Hello Cutie

From:     Iris   

Subject:   Stella

Jamie got me a new dog!!!

Welcome to our world little Stella.

Rest in Peace Little Dog

I have very sad news: the best dog in the whole world, Chilli, has died. 

She was very old.

Chilli was a Chihuahua with the heart of a lion. She loved the people she loved with a fierce abandon, everybody else she treated with disdain or outright aggression. Chilli would think nothing of seeing off a Staffie or an Alsatian with frenzied yaps or nipping the hand of an intrusive child who bent to pat her nose.

But I count myself lucky to have been included in the limited ranks of those whom Chilli found acceptable. She always greeted me with great affection and would even go so far as to try to burrow under my thighs if I was sitting on the sofa.

Chilli had a fabulous life fossicking through the parks of central London and riding around with Iris in the front seat of my car. She had some kind of fit or stroke this morning and died in Iris’s arms.

I will miss her very much and I cannot imagine Iris without Chilli yapping by her side.

p.s. If you would like to honour Chilli's memory you could do worse than to make a donation to the Blue Cross, who took care of her veterinary needs all her life.

A Shameless Hustle

From: Jamie

To: Canalily

Subject: Good for you

Dear Lily

Im happy for you that "Nick" is coming back to London for a visit. 

Jamiex

ps... Chilli is inching ahead in the fame stakes, so I am attaching a photo of Hugo for future reference

Hugo

Losing Hair With Grace and Dignity

If you don’t have a good relationship with your hairdresser, develop one - fast. Otherwise one day your hair might fall out and you’ll find yourself crying in Sainsbury’s car park and you’ll be on your own, baby. Thank God that didn’t happen to me.

My wonderful hairdresser Kell Skott has helped me to get through the horrifying process of losing my hair with grace and dignity.

So, as I’m brushing away the tears and stowing the groceries in the boot of my car the phone rings. It’s Kell. “Can you come in right away?” he asks.

I fire up the Beamer and zip straight round to Golborne Road at top speed – by hair ambulance you might say. Kell gets me a cup of mint tea and one of their world-famous home made chocolate brownies to soothe my nerves.

“Just shave it all off” I instruct him. But Kell has other ideas. Using only scissors and a comb he begins to sculpt this monstrous mess. He clips it all to about an inch long. It’s more baldy on the left hand side than it is on the right. He manipulates the hair so that it is all lying flat and forward and sideways. Sort of a high-art comb-over. He feathers the front into a little fringe. Watching him work is like watching a magician intently conjuring a silk purse from a sow’s ear. When he’s finished it looks sort of like Audrey Tautou 2001 meets Mary Quant 1966. Only shorter than either of them. It’s just so cute.

I want to take a moment here to praise Kell Skott. Today has been without doubt the low point of my life as far as how unattractive I feel. Despite that, Kell made me look great. He opened up his salon early to come to my aid. He didn’t charge me a penny for doing it. In my past life I’ve had the displeasure of the acquaintance of prima-donna hairdressers who wouldn’t deign to pass one a hairpin, let alone deal with one when half one’s hair has fallen out. I mean it can’t be good for business can it? Having a bald woman walk out of your salon.

***

***

I have an appointment with Dr Ducker, my wonderful GP. This is a very opportune moment to see her. The last time I met with Suzy Cleator she discerned that I was overly anxious. “It’s not uncommon,” she said, “having chemotherapy is a major crisis in your life.” She suggested I try some anti-anxiety medication.

I felt hesitant about that. I wondered about side effects. I was concerned about how to come off them when this is all over. And wasn’t I taking enough drugs and pills already? I didn’t know if I could cope with another one. “Well, see how you get on,” she said and we left it at that.

Following the big hair fall out I began to revise my position. I explain myself to Dr Ducker: “Well you see I’m having the chemo and I don’t know what I’m going to do about money and I feel sick I can’t sleep and Dr Cleator suggested anti-depressants but I don’t know if I should take them but most of my hair fell out on Sunday and it was such a shock what do you think I should do?”

“Yes,” she says. “Why don’t you try some anti-anxiety medication? I’ll give you the lowest dose.”

My shoulders relax. “And you’re going to need a wig” she adds. My shoulders shoot up towards my ears again. “But how do I get one?” I plead. “I don’t know but I will find out,” she says in a soothing tone. Now that’s the kind of practical help I need.

