Oh My Goodness Is That The Time Already?

I know! I have abandoned you and I’m sorry. Every day I intend to write a piece 
for Chemo Chic. And every day the beach and the sunshine beckon me away from 
my laptop. By the time I return with my hair full of salt and my brain befuddled 
with bliss it seems that the only realistic course of action is to lie on the couch 
and languidly eat a mango whilst Samantha makes us a nice cup of tea.


I’m in Australia, in case you hadn’t twigged. In a way, I’m having the holiday that I 
missed out on two years ago when Nick did the dirty and our 'dream vacation' all went lurching hideously sideways. I’ve spent time in Tasmania, visiting Mum, Aunty Noni and my cousins Fay and Matilda. The weather was sublime. We swam every day with the giant 
stingrays in the aquamarine water of the bay. Stingrays are gentle souls really, as 
long as you don’t step on them. They hear you coming and just glide ahead like a 
guard of honour. I spent a lot of time standing on Mum’s verandah watching 
them moseying around on the sand, doing their stingray thing. Tasmania is rightly 
famed for its food. We did all the usual being attacked by catching fish from Noni’s boat, collecting mussels and samphire from the rocks and raiding Mum’s garden every evening 
for salads, beans, peas, zucchini, potatoes, corn, kale…

Then it was back to the city to catch up with all my Sydney friends: Mandy and 
Tony, now deep into married life; Lulu; Jimmy and of course Samantha, Lyla, Lily, 
Felix the cat and Lola the one-eyed pug. Living in Watson’s Bay is as bonkers as 
ever. Thank the Lord.


And now so much time has passed by I’m at a loss as to where to begin the catch-
up. So I’m just going to start posting up snippets, going back and forth in time to 
try to fill in some of the details of the past six or seven weeks. 

Look, a Book

Bang a gong! Play that funky music white boy! Get down with the trumpets! Hit me with your rhythm stick!

Why the big hullabaloo? Jessica Jones' eagerly awaited book The Elegant Art of Falling Apart is published this week by Hachette Australia.

The book tells the touching tale of a woman who was diagnosed with breast cancer and how she got through it by writing a mad blog about cancer fashion and beauty tips; with a lot of help from her wonderfully eccentric friends and with the love of her handsome Aussie boyfriend. Only... uh-oh, it turns out that he didn't love her after all and just as soon as she finished the chemo and radiotherapy, he dumped her...

Hang on a minute. Clearly this impostor has gone and rocked up at a publishing house with a story she's lifted directly from Chemo Chic. Can you credit the bare-faced impertinence of the woman!

Plagiarism aside, it looks like a pretty good read. Celebrated Australian actress Susie Porter says this:

'Jess has the amazing ability to make you feel that you are with her, every step of the way. I laughed out loud, I cried and I couldn't put The Elegant Art of Falling Apart down, couldn't stop reading until I'd completed this extraordinary journey with her.'

For those of you with Attention Deficit Disorder, here are some one-line reviews from Twitter:

'Never read such a heartrendingly funny brave book. Title sums it up perfectly.'

'An amazing inspirational woman's experience with cancer and a wanker.'

Please feel free to add your own one-line review on The Elegant Art of Falling Apart facebook page.

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.

Grown Up Lipstick

Organic Glam Lipstick Red (3g - £17.50)

I am a self-admitted lipstick lover. I collect them in much the same way that a magpie picks up shiny bottle tops: I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it but I rather like the look of it.

Then every few years I have a big clearout and dispose of dozens of unused cylinders of Pearly Gates Pink, Hallowe’en Green, Cadaver Black, Deep Purple, William of Orange, Putrid Puce and Miami Midas Gold.

My most recent cosmetic clearance though was altogether different. Last year I threw out my favourite lippies – the ones that I wore every day. It was a wrench to lose them but they had to go, you see I discovered that they didn’t love me like I loved them. In fact, they were full of horrible things like parabens, lead and liquid paraffin. (Well I did keep the Schiap by Nars. It’s screaming matte pink is irreplaceable. But I resolved to wear it no more than once a month.)

There are only three colours that I actually truly wear: shocking pink; deep fuchsia and RED. Red lipstick is the ultimate seducer. Picture Marilyn Monroe or Rita Hayworth in your mind’s eye for a moment. What do you see? Exactly. Red is for women, not girls. It needs to be deep. It needs to be rich. It needs to be luscious.

Over dinner Iris’s friend Donald leans towards me with a conspiratorial air. “Do you know what red lipstick was first made of?” he asks. “Cockroaches,” I reply nonchalantly. Actually, I know that the red dye is not really made from cockroaches, rather from the cochineal insect but I enjoy the frissance of saying “cockroaches” loudly in a crowded restaurant.

