me – and could he hurry? 🙄😬

I’m still in memory denial; I got home, slept 13 hours, I have a sore throat today but all seems to be ok??

I remember that I was given a discharge letter as I left. 

In it, it says:
‘Patient did not tolerate procedure’. 

Whoops. 

Waiting for the GBH charge, any day now. 
Pip pip (Though obvs, I’m going seedless from now on 😂😘😘)