***

The Breast Cancer Haven is an oasis of calm friendliness in the daily sandstorm that is breast cancer. It feels safe. They offer a free course of complementary therapies to anyone suffering from breast cancer. I chose shiatsu. It’s a Japanese form of massage that works on the same points as acupuncture but without the scary needles.

Jamie and I arrive early and help ourselves to cups of complementary Organic Honey Mountainbush tea, just the thing to complement the complementary therapy. I compliment myself on my ability to completely fit into the complementary scene. I only wish there was some other word to describe it.

Enough of that. Sarah arrives to show me to her treatment room. I try to imagine Sarah getting het up in a supermarket queue or making a rude finger gesture to a fellow road user as she cuts them up in her BMW. I just can’t do it. She is so calm and beatific. And I’m sure she must ride a bicycle. If that’s what shiatsu does for you, then bring it on I say.

I settle myself face down on the specially designed, ergonomic shiatsu cushions. Sarah begins to press her fingers into my back and then she says softly, “Ok, get up in your own time.” “But we’ve only just started” I think, groggily. Turns out I’ve been asleep for nearly the whole session.

Downstairs, Jamie has also been snoozing on the comfy sofa. The Breast Cancer Haven is one of those places where they make one feel at home.

By the reception desk is a basket full of big jars of Rose With No Clothes Shimmering Body Cream. ‘Kindly donated by Naked, please take one’ says the sign. Fabulous.

***

***

In times of trouble I have found it a useful strategy to write a gratitude list. Just five things but they must be a different five things each morning. It’s amazing what a turnaround in one’s perspective this simple strategy can affect in just seven days. Only it doesn’t seem to be working at the moment. “I’m grateful for the sky,” and “I’m grateful that I don’t have cancer in the other breast,” “I’m grateful that we live in a land where there is social security, even if they make it so bizarrely complicated that one might think that they’re hoping that one might die before they send one any money.” Oh do bugger off.

But I’ve come up with a more pragmatic approach that may help: ‘Things I Got for Free Today’.

From: Canalily

To: Ben

Subject: The best things in life are free

Things I've had for free today:

A free haircut

Free consultation with my GP

Free prescriptions

A free jar of body lotion

Free shiatsu treatment

A free lift to the breast cancer Haven

2 free iPhone apps

still to come...

free dinner at Jamie’s place

What an abundant world!

Lily xx

***

It’s Jamie’s birthday. It’s my first time going out with almost no hair. The trick to working the Chemo Chic look is to wear the hugest most glittering earrings and the reddest lipstick one can get a hold of.

I don’t mind showing my friends my new coiffe but I’m hesitant to let the neighbours see me like this. What’s that all about? You may well ask. I’m not sure I know. Am I ashamed? Or do I not want my neighbours to pity me? Am I afraid of appearing weak? I can’t put my finger on it but I think you might feel the same way in this situation. I grab one of the new crocheted cloches before I walk out the door.

Jamie comes to pick me up. He's just been so generous and thoughtful with all the lifts to and fro. Back round at Mayhem Mansions in Marylebone the usual bedlam is in progress. The two Chihuahuas – Iris’s Chilli and Jamie’s Hugo – attempt to refuse me entry with frenzied yapping. Valentina wiggles about in tight Lycra, batting her eyelids and calling everybody ‘Dahlink’. Muttiah, recently sprung from the nut house, swans in and out of the kitchen dressed in a Sari. Sheldon arrives looking very Gonzo in his sport’s shirt and flat cap.

I remove my hat and sit back to gauge the effect. “Oh, it looks really cute” they say and “lovely” and so on. About ten minutes later I join Iris on the balcony. “I think I’m pleased with it,” I say “only I’m worried that it’s quite bald on the crown.” “It doesn’t matter,” she replies, “you’re so tall nobody can see it.” That’s it. I jam the hat back on.

Dinner is the most delightful free-for-all. For the first course, Valentina has bough about £100 worth of supermarket sushi. It ranks high amongst the worst sushi I have ever eaten. The next course is a delicious French salad that Iris has made. Next up is a selection of Middle Eastern starters: Baba Ganoush, Hummous and Tabbouleh, made by Valentina, also delicious. There follows a spicy Malaysian fish and potato curry with Paratha bread that Muttiah has whipped up. The crowning glory of the meal is undoubtedly Ted’s black forest cake with blackberries and fresh cream. I have never had a cake so meltingly soft and chocolaty on the inside yet nicely crisp on the outside, so wonderfully balanced in flavour between the sweet, the sharp and the creamy. It is a triumph, a symphony and a magnum opus of a cake.