Donald ups the stakes: “OK so do you know why women first wore red lipstick?” I try to appear magnanimous in defeat. “No. Please do tell me.”

“Well, it was Roman prostitutes,” he raises his voice a couple of notches, “they wore it to signify that they would give blow jobs!” Donald is a top model agent in New York so I guess he knows what he's talking about. He grins from ear to ear like a contemporary Caligula.

When it comes to the new beauty, skincare is in the vanguard. Independent alchemists all over the world have been mixing and refining rare herbs and oils to create some of the most luxurious creams and unctions that womankind has known. But on the make-up front the beauty revolution is still skirmishing in the trenches. I don’t understand why that is.

“It may be because the product development is so expensive,” says Imelda. When I think about it that makes sense. Once you’ve blended a basic face cream it’s just a matter of adding various precious extracts to create a line of cosmetics. But make-up requires a large array of colours and formulations. It’s obviously much more complex.

If there is one brand that is taking groundbreaking strides towards the future of face paint it is Organic Glam. They produce a small range but every product that I have tried so far has been stellar.

I unwrap my tube of Organic Glam Red lipstick. The packaging is classic: a slim oblong of black with discreet gold trim. At first inspection the colour looks disappointingly brownish. But wait, we’re in the magical world of natural beauty – everything is not what it seems. I twist the cylinder and slick on the lippy. On my lips it turns out a beautiful shade of intense, long-lasting carmine with a deep, velvety gloss. It glows. It smoulders. It rocks!

Organic Glam is the ultimate come-hither red. Make sure that you carry an exquisitely enamelled compact mirror in your handbag so that you can seductively touch up your red in a public place and enjoy those backward glances. They know they can't afford you.

Stepping Through a Doorway

A long day is in prospect. I’m having the big scary bone scan.


Sitting on the bus I notice that I have forgotten to wear the opal ring that Miranda gave me for Christmas. I feel doomed.

9.30 - Princess Grace Hospital, Nottingham Place. I’m here for a bone densitometry scan. Confusingly, this has nothing to do with the bone scan. Rather, it is to see if I have any osteoporosis. It’s as well to be on the safe side. This scan involves lying on my back whilst low dose x-rays are wafted over my body.

10. 15 - The Harley Street Clinic. A radioactive isotope is injected from a lead cylinder into my vein. I leave after being given the usual warnings about steering clear of children and pregnant women. As if I’d fraternise with them anyway.

10.45 - Content Wellbeing. I rush in and pick up this week’s beauty product I can’t live without: Hurraw! raw, fair-trade, vegan, cold-pressed black cherry lip balm.

11.00 - Cocorino, Thayer Street. Tess meets me for coffee at this tiny Italian café. I order a huge serving of scrambled eggs with sun-dried tomatoes on sourdough toast and a soya latte. Well I am trying to gain four kilos. Tess has a more restrained bowl of granola. Tess was in hospital herself this week but she’s looking fabulous in her usual yoga-casual way. 

12.15 - LOC, Harley Street. I have a follow-up appointment with nutritionist Jane Clarke. She has asked me to keep a food diary for the past week. I rummage in my bag, pull out the diary and a can of Coke, pop the Coke and push the diary across the desk to her. “I feel that just keeping the diary has helped. I’ve drunk a lot more water and I have put on about a kilo already." As my friend Jimmy always says “What you stare at gets bigger,” – only he has a much more snappy and memorable way of putting it that I can’t remember right now. Do I imagine it or did Jane glance at the can in my hand?

“I’m drinking this for medical reasons,” I exclaim, “Jane Plant says that the phosphates in Coke leach calcium from your bones and help to flush out the radioactivity.”*

