A Bex and a Good Lie Down

I have no idea why I routinely commence these blogs with a description of the weather.  But why buck a trend?

It's a cool but overcast day today and I am, all in all in pretty good spirits.

After weeks of despair about the lack of meaningful work, I am in the throes of writing a lovely capability statement for one of my fave clients, who are based in Melbourne.

I love my work and find it very therapeutic these days, would you believe?

But this  is not why I am putting finger to keyboard today.

Today I have had an itch to share with you a really excellent line of reasoning I have fathomed to explain a possible cause of breast cancer.

Did you know that in Australia right now, roughly 14,000 plus women are diagnosed with breast cancer ever year BUT, by 2020 (yup, seven years from now), this number is expected to rise to 17,000 plus.

That's a staggering increase and I suppose I wouldn't be completely human if I didn't allow myself to dwell, albeit temporarily, on the reasons why the incidence of breast cancer is growing, well, like tumour.

Look, to be honest, I am a little impatient with the philosophical concept of causality.  We as a race seem obsessed with explaining things.

Having originated from a mainly Buddhist culture, there is a part of me that prefers a certain fatalism.

My predisposition in the main is to argue that fate is random.

Why does everything have to have a reason?  Some things just are.

One can get one's self in a needless lather in a quest to find an answer to that most perplexing of questions: Why.  Or as one particularly articulate solicitor friend of mine, once notoriously questioned in a personal injuries case before a court:  "Why, oh why, oh why, oh why".

Where breast cancer is concerned, several theories abound, and among those I give credence to are the following:

• Genetics
• Excessive alcohol consumption (more than 2 standard drinks a day)
• Having your first child after the age of 30.
• Fertility treatments.

Some specialists claim other factors could be considered.  Such as starting menstruation early.  Or not breastfeeding long enough.  I guess, in the main, anything that stuffs around with your hormones should be considered.

My sister, Fiona, who is given to profundities that elude me (these days!), even has a theory about emotional states and their impact on the whole shebang.

But there are other potential causes, posited in brief in various literature but backed by little evidence-based research.

One I've fixated upon is the (possible likely) influence of phytoestrogens.

You see, breast cancer feeds on oestrogen, and phytoestrogens apparently impact oestrogen.  It's not such a long bow don't you think?

Did you know that phytoestrogens in the form of non-organic, manufactured soy products are distributed to an alarming extent throughout our food system.  Chocolate, yoghurt, peanut butter... it's the substance used to make things creamier and, in its name, gazillions of hectares of the Amazon and other important habitat have been razed to the ground.

What to do?  Become some sort of organic nut, slaving over a domestic buttery, yoghurt maker, juicer, fruit dehydrator?  Slaughter my own hens?  Rear my own llamas?  Hive my own bees? Maybe weave my own clothes?  Take to making incense sticks from patchouli to sell at the markets along with my fatted pigs and those Indian dreamcatcher things (that always look like very bad macrame)?  

Hell, I should have made do without caesarians too and Harry and I should have perished in child birth - just like the good old days.

The fact is that I'd rather spend my time playing sport, reading, painting, entertaining my friends, raising funds for my causes - than bothering with all of this.  Living a full life takes devotion and I'm afraid, perfecting my home-butter doesn't make it into my bucket list.

I have no patience and, as far as I am concerned at least, the horse has bolted.  So screw it.  Pass me the chocolate!

But today, a lightbulb moment.

Look at this stupid graphic I googled.  It's even got the photographer's stamp on it in case you are so desperate, you want to use this contrived and completely unnatural image in one of those documents you may be preparing for one of your multi-million-dollar pitches.  I don't know about you, but it had me immediately thinking of 'Liceblaster'...

Today I have come up with a new and different theory about the causes of breast cancer, with my train of thought developing as follows:

It seems a lot of women (including me) are obsessed with exercise and losing weight.  Health size 10?  Not thin enough!

But the cautionary thing is this.  Of the women I know who have had breast cancer, the vast majority - yes, the majority - report that they were in their absolute "prime" when calamity struck.

Many if not most of the breast cancer babes I know were fitness and health nuts - and I mean NUTS.  You would have believed they were the very last people on earth to have ended up with this DREADED DISEASE.  (Note dramatic use of capitals).