***

Today has been quite eventful enough. Good night.

Belt and Braces

Now that I’m all spruced up in my new compression bra and all juiced up on Morphine, I’m ready to entertain. And it’s just as well.

Flossie is already on the scene. Next through the door are my sister Miranda, my boyfriend Nick and my niece Eloise. Miranda and Nick have been buying up West London’s organic vegetable stockpile and juicing for Britain. It seems that they each have firm, yet distinct ideas about how juicing should be done. I take delivery of two flasks of juice. Eloise is excited to the point of collywobbles because today she is going to meet her cousin Amazon-Rainforest for the first time. They are both from one-child families. Eloise lives in Moscow and Australia and Amazon-Rainforest lives in Goa and the UK. I’ve been trying to engineer their meeting for a very long time. I’m truly delighted that it’s going to happen at last, even if it’s taken me getting breast cancer to bring it about.

Ben arrives with Amazon-Rainforest. She and Eloise take one look at each other and fall instantly in love. "Being cousins isn't funny," announces Eloise, "so why are we laughing?" Collapsing in giggles, they skip into the bathroom where Eloise shows A-R how to put dolls to bed in the bath.

Jamie and Iris arrive. They have agreed to take the little girls to Regent’s Park to play with Chilli and Hugo, the Chihuahuas. Off they all go.

Next in is Jean-Claude, Miranda’s husband. He has just flown from Barcelona, where he lives and works. I can tell that you’re beginning to suspect that my family and friends have some pretty complicated living arrangements.

Let me take a moment to fill you in. I am Australian but I live in London. My boyfriend Nick lives in Sydney. My sister Miranda is a diplomat. At the moment she and Eloise live in Moscow. Miranda's husband Jean-Claude is French. He is an advertising man and he lives and works in Barcelona. Jean-Claude is not Eloise’s father. Eloise spends her holidays in Adelaide with her father and his partner and two older daughters. When she's not in Adelaide Eloise visits our mother in Tasmania. Our mother moved from Sydney to Tasmania a couple of decades ago. My cousin Ben is a film producer. When Ben and his wife Sayeeda separated, Sayeeda moved to Goa in India. When Ben is not working he spends his time in Goa with his daughter Amazon-rainforest. Jamie and Iris are not a couple. Jamie lives at the Penthouse flat, Mayhem Mansions, Marylebone in a homosexual ménage à trois with Ted and Muttiah. Iris spends a lot of time at Mayhem Mansions for two reasons: 1. She and Jamie are both Chihuahua owners and 2. Ted cooks a lot of pies. You get the picture?

Antony arrives, with more flowers. Flossie pops out to the shops and returns with yet another gift for me – an Aveda face spray. I thank her and, to show just how useful this gift is, spritz my face.

On the wall by the door is a Perspex leaflet holder containing an A4 laminated card with graphic illustrations of the surgical procedure that I have recently undergone: the latissimus dorsi flap. If there is ever a lull in the conversation, Nick takes the opportunity to pass around the card saying "Look, this is what Lily had done." Most people, like me, cannot bear to look.

The park gang return. Eloise has fallen over and grazed her knee and by all accounts created so much hullaballoo that Jamie and Iris felt obliged to return her to her mother. The girls switch the TV on and settle down to watch Kung-Fu Panda, my new favourite movie. Miranda and Antony try giving me amateur reflexolgy. They work on one foot apiece, “to help you relax.”

It’s standing room only when the door opens and Mr Hadjiminas enters the scene. The look on his face turns from stunned to confused but nurse Anne quickly bustles in behind him. “Right-o,” she says, “everybody out.”

The gang traipse off to continue their party on the staircase or in the lift or somewhere. Mr H regains his composure and takes a seat. “We’ve got the lab report on the remainder of your lymph nodes,” he says, “they were all clear.” Suddenly I exhale and it feels as if I’ve been holding my breath for a week. “That’s great news, thank you,” I sigh, “so I won’t need chemotherapy?” “I’m afraid I will still be recommending chemotherapy,” replies Mr H. “But you got all the cancer out,” I rejoin. “Well,” says Mr Hadjiminas, “if there is any spread to the lymph system at all, then there is always a possibility, however slight, that it may have spread elsewhere in your body. We simply have no way to know. So the chemotherapy is precautionary. It’s sort of a belt and braces approach." “I see,” say I, “well I’ll have to think about it. I’ll let you know when I've made a decision.” Mr H gives me an ever so slightly exasperated glance.