With Problems Like These

My life so far has been spectacularly studded with what self-help writers call 'opportunities for growth'.

I welcome them all. My aim in life is not to find a way to live problem-free, rather it is to learn how to make the most of whatever this wacky, wonderful world may throw at me from day-to-day. From paralysis to addiction to bad boyfriends to breast cancer to today’s conundrum: how does a person manage to burn chick peas?

These problems mean Lily is living. The day I don’t have them is the day I am in my coffin.

Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. - Anais Nin 

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.

A Life for Living

It’s been a while since I thought about it but today as I was doing some filing I came across the figures from the Adjuvant! Online (why the exclamation mark?!) database that Suzy Cleator gave me back when we first embarked on chemotherapy. As I’ve explained in the past, the medics can’t give a prognosis for any individual cancer patient, but they can give one the survival statistics for people whose circumstances are similar to one’s own.

Taking into account the type, grade and size of my tumour, my age and the treatments that I have had (surgery, chemotherapy, radiotherapy and tamoxifen), the statistics are as follows:

81.6% of people are alive, without relapse, after ten years.

87.6% are alive after ten years.

16.6% will have relapsed within ten years.

11.6% will have died of cancer within ten years.

1.8% will have died of other causes within ten years.

So my chances are good. Taking care of my diet and keeping fit can only make them better. On the down side, I have been through some severe emotional trauma and depression both of which can have a negative effect. Not to mention six months of smoking.

It seems wise to be aware of all possibilities. I figure that if I have a five-year plan for my life then I won’t be disappointed. The truth is none of us know how long we’ve got. I’m lucky that the life I’ve had up until now has been rich and varied. I’ve been paralysed. I’ve been homeless. I’ve had troubles with drugs and alcohol. I’ve travelled all over the world. I’ve done glamorous jobs and met famous people. I’ve had wonderful friends and terrible boyfriends. As in the words of the Spooks song: "You won't believe the things I've seen Far beyond your wildest dreams I've seen chaos and order reign supreme..." Life certainly has not been boring. With the diagnosis of cancer, I have been given a perfect excuse to live my life to the full and be happy, right now.

So, I’ve started a list of things that I want to do in the next five years (in no particular order):

Move to Sydney – but keep my ties with the UK

Visit London at least once a year

Write a bestseller, in my own name

Do a big fundraiser for the Breast Cancer Haven

Learn to scuba dive

Go scuba diving in New Guinea and the Great Barrier Reef

Have a holiday in Iceland

Love the people who love me – and don’t waste time on those who don’t

Sing on stage in a glamorous, long dress

Ride the Ghan railway from Adelaide to Darwin

Go camping

Repay all my debts

Spend time with Miranda and Eloise

Organise a family holiday in Goa with Ben and Amazon-Rainforest

Earn enough money to take care of my mum

Make a film

Grow vegetables

Catch mud crabs and cook them on the beach

Have a big party and invite all of my friends


Fly a helicopter


Sleep in the desert

Buy a flat in Sydney and do it up

Buy a beach shack

Have a bum lift

Fall in love - and have a partner to do all these wonderful things with

Get married

Be well

Be happy

I’m going to pin my list in the sidebar of this blog so that I can always see it. I will update it from time to time.


p.s. Although I have provided a link to Adjuvant! Online, I don't recommend that you use it on your own. The information can be confusing and might be emotionally overwhelming. I suggest that you refer to this database with the help and support of your consultant surgeon or oncologist.

Life’s Too Short

Today Mum and I are off to Hobart. Shopping and then in the evening we are going to the opening of Mona Foma, Hobart’s excellent and free music festival.

I have a list of tasks, sorting out the usual hassles of being a citizen of the twenty-first century. A reciprocal health card must be obtained from a Medicare office. Cash machines reject the pin number on my debit card. My Australian SIM card isn’t working.

The joy of small cities like Hobart is that they are sparsely populated and everything is handy. I’m in and out of Medicare, Vodafone and the bank in twenty minutes flat. Next stop is the library.

Before we enter, Mum changes her mind. “Lets go to Eco Haven first to get your tincture of sage. They might be closing in a minute.” Just a few doors down the street, Eco Haven is the shop base of Michael Thomsen, the wonderful naturopath who supported me with advice and supplies of supplements throughout my chemo and radiotherapy. Michael isn’t in so we gather our supplies and then mum realises that she’s lost her credit card. She borrows my now working mobile phone to call the shop where she bought a vacuum cleaner a couple of hours previously. “I think this is going to be a long one,” mum says as she plops onto one of the Eco Haven cafe chairs. “Can you take my library card and go on up to collect my books?”

I walk back up the hill and notice that there is now an ambulance parked on the corner by the library entrance. The paramedics are tending to a man who appears to have been hit by a car. It must have happened in the few minutes that we were in Eco Haven. Not wishing to seem ghoulish I avert my eyes and walk straight into the library.

In the library I sit down at one of the computers. All day I have been dogged by the thought that my last posting on Chemo Chic was too harsh on Nick. Part of me thinks “You should write what you feel and let him just suck it up.” But the further we drive the more I feel that what I had written was, as Sheldon would put it, snide. That is to say, using inside information to do harm. Nick’s behaviour has been cruel and self-centred but spitefulness is not my style.

I delete the uncomfortable paragraph. Mum joins me in the library. “Any luck?” I ask. “Yes,” replies mum brightly, “my credit card was in my pocket.”

As we leave the library I notice that there are now two ambulances on the corner as well as two police cars. All I can see is the soles of a pair of black work boots. Paramedics are gathered around the man, one holding a drip bag aloft. “Looks bad,” I say to mum as we head into the car park that adjoins the library.

From the car park exit we have to drive back past the scene of the accident. As we pass I notice two of the paramedics packing their trolley into one of the ambulances. A third paramedic is covering the man’s face with a blanket. “The man has died.” I blurt.

We drive in silence. The image of those black work boots and then the glimpse of the paramedic covering the man’s face play through my mind like a continuously looped two-frame movie. A few long minutes go by. Then, “That poor man,” I say, “just like that!” and I snap my fingers. Then I start to cry. I can’t take any more sadness. I want to go home. I want to go to bed and sleep forever.

But I am glad now that I deleted my nasty comment about Nick. There are no points to score. There is nothing to win. Our love is already lost. I don’t want to think about him anymore. Life’s too short.

And life goes on. We head off to Mona Foma.