“I’m not proscriptive,” she replies. Jane’s non-judgemental approach raises her even further in my esteem. She flicks through my diary. “Gosh, you eat well.” I glow with pride. “There are two areas you need to focus on. The first is proteins – you need to eat at least two protein rich meals a day. For you, the best proteins are eggs; all kinds of seafood; lentils, chick peas and all kinds of beans – hummus on oatcakes is great - also nuts and nut butters on wholegrain toast. Second, load up on antioxidants. Drink a fresh juice every day and vary the colours – have a green juice one day, an orange one the next and a red one another day. Eat loads of salad with lots of raw stuff: add in avocado, sprouts, chicory, raw broccoli, ginger, fresh herbs, seeds or onions. Adding hummus, a boiled egg or a tahini dressing gives your salad a protein boost. Beta-carotene is important. You get that from red and orange vegetables. Interestingly, beta-carotene is more available if the vegetables are cooked – so roast tomatoes, beetroot and pumpkin and add them into your salads. Do eat your brown rice, quinoa and buckwheat pasta but don’t fill up on carbohydrates. You need to leave room to boost your protein and antioxidants. Your body is exhausted from all the chemo and emotional stress. It’s as if you’ve had you foot to the floor for the last year and a half. When you get this depleted, your body starts to break down its own muscles in order to get the amino acids it needs. For a sweet eat organic dark chocolate. Have some cake from time to time if you want. This isn’t an exercise in self-deprivation. But try to choose a cake that has lots of good stuff in it and isn’t just white flour, sugar and cream. Keep up the good work. I will see you again in two weeks.”

***

13.15 - The Harley Street Clinic - in the basement where they keep the big guns. I don the ghastly gown and lie down on the table. Here we go. June, the radiographer, chats away. “Would you like some music? We have classics: Puccini, Mozart; or some easy listening piano music; jazz – or Michael Bublé?” I remember the endless Elton John cds that Big Bruce and I listened to in the radiotherapy chamber. We were given no choice in the matter back then. “Do you have any Elton John?” I ask. June shakes her head. “Mozart then.”

“This is a new scanner,” June explains about this gigantic machine. The camera will come down very close to your face and then as it moves down it will actually touch you. Don’t panic. It is searching for the heat of your body”

“But what will happen,” I ask, panicking immediately, “if it just keeps coming down and then starts slowly crushing the life out of me, like in a James Bond film?”

“If that happens, shout really loud and we will rush in and save you.” June ties my feet together to be sure there's no possibility of escape, gives me a look and leaves the room.

I lie on the bench and try to concentrate on breathing. The big camera descends to within a couple of centimetres of my face. It begins its slow crawl along the length of my body. It lightly touches my collarbone. I glance down at the giant, beige head. I now understand what it feels like to be nuzzled by a dinosaur. A dinosaur with the word PHILIPS tattooed across its forehead. Mozart fiddles away. I become aware that the head is rising and falling, almost imperceptibly. It’s as if the dinosaur is breathing. Or am I imagining it? I take a deep breath. The big head lifts noticeably. I breathe out. It falls back. Oh my god - this creature is closely following every slight movement of my body.

There is a screen to the left of my head, showing images of what the camera is seeing. The screen is on the periphery of my vision. I strain to pull it into focus and make out two little ghostly figures, lit up and glowing from the abdomen to the top of the legs. This is the part of me that the creature is inspecting now. But I simply can’t hold the focus. I mentally recommit to getting my eyes lasered.

Some long time later an alarm sounds. I jump involuntarily. The gentle undulations of the machine and the soft strains of Mozart have lulled me into a trance. Radiographer Susan enters the room. I have often noticed that whenever I have anything like radiotherapy or an MRI or a CT scan, one radiographer walks out the door and a different one walks in at the end of the procedure. I wonder if it has anything to do with mutating qualities of the radiation?

“All done Lily. Take a seat in the waiting area and we’ll bring you the films.”

***

14.15 - A Japanese café on Marylebone High Street. I take a seat and carefully place the sealed A4 envelope containing the films on the table in front of me.

“Here is the sixty-four million dollar answer.”

“Let’s have a look then,“ says Flossie, “I’ve been watching lots of episodes of House lately so I’m sure I can figure it out a few scans.” 


I’m getting through the anxiety of this long day with a lot of help from my friends. It’s great to see Flossie. Over sushi we chat about cosmetics with a dash of discussion about love addiction and love avoidance. These are our two favourite topics.

15.15 - The Wallace Collection, Manchester Square. If you’re ever wandering about in the west end with an hour or two to kill before you discover whether or not you have cancer in your bones this is THE place to go. It’s an eclectic, almost eccentric bunch of paintings, furniture, ceramics, sculptures, miniatures, swords, daggers, medals, suits of armour, jewelled trinket boxes and the like that was collected by various Marquesses of Hertford and, most notably, Sir Richard Wallace – who lived in this house between about 1760 and 1890. There is room upon room of stuff and a lovely café in the glass-roofed courtyard. Today I spend time with the Rembrandts, the fascinating miniatures of Napoleon and Marie Antoinette’s Sèvres porcelain before relaxing in the courtyard with a fresh pineapple, melon and ginger juice. Top spot.