You see, if I was a scientist - which I sometimes am when, for example, attempting to dispel unpleasant odours left by rotting pork chops, forgotten in the back of Al's Prius -  I'd be investigating the effects of CORTISOL on our health.

Science has proved that women who have high stress levels at the time of conception - such as money worries, a demanding job, or living up to family or societal expectations - have higher chances of producing a girl.

If cortisol = girl; then girl must = Estrogen.   And we know Estrogen = cancer (infact, breast cancer feeds on estrogen).

Cortisol, as you might know, is a stress hormone.  It's created by the adrenal glands.

The reality is that most women today exist in a state of high stress. We stress about our looks, our clothes, our children, our relationships.  (Some of us stress about sagging boobs.  Others stress because their mastectomy scar is bloody itchy.)

We extend ourselves to ridiculous heights because, it seems, the bar is never high enough.

These days women are never thin enough.  There skin isn't smooth enough.  There lips don't pout enough.  We aren't being paid enough.  Our husbands don't listen enough.  Our children aren't brilliant enough.  Our gardens aren't weeded enough. Our dogs aren't trained enough (shit, Spunky, when will you EVER learn how to fetch me a cup of tea, dumb dog).

In short, our lives are neither pristine nor perfect enough and so we stress, stress, stress.

Already slim but wait! (or Weight!).  You need to be as thin as that 20 year old.  As muscled as Michelle Bridges.  As gorgeous as Heidi Klum at 40.

Already smart?  But wait, little Junior must get an OP 1 or else we will remain unvalidated and unworthy.

Already living a great life?  Then let's stress about something else?  Our families.  Our friends.  What's going on in Syria.  Or Outer Space.

So women stress out.

So they practice yoga - no, you fool.  Not the one that involves breathing, sitting still and langourous stretches.  No, you have to feel the burn.    You have to do it in a room heated to 400 degrees so you feel like one of those hot chickens in the window of the counter at the IGA.  You have to become a human pretzel.  Fatless, limber, an Olympic gymnast at 80 - that's the goal!

So they meditate like a guru - perhaps in a cupboard under the stairs, which may be the only place they get some peace and quiet.  Then they emerge to scream at the kids to pick up their towels.

So they sit on their bums, thinking laziness passes for 'inner peace'.  Meanwhile I see them screaming at their kids, equilibrium too easily upset by small annoyances.  Actually, that also applies to people who don't sit on their bums.  Our equilibrium, overall these days, seems to be too easily upset.

Or they turn to alcohol and/or anti-depressants.   Or shopping (which has the same effect - I mean, who isn't instantly uplifted by the sight of a bargain).

But stress isn't just a 'first world' problem.

Over on the other side of the world, in those developing countries where they actually have you know REAL PROBLEMS, the stress is even worse.

On my various journeys around the world, I've seen them first hand.  While men loll lazily in doorways, it's the women sweeping, toiling, carting, washing, begging.  Those bastard males just get to lie on their bums, chewing their beetlenut.  It's an effort even to scratch their balls through their cool sarongs.

Never mind that.  I think we can all relate to the levels of stress that any grandmother, mother, sister, or aunty feels when the family struggles.  Poverty with its plethora of associated ills is, in my view, the ultimate stressor.

Effectively, ladies, what I'm saying is: It is fucking stressful being a woman these days.

Unlike our grandmothers, no, we aren't content with baking cookies and slow gossip at the town hall after Church on Sundays.

Mass media has meant that we constantly have inequity shoved in our faces.  There is always someone we know who is 'better off'.

That human tendency to compare ourselves has been pushed to the zenith until it has all become about exteriors, keeping up, worrying about what people will think.

And it's not necessarily conscious.

Meanwhile, we don't have that grounding force which is that extended network that was once typical of smaller communities - families working together for mutual goals; friends who would check in from time to time to say hello and see if we were okay.

We have become stressed AND we have become disconnected.  Perhaps even lost.

We are all isolated and alone, our insecurities fuelled by day-time TV and those fucking Kadarshians.

Could it really be cortisol?   Is stress really the root cause of rogue levels of oestrogen, feeding latent cancers?

The Harvard Medical School maintains walking as little as three times a week for 30 minutes reduces the recurrence of breast cancer by 50%.  Is there a reason why it's gentle WALKING and not riding a bike up Mt Coot-tha in low gear while carrying Clive Palmer on your back?