17.00 - LOC, Harley Street. Iris and Lily enter the building. “That’s a good new look,” I say, complimenting Iris on her ensemble of slim trousers, bias-cut grey t-shirt, long grey silk scarf and mushroom leather jacket.

“It’s very business class in here,” comments Iris as she plops her monochrome self into an oyster grey suedette armchair. I judge from her expression that 'business class' is not necessarily what we desire. Suzy Cleator tears in from another hospital down the road. These top consultants flit like butterflies from clinic to clinic up and down Harley Street. “Come on Lily.”  She bustles. Iris and I follow her slipstream into the lift.

Upstairs we sit in more oyster grey suedette armchairs whilst Suzy sits in a high-backed swivel chair behind a cherry wood desk. She peels open the envelope. I study a minimalist arrangement of magnolia buds on the empty sideboard.

Suzy glances at the films and, quick as you like, says: “these are fine.”

There is a brief silence in the room and then the words pour out. “Oh that’s fantastic!” “What do you think is causing all the pains?”

“You have a slight scoliosis,” says Suzy.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a curvature of the spine, see?” She holds up the photographs. I can distinctly see a gentle S shape in the line of my backbones. “What causes that?” asks Iris.

“Usually you’re born with it.”

“And what is that? I ask, pointing to a noticeable black spot in the centre of my chest.

“It’s probably a tiny bit of arthritis.”

“In my spine? Should I be concerned about that?”

“Oh no, everyone has it. At your age. At our age,” Suzy corrects herself swiftly waving her hand about to include Iris and herself. “Everyone over thirty has it,” she concludes, limping across the finishing line.

***

Some days the greatest joy a person can have is to walk through a door and step back out into the world. Iris and I do just that.

“See?” says Iris, “I told you there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just old with a black heart.”

“That’s ok with me. I’m looking forward to getting a lot older, even if I do have to spend the rest of my newly granted existence with you.”


*In her book 'Your Life in Your Hands'. Scary huh?

Great to be Alive

Today is my birthday. Thank you everyone for all your good wishes and emails. I FEEL the love.

p.s. Happy Halloween!

Time Takes a Cigarette

Two years ago today my cousin Gaby died of cancer. In the three months between her diagnosis and her death she endured a great deal of pain and fear. Gaby faced her illness with courage. That is not to say that she did not cry. Many times she became depressed, agitated and despairing. That is the nature of fear. That is the nature of cancer. But Gaby always maintained her essential self. She voiced her opinions. She expressed her concern and love for the people around her. She joked. She sat in the sunshine and bathed in the beauty of the world as only the dying can. Gaby fought with every fibre of her being to get well but the cancer overwhelmed her. She was a vivacious woman and a joy to be with. I miss her every day.

I was in Ireland with Sheldon and Doug when I got the call from Ben telling me that Gaby had died. We went to the nearest church, lit candles and prayed for Gabs. Sheldon gave me a big hug. Then we went for a walk on a rain-washed Kerry beach.

That was before I met Nick. Before I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Before I fell in love. Before I knew what it was to have my veins pumped full of poison. It was before I had to learn how to cling on to who I am when I didn’t even recognise myself in the mirror. Before I understood the anxiety of knowing that there was a malignant force lurking inside my own body. Before I knew how frightening it is to let go and trust another person absolutely. Before I ever experienced the devastating betrayal of that trust.

Can it really only be two years?

Two years ago I was afraid of cancer. I had seen what it can do and knew for sure that I didn’t want it. We don’t always get what we want. But how do we learn to want what we get? In my experience it is by understanding the only purpose of life: that it is to be lived in every moment, no matter what.

It is easy to take refuge in the belief that life is only a quality item when it is filled with fun, thrills, sex, holidays, clothes and electronic gadgets. A few of my friends have been unwilling to stay with me on my cancer journey. They simply disappeared. It has been too frightening, maybe threatening – too real for them. I’ve shed many tears over the loss of those people. If you have read this blog then you will know how I have been torn apart by learning that my Nick couldn’t cope. Cancer just wasn’t fun enough for him.

I would not have chosen cancer but it chose me. I also accept that it may well kill me in the end. But now I can honestly say that cancer has enriched my life. It has brought me closer to my family, to many of my friends and most of all to myself. Simply, I feel more connected.

If you are going through cancer then you too will be finding out who the hundred percenters are in your life. No doubt you will be bitterly disappointed by some. But try not to dwell too long on such regrets. Those with big hearts and souls will step up to the plate – and there will be plenty of them. This is real life. Forget about the people who won’t participate in it fully. Our darkest times show us the exhilarating truth of what it is it is to be human.

So take a tip from Lily: don’t wait for cancer or a stroke or heart attack to plug you in. Try doing everything you do today with integrity, with honesty, with compassion and most of all with love. It’s just not worth living any other way.

I love you Gaby.

Lions, Tigers and Bears. Oh My!

Sheldon has gone to the country for a few weeks – well Essex. It’s so remote down there that they don’t have mobile phone reception. No more 9 a.m. wake-up calls for Lily. Meanwhile, Wanda and Mr W have gone on holiday to Tanzania. How exotic.

My knowledge of Tanzania is limited but I imagine that it must be stuffed with zebras, hippopotami, alligators and lions. I’m thrilled when my iPhone ting-a-lings. It’s a text from Wanda. I pop it open in full expectation of seeing an exciting photo of Wanda cuddling a tiger cub or Mr W saving her from the jaws of a rhino.

Text from Wanda:

Canalily, get out of bed your life is waiting! Love from Wx in Tanzania.

A Stranger is Just a Friend I Haven't Met Yet

One of the things that I love about writing Chemo Chic is that it leads me meet so many great people.

My new friend Dawn came over for coffee this morning. Dawn is a Pilates teacher. She has agreed to devise a simple Pilates routine that will help us all to regain shoulder strength and mobility following breast surgery.

Watch this space...

This is the Modern World

“You do know Lily,” says Wanda in a matter-of-fact-tone, “that you’re going to have to do internet dating, for research purposes.”

Apparently everyone is doing it but I completely balk at the idea.

“Why don’t you do internet dating and then tell me all about it Wanda?”

“Well I would, but my husband might not approve.”

“There you see, if internet dating was so great you’d be doing it instead of running off and getting married.”

If You Try Sometimes, You Get What You Need

There’s a knock-knock at the door. It’s Sheldon. “How are you Lily?” he asks. “I’m fine” I say and then burst into tears. “I’m sorry Sheldon,” I say, between sobs, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep getting like this. I should be better by now.”

“Lily,” says Sheldon, “Imagine that you hadn’t seen me for a year or so and then we met and you said, ‘Hey Sheldon, what’s been happening?’ And I told you that I’d had cancer and chemotherapy and then I’d gone out to Australia and when I got there I found out that my girlfriend had been cheating on me and she left me and I’d had a mental breakdown and wound up in a rehab, then I’d come back to London and gone back into hospital again for more surgery. How do you think I would be feeling about now?” I look at him, “quite devastated,” I reply.

To cheer me up, Sheldon takes me to dinner at Makan, the lovely Malaysian café down the road. Then we jump in the car and head over to Shepherd’s Bush to see The Jolly Boys. This Jamaican Mento band has been going, in one form or another, for over fifty years. Most of them are in their seventies and eighties. The band was recently rediscovered by Jon Baker, co-owner of GeeJam studio in Port Antonio. Now they're doing a world tour and releasing an album. The Jolly Boys shuffle on stage. The lead singer looks like Freddy Kruger. They perform a line-up of cover versions rendered in Mento style including Blondie’s Hanging on the Telephone and The Rolling Stones’ You Can’t Always Get What You Want. It’s just hilarious. Finally they break into Amy Winehouse’s Rehab. The crowd go wild, dancing and singing along. World changing music it aint but if The Jolly Boys turned up to play at my wedding I think I would be very pleased. And their current success is testament to Lily’s first principle of living well: Never give up. Follow your dreams until you die.

Recovering, With Love

I slept for most of yesterday and most of today.

Friends are kind. Sheldon has just left. We went for a walk along the canal and drank sage tea at Maramia, the Palestinian café on Golborne Road. The late afternoon was warm and still. It felt good to be out in the world for the first time in three days. Back at home we had my favourite dinner of baked organic salmon with brown rice, cucumber and seaweed salad (recipes are elsewhere on this blog). Then we watched the brilliant but disturbing Badlands with Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek. Another film about a charming sociopath type! Anyway, I’ve decided that for the time being I need to give psychologically messed up movies a miss. Stick to comedies and light romance.

Jamie picked me up from the hospital yesterday morning. My stay there was unsettling. Apart from the fact of having a general anaesthetic and being cut open, never at the top of my list of fun things to do, it was strange to be back in a place that held so many memories. I felt a longing for my life before I ever knew about the cancer. I was a happy then.

Nurse Tiziana cared for me a year ago. She was genuinely pleased to see me again and to hear that I am all clear. Ben, Iris and Sheldon took turns visiting so the time flew by.

I was glad to leave, although a little afraid of going home alone. Ben came over, brought a curry and stayed the night. In the morning I thanked him. “I didn’t do anything Lily,” he protested. But his just being there was all I needed.

Lily’s Stress Reduction Programme: Day 1

Singing: Daisy knocks on the door. It seems like ages since we sang together. That’s because it has been ages. I flick the kettle on, load the cd and pretty soon we are leaping around the living room warbling scales and arpeggios like a couple of nightingales.

Food: For lunch I visit the Rainforest Café. It opened at Urban Bliss, Portobello Road, whilst I was out of the country and sells fresh, home made raw food.

Friends: Sheldon called from the fishmonger’s. “Salmon or halibut, Lily?” He brings fresh halibut and I bake it with olive oil and lime juice. Ben, Sheldon and I watch Holland beat Uruguay (poetic justice).

Things I got for free today: A singing lesson. A sublime, bespoke scent.

Funeral for a Friend

This sunny London morning, in a narrow Soho street, two magnificent dusky horses with black ostrich plumes on their heads stand harnessed to a glass carriage. The horses snort softly and occasionally toss their flowing manes. A quiet crowd is gathered here, mostly dressed in black with the occasional flash of scarlet or hot pink. We chat in subdued tones. Inside the carriage my friend lies in his coffin. The coffin is made of cardboard, covered with red sparkly paper, decorated with ruby crystals and paper flowers. An outlandishly huge, black top hat wobbles on the roof of the carriage.

The funeral cortège sets off and the crowd fall in behind. Following the carriage, we process slowly around the streets of Soho for about an hour in our high heels until our feet nearly drop off. Eventually we arrive at St James’s church, Piccadilly. The church is already packed to the rafters. After everyone has squeezed onto a pew the coffin is carried in. The service is moving, joyful and elegant. Everything about the funeral is perfect: the glass carriage; the sunflowers; the readings and tributes; the press photographers; the eye-catching outfits; the circus atmosphere. Of course the one person who would have enjoyed it the most is not here to share the experience. At the end my friend’s coffin is carried out to the music of his beloved Marc Bolan singing 20^th Century Boy.

It is unutterably sad to see a coffin carried away for the last time and to know that a kind, infuriating, contrary, funny, morose, witty, messed-up, sweet human lies inside it, his body about to be burned to ashes.

The mourners regroup in the churchyard for drinks. Later the wake moves to a club in Soho where there is more chatting and the showing of a funny and touching film.

At five p.m. the wake is still going strong but I have to leave. I have an appointment with my therapist.

I sit on the therapist’s couch and cry for an hour. My friend wasn’t my lover, or my brother. He was not the most important person in my life, nor I in his. But he was my friend, for better or worse. His death is yet another loss.

My friend didn’t please everybody in this world. He didn’t try to. What I can say for certain is this: for all his foibles, he was loved.

Whatever Gets You Through the Night

Moon Over Sommers Bay - by Mum

Dear Anonymous,


I have been thinking for several hours about how to reply to your comment without sounding glib.

It seems to me that feelings of despair are an inalienable part of the cancer journey. With a diagnosis of cancer, each of us must consider the very real possibility of an early death. But although I find it scary to contemplate, death does not terrify me. What I have found devastating is the loss of hope.

At the time that I was diagnosed I was happier that I had ever been. I was in a wonderful new relationship with Nick but, more than that, I had reached a point in my life where I felt relaxed and confident. For the first time, I truly knew myself. Through the surgery and all the hideous treatments I always imagined myself returning to love and laughter with Nick, to recovering and getting back to my optimistic, beautiful life that was so rudely interrupted by cancer.

It wasn’t until Nick left me that I lost hope. I started to believe that God was out to punish me; that the cancer would slowly strip me of everything. It had taken my breast, my hair and my femininity. As a result, my lover had left me. My emotional resilience was destroyed. With that I felt that I would be unable to recover my physical health, I would relapse, my life would become an endless cycle of suffering, friends would find it too difficult to stay and so would slowly turn their backs on me, just as Nick had. Ultimately I would die alone.

It is so easy to catastrophise because, whichever way you look at it, cancer is something of a catastrophe. And it brings a particularly insidious fear: “I might return,” it whispers, “and you can never know why or when.”


In the face of all this, to long for oblivion sometimes seems the sane and sensible choice.

But my life up until now has been filled with what writers of self-help books euphemistically call ‘opportunities for growth.’ And so I have tried to put into action many of the survival skills that I have learned along the way. These are some of the things that help me. Maybe they will help you too.

When I was younger I was paralysed. At that time I learned the power of creative visualisation. I would picture myself lying in a meadow of wild flowers on a high cliff overlooking the sea. I would feel the breeze on my body. I would hear the tinkling water flowing in a nearby stream. I would watch the clouds drift white above me. I would create a sensuous, colour-drenched world in my head and then put myself in it. I experienced the very real power of prayer and meditation. I lay for months, completely immobile on a life-support machine, and marvelled as every day miracles happened all around me.

Now I do creative visualisation and positive affirmations as part of a practise called Yoga Nidra. There are many cds available that guide you through the process. I highly recommend buying one. I wrote more about Yoga Nidra in a post dated 17^th November 2009.

Through being in a twelve-step programme I have learned the value of talking to other people and sharing honestly what is occurring in my life and how I am feeling from day-to-day. I am very privileged to have this ongoing support available to me. I would encourage anyone to join a twelve-step programme if you can – and let’s face it there are twelve-step programmes for just about everything these days*. If that is not appropriate then there are many cancer support groups run by charities. And if those are too far away or too depressing or just too irritating then what’s to stop us from setting up our own support group? I think I will write a separate post about how to do that.

Spending time in rehabs and on psychotherapists’ couches has taught me how to identify and feel my feelings rather than suppress them. This can be tricky. It sometimes involves crying in public places. But that never killed me or anyone else. And it’s not just the feelings of sadness, anger and loneliness that I need to feel but also joy and love. I allow myself to really love my friends and my family, my neighbours and people on the bus. That sounds simple but it takes bottle. After all, if I love people they might reject me or let me down. Yeah! Laugh, cry, just get it off your chest. I see a psychotherapist every week and unburden myself of all my craziest, darkest, most shaming thoughts.

Writing each morning – whether it’s a diary, a blog post, a poem or simply a loony stream of consciousness – gets some of my obsessive thoughts out of my head and into my laptop. Let the hard drive carry it all around. My brain needs the space. I also write a gratitude list in the morning, just five things but they have to be five different things each day. This morning, as I was sobbing into a tissue, it occurred to me that there are some people in this world for whom a packet of tissues is an unattainable luxury. So I wrote it down, “I am grateful for this tissue.” Before bed I quickly jot down all the significant things that I did today under the headings of either ‘Love’ or ‘Fear’.

I swim. I go for walks. I do yoga. I put on make-up. I get dressed up. I lie on the floor and listen to self-hypnosis cds. I talk to my plants. I cook delicious food. Most of all I try to speak to at least one friend every day of my life.

Do I do all these things perfectly every day? Not even remotely. And it can all feel a bit false at times but this is the only way that I know how to keep going. I have to convince myself every day that my darkest fears are not inevitable. Yes, the treatments have been ghastly. Yes, Nick has been unspeakably cruel. Yes, I am lonely and afraid sometimes. But what have I gained from having cancer? I have been shown a great deal of love. The truth is that none of knows how long we have to live on our beautiful planet. Sometimes I love this world so much that I never want to leave it. The only certainty is that, one day, I will. But I now have the courage to live as I want to live.

The World Cup is on. This evening Sheldon and I have been sitting on the couch and laughing, rooting for our team-du-jour (Ghana), whooping and dancing around the living room when we scored. That got me through the last three hours.

When I think about it, it isn’t the fear of death that makes me feel so utterly bleak. It is the fear of not living.

Anonymous, I don’t know who you are but I hope that you will find a way to stay with us. I for one, need your comments on Chemo Chic.

Love

Lily

* Here is a small selection of the many twelve-step programmes that are available. Please feel free to add your own favourites in the comments section below.

AA – Alcoholics Anonymous

Al-Anon – Families and friends of alcoholics

Coda – Co-dependents Anonymous

DA – Debtors Anonymous

FA – Families Anonymous, families and friends of drug addicts

GA – Gamblers Anonymous
Gam-Anon - Families and friends of gambling addicts

NA – Narcotics Anonymous

SLAA – Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous

Tell Your Friends That You Love Them Before It Is Too Late

A friend of mine died last night. We were good friends for many years. Then we fell out. The reasons were trivial. During the time that we weren’t speaking I missed him. I am glad to say that I saw him just before Christmas. We made up our differences and had a good chat. But then I went to Sydney and you know what happened there. Since I’ve been back in London I’ve been avoiding all but my closest friends. Not because I don’t like people but because they inevitably ask “How are you?” It’s a question that I find so hard to answer without crying. So I hadn’t called my friend. Now he is dead and I will always miss him.