Nutritionists maintain that a diet rich in greens, with smaller portions of carbohydrates and protein assist in preventing recurrence.  Is there a reason why there are no urgent strictures about avoiding certain food groups, not eating after a certain time, not eating while wearing anything floral, perhaps not eating at all, NOT NOT NOT?

I believe there is and the reason is stress.

Perhaps it is unrealistic to imagine you life without stress.

But for what it's worth, I hope I have made you at least stop and think about why managing your stress levels is more important than you think.

These days, I notice the younger kids have a saying when the adults are losing it:  "Calm your farm" (best expressed in the intonation of a Julia Gillardn -  possibly ith the word 'Love' attached for extra effect.

Maybe those ankle biters know something we don't.

'Calm ya farm, Love.'

Take that chill pill.  Cool your engine.

For today, that's my breast advice.

Mastectomy 2

It is a humid Tuesday morning and I wake at 7.30 am after an average night of sleep.  I am in no hurry to leap out of bed as I am unable to eat anything for most of the day.  It's a bummer as I'm so hungry I could, as they say, eat the crutch out of low flying duck.

That's because in five hours, I am to be admitted into the Mater Hospital again. Lee, Anne, Nic, Mum, Fiona have all texted or called me to wish me luck.

These are the last few hours of 'Paris' my lone right breast, which has been the focus of my attention for the last 14 months.

That's how long it's been since her partner in cleavage crimes, 'Nicky', bit the dust.  

I have prepared for 'Paris's impending execution with the diligence of a professional assassin.  Because it does feel like I'm snuffing out a life.

If you have been following this blog on a regular basis, you'll know this event has been well-researched.  It is not a decision I've made lightly. 

I've consulted two plastic surgeons, I've discussed the issue with all my various doctors and advisers, I've watched endless YouTube videos, and Googled widely.

Many of my friends have listened, bleary eyed and most likely secretly wishing I'd bloody shut up about 'the Last Tit', to regular ruminations and pontifications on the pros and cons of de-boobification.


I've also spent months and months sussing out numerous chests and breasts.  I've been a surreptitious tit watcher.

Additionally, I've consulted my fashion expert, the flat-chested Mel about how to dress. I've even got my counsellor at the Cancer Council all primed in the event of any emotional fall out.

In fact, I think I've put more thought and research into this decision than into other life changing ones: such as what career I should follow (I just copied what my best friend Louise had and to this day rue my decision);  whether I should have a baby (put it like this - when Al and I need to work out our anniversary we need to deduct a year from Harry's age);  or whether I should go blonde (the shortest hair colour change in history, lasting barely 24 hours, so hideous was the result of my brief dalliance with peroxide).

Come to think of it, I don't seem to put a lot of thought into much.  Spontaneous, perhaps foolhardy, usually in hindsight, most of life's great decisions/choices/purchases have occured on a whim.

But in the case of Paris, I have, luckily, my experience with Nicky to guide me and so I KNOW it is not as simple as it may seem: lopping off a breast.

At last, I have been motivated by a mix of medical reasons, practicality and vanity.

Medically, I should remind you that my particular brand of breast cancer, the invasive lobular kind, has a higher than usual chance of recurring in the other breast.

The key words are 'in the other breast'. Other form of breast cancer, when they recur, are most commonly found in the cervix or ovaries, bones, bowel or brain.  But ILCs most commonly recur in the breast.

Look, I'm just not the kind of person who lives in fear of the worst.  But I must admit to increase palpitations whenever my routine breast scans occur.  How can I be sure that it will not recur at all?  This mastectomy will remove that fear.

Practically, a lone breast, I argue, lacks context and when dangling pairless, appears well, impaired!   Especially so, the matronly Double D, which can appear of humongous proportions when compared against a void.

In terms of vanity, the lack of symmetry is especially disturbing and disgusting to me.

If Nicky and Paris were hard to manage, Paris alone has been a particularly onerous charge, her single status somewhat hard to conceal without recourse to an uncomfortable prosthesis.

And ultimately, it's the bloody prosthesis, more than anything that has driven me to the knife.

Weighing in at 715 grams (I know: I measured it!), fake Nicky bounces heavily when I run, shifts somewhat on a golf back swing and is so uncomfortable that young boys often spring me with my hand down my chest.

The bra in which this fake must be contained is so ugly my clothing choices are limited.   It is also incredibly annoying when I am in a hurry and cannot locate the prosthesis.  (I have been known to scurry out with a rolled up sock or a bunch of balled tissues stuffed into the void when bras are in the wash or the fake is hiding).

However,  it hasn't all been bad.  The prosthesis bra provides a handy pocket for the stashing of coins, credit cards and my Ipod.   A lot of the time, I've almost forgotten I am titless.

What's more, Nicky-less for more than a year now, I am very aware that a mastectomy brings its own discomforts.  

Feeling is slow to return and, as the nerves regenerate, one is prone to localised itching.  There are also rogue pains and, all these months on, though I have good range of movement, in some positions it is still a little uncomfortable.

But medical concerns, practicality and vanity have won and I lie in bed thinking over my decision.  I feel Paris with my hand (too big to cup) and try to memorise the feel of a whole breast.  The skin is smooth and warm to touch.

You would think I become maudlin at this point, but I don't.  What's the point?  The decision has been made, the die has been cast, the boob has been unleashed.

And so I rise.

Ben is due back from New Zealand today and I believe the lad will be hungry when he arrives.  I zip down to the shop to buy some ingredients and whip up a slow-cooking beef borscht for the boys.

I finish this blog.

I ponder the last days of Paris.  Yesterday, Monday, I went to the movies with my good friends Anne and Sue.  We saw 'Quartet' and I do believe Paris had a giggle or two.  We went to lunch.  I came home and went for an 8K run.  Then Ethel came over for dinner.  And Harry was home!  It was a good day.

On Sunday, I had 12 people over for a curry lunch finished with a noice pav, luv.  A dozen of my besties mooched on the deck, enjoying the breeze.  They left at 7 pm.  It was a good day.

On Saturday, my new Hiking Club set off on our first walk.  Again, there were 12 of us - 13 if you count Spunky.  We went to the Daisy Hill Conservation Park and had a nice two-hour hike.  Afterwards we had coffee.  In the afternoon Al and I went to Mel and Pete's for tennis and a  barbecue. Yeah, that was a good day, too.

Paris has had a pretty good life.  I am sure that wherever she goes, Nicky will be waiting for her and I can see the two of them now, reunited under some great big boulder holder up in the sky.

Who knows, maybe George and Jossy are up there, staring approvingly at my fine set, misbehaving as usual.

Meanwhile, here on earth, life will go on.

Eventually feeling will return to my chest.

I will keep you posted about how I get on but for now, my operation is in one hour and I must go and pack.  Dr Lambley is wielding the scalpel so I'm hoping for a nifty scar. Dr Warden, the hilarious Scotsman is once again sending me to sleep  so I'm hoping for a few more laughs before I go under.

I am just glad to be getting on with it after all this pondering and thinking.

Wish me luck!

Plastic Surgeon 2

And so the saga continues...

Harry turns 19 today and, as the first week of my second year after diagnosis progresses, I wake up rather late.  Last night I had an allergy attack and took a Phenergan.   It must have knocked me out as I feel like I've been run over by a railway train.

Harry is camping on Moreton Island with Robyn and I have already given him his (very practical) loot - a sports bag, some teeshirts and undies, a voucher to get himself some decent shoes.

It's 10.30 am by the time I drag my sorry butt out of bed, in time to hear Anne at the door.  She is here to drop off the money for a fundraising cruise I'm helping to organise.  I barely think twice as I greet her in the kitchen in my mismatched Elmo pyjamas and one boob untidily outlined under the skimpy garment.  My eyes are red and shadowed underneath as usual.  My hair has tightened into the curls I loathe.

It's only afterwards as I head to the shower that I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.   All in all, I look pretty goddamn awful  and I realise that I should have covered up to greet Anne who was as usual immaculate in her professional attire.  (Later I will call her to apologise for this insult to her eyeballs.)

The fact is that general attractiveness or lack thereof is somewhat top of mind today.

Today I have an appointment with Dr Chin at the Wesley.

Today I hope to be given an alternative to the rather gruesome Lattisimus Dorsi operation previously discussed with Dr Lily.

Here's the story.

Not long after my visit to Dr Lily, my mum saw a story on "A Current Affair" about a new breast reconstruction procedure involving the use of stem cells.  It's only about 18-months old and it's offered by just one practitioner in Australia, Dr Chin who happens to operate in Brisbane.

My mum and both my sisters, Nicky and Fiona, are dead set against the Lattisimum operation, a major procedure that involves rearranging a muscle and could possibly lead to long-term issues with mobility.

Nicky suggests that I should embrace my scars much as anyone does after a bad accident.

Fiona is horrified at the scale of the operation involved.

Mum says that in Japan (where she lived for three years in her youth), all the women are flat-chested and get by in padded bras.  She knows I'm not vain. "I've never given you bad advice," says my Mum, who is never shy of self-congratulation.

But Mum seemed to think Dr Chin's option could be worth considering.

Al just wants me to do what makes me happy and he says we will find the money somehow to cover whatever I need.  (You can see why I love that man!).

I drive to the Wesley, ruefully glancing at my hideous reflection in the mirror.  As is usual after an allergy attack, my nose has taken on Aboriginal proportions.   A pimple is sprouting above my lip.  I am less Miranda Kerr than JOHN Kerr.  :(

At the hospital I grab a coffee as I still feel drugged and sluggish.

Making my way to Dr Chin's medical suite, I sit in a waiting room where I ponder human incompetence.  (One of the receptionists seems quite old and seems quite disorganised.  She even stuffed up my appointment.  I toy with making a complaint but decide she's really quite lovely and besides, she's wearing a nice jacket).

I play a game of Chicktionary on my Iphone.   (I bet you didn't know that "Filbert" is a word - it's the name of a type of nut tree).

Then I follow Dr Chin into his waiting room.  He is a handsome shortish fellow who initially sits ona  stool right next to me to question me.  It's a bit disconcerting.  I notice he has a smooth untarnished face.

Dr Lambley has already sent ahead a referral and Dr Chin first clarifies that I intend to have the other breast removed.

It's true.  I hate being unsymmetrical and that is one decision I've made.  Paris is done for.  I am sick of my prophylactic and especially, the ugly, cumbersome bras that are needed to carry it around.

Dr Chin asks me to go into a changing room where I am to strip down to my bra and knickers.  He tells me that he needs to see if I have enough body fat as FAT is the key to this procedure.

Undressed, I sit quite uncomfortably in a chair staring at a closed door.  I notice a cardboard box in which are contained the models of long bones.  For the man who has everything, I suppose.

When Dr Chin comes back in, he doesn't feel me up like Lily did but just looks at me.  At once he shakes his head.  "Not enough fat!"  he observes.  Then he says:  "Would you be able to put on 10 kilos for me?"

"10 Kilos!" I exclaim (note the subtle use of the exclamation mark).  "I've never been 10 kilos overweight before."

Then he says he will make do with 5 or 6 minimum.  This is what is needed for some smallish mounds.

Once I am dressed again and sitting at his desk, Dr Chin explains that he needs me to have my mastectomy first as he needs two even scars to work with.

He explains what this procedure involves and runs me quickly through a few slides on a power point.  Here's what I discover:

This procedure is called Stem cell-enriched fat therapy which regenerates the required tissue from autologous (Self) 'stem cells'.

This natural augmentation procedure uses fat obtained from another part of the body using liposuction.  Extracted stem cells are used to regenerate the required tissue to reconstruct the breasts (10 grams of stem cells can help manufacture 700 grams of potential fat).

The procedure basically includes an implant around which the fat is placed.

Only one operation is needed and the most uncomfortable part is the liposuction.  (I will need to wear compression bandages for six weeks afterwards).

Instead of manufacturing nipples out of skin flaps, there are now stick on varieties available which can last up to 6 weeks including bathing.

In between, I discover that Dr Chin grew up and was educated in Dublin.  He doesn't have an Irish accent unless he's drunk.  In my view, he could also work on his bedside manner.  He is quite brusque and really, I find he could do with lightening up a little.

As it is, I manage to ask only a few questions, and then he hustles me out to see the nurse who I must say is a lot more informative.

Here are the pros of this procedure compared to the Lattisimus Dorsi operation:

1.  It's less invasive.  No parts of my body will need to be moved, removed or restitched.
2.  It's quicker.  Only one operation is needed.
3.  I'll be fully mobile in a relatively shorter space of time.
4.  I will end up with a flatter stomach and maybe even skinnier thighs!  (Bonus!)
5.  Fat can be 'cultivated' so a thin person can be briefly fat in order to generate the raw material required.
6.  For the first time in my life, I can eat crap with impunity.  (I am already salivating over that McDonalds Hot Choc Sundae: the one I've avoided for 19 years... I used to pig out on them when I was pregnant with Harry).

Here are the cons:

1.  It's much more expensive.  The cost is $10-$12000 compared to $3000 under Dr Lily.
2.  I have to put on 10 Kilos!
3.  I must spend 6 weeks in compression bandages.
4.  I might get used to eating (even more) crap.
5.  Unfortunately, I still won't look like Miranda Kerr.

My dilemma is compounded by the fact that, by November, I should be back to my optimal weight thanks to the hard work I've been doing to satisfy Dr Cam's research.

There's also that huge psychological barrier for me where weight gain is concerned: FAT is considered to be the one, universally acknowledged factor contributing to the risk of cancer recurrence.

It will all come down to how badly I want two lumps to fill out a dress.  Keep in mind that these lumps will be insensate, anyway.

Really, what difference will some smaller lumps on my chest make to the overall quality of my life?  I mean, check out Miranda Kerr (ugly cow):

For that matter, check out Keira Knightly.

Or Cameron Diaz:

Or Sienna Miller:

Or Kate Moss:

Or Milla Jovovich:

Or for that matter Jack Nicholson!

Boobs!  Who really needs them?

This is the 10AA question I need to consider in the coming weeks.

In the meantime, I do hope you'll forgive me if you find me leering at your cleavage.

Just put my lechery down to research.

That Standing Ovation...

I've been involved with the sport of soccer for a good 16 years now and over that time, I've had the privilege of hearing some very good advice from the mouths of a range of coaches.

There is one coach who would not shut up, who talked so much that we girls would find our muscles seizing up in the cold winter evenings that were the norm at training, while he went on and on and on.

I remember this coach vividly because he had a disability when it came to remembering names and would get our names back to front at EVERY training session that whole season.

He's the coach who kept calling me "Brown Eye" to the great amusement of my team mates, a 'brown eye' in the Australian parlance, being a colloquialism for "anus". Perhaps appropriate where my kicking skills are concerned...

But amongst his limitless patois there was a gem I picked up and apply today: When you find yourself verbalising the words: "I can't", the brain picks up on it and guess what, you'll find that you really "can't".

Of course, the opposite is true. The greatest tool to positive change is physically HEARING yourself encouraging YOU.

In other words, your greatest training tool is your own brain... and your own mouth.

In my blog yesterday, I mentioned the speech I gave on Sunday. Do you know, a strange thing has happened overnight. I have inspired MYSELF!

The words I found myself carefully pronouncing to my audience of 130 or so men and women of a mix of ages and demographics seem to have insinuated themselves into my thinking.

I can't seem to forget what I heard that speaker Bronwyn Hope saying.

I have no intention of posting the full contents of my speech. I do think the 'event' of a speech is often part of the experience and reading the text of a presentation often doesn't quite provide the full story.

Still, I would like to recap the two ideas that have stuck in my head today. Regular readers of my blog will recognise them I'm sure.

The first important idea I explored was the concept of how we spend our time. Specifically I explained that:

"From cancer you really learn that time is an irreplaceable currency. It should not be unwisely spent, but carefully invested.

"Because illness steals time. All of a sudden, pleasant routines are replaced by hours spent in waiting rooms.

"Diaries are crammed with appointments - not with friends or colleagues or family - but with surgeons and oncologists and therapists.

"The choice of how you spend your time is taken away."

From here I pointed out that one of the hardest things to do it seemed was to create quality time. "Time that is savoured... not juggled. To live it fully doing a few things we enjoy really well rather than doing a hundred things we don't enjoy really poorly."

Tonight I keep going over this in my head. For some reason, I find myself now taking even closer stock of how I spent my day today.

What did you do today? What parts of it did you savour? In what moments were you most mindful?

What did you do today that you really enjoyed? Did you do it well?

But there is another idea I discussed, and it's taken directly from an earlier blog I wrote called "The Gifts you Give."

I spoke about the rewards one receives from cancer, a race for which there are no medals because the only quest is to finish.

"The only rewards", I said, "Are the absolute truths that reveal themselves from the struggle to survive, that cannot be displayed and can only be carried in your head or your heart.

"The absolute truth I discovered came early