Tough at the Top

At last the sun is out and London is at its glorious best. Royston drives the twenty yards from his house to my house to pick me up in his new Mercedes SL with the top down.

“So, what is the story?” I ask. I just know that he didn’t buy this car himself. “I got a new job,” replies Royston, “this is part of the deal.”

Next stop is to collect our friend Lizzie. After binging all her teenage sons and their friends out to inspect the car, she leaps joyfully into the back. “This is great. I can get a suntan,” cries Lizzie. She hitches up her dress and stretches out her legs. We cruise through the leafy streets of Notting Hill, Royston smoking, Lizzie sunbathing in the back seat and me with my bare feet propped on the dash. In deference to Sunday morning Royston has foregone the AC/DC CD in favour of some groovy Latin Jazz.

“I’m so glad you got this car Royston,” I murmur - and then I feel that maybe I should feign a bit more interest in the new job that has bestowed such a comfort upon us all. “So,” I ask brightly, “do you have to, er, go somewhere to do this job?” “Yes,” laughs Royston, “it’s called an office, Lily. It’s a novel concept but apparently civilians have been going there for years.”

All Clear!

I’m still processing yesterday’s huge events. Iris came with me to the hospital. If you’re not sure who your friends are here is a clue: they are the people who are prepared to spend half a day sitting around in stuffy waiting rooms reading dreary magazines and just... waiting... whilst you try to look all breezy and unconcerned and they try to mentally devise what they are going to say or do if you happen to receive the worst news of your life in the next ten minutes. Iris, it has to be said, made the best of the situation. “I just love drinks machines,” she enthused, “I could stay here all day zipping these little plastic capsules into the slot and watching the coffee come out.”

The receptionist raises a wary eyebrow.

Vanessa, a pretty radiographer, calls my name. “Come with me Iris,” I whisper. We process down the hall, Iris clutching her coffee and magazine. Vanessa bars her at the door. “You can’t come in here. It’s an x-ray room.” Oh. I enter alone. I remember the drill from the first time I had a mammogram. Strip to the waist. Get prodded, poked and pulled into a position that would probably land one a leading role in some kind of gymnastic-porno movie. Have right breast squashed flat between a metal plate and a plastic paddle. So far so good. Then the left breast, the one that had the cancer, the surgery and the radiotherapy. I twist and turn. The paddle descends. The squashing commences. I scream uncontrollably. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” gulps Vanessa and releases the vice. Gasping for air I leap across the floor and pull my jumper on. “Just two more images to do,” says Vanessa. Trembling, I disrobe again and step back up to the plate.

A few excruciating minutes later we exit the room. Iris is loitering outside the door. “Was that you yelling?” she asks and rolls her eyes.

Then it’s down to the labyrinth where the ultrasound lurks. I lie on the bench in a blue patterned hospital gown. Iris flicks the pages of Elle. Dr Teo bustles in. “Your mammogram looks fine,” he announces. Here is something I’ve learned about medical professionals. If everything is fine they tell you straight away. If it’s not fine they stay tight-lipped. “So, are you worried about anything?” the doctor asks. I tell him about all my worries: feeling lumps in my armpit; stabbing pains under and around my breast; anxiety; shortness of breath; the continued swelling in my back. I consider adding in my fear of losing my home and dying alone or the earth being swallowed up by a black hole. Dr Teo interrupts quickly, “Ok, let’s have a look.” He runs the magic wand over my breasts as I stare wildly about the room. Very soon he is reassuring me. “Nothing to worry about here.”

In the pit of my stomach I feel that feeling that one feels when they finally let you off the giant Ferris wheel, only better.

Next stop: Mr Hadjiminas. He is all smiles. I hand him the mammogram films and he clips them to the light box. “These look perfect.” The image of my left breast is peppered with tiny white shapes, like arrowheads. “What are those?” I exclaim. “Oh, titanium staples,” replies Mr H. Life is full of little surprises. Mr H is equally happy with the ultrasound scans. “Now, let’s have a look at your back.”

Behind the screen, Mr Hadjiminas inspects the wobbly cushion of fluid in my back. “Hmm. This seems to have got worse. I think it might need more surgery.” He looks at the scar that runs down my side. “It will be tricky.” I gulp. “For me, not for you” he adds hastily. Well I should hope so. I will be unconscious. “Let’s give it to the end of the summer.” Fine by me.

“So, next time,” I ask, “can I not have the mammogram, just the ultrasound scan?” Mr H almost snorts. “Do you think we are giving you these mammograms just for fun? Of course you have to have the mammogram.” Well it was worth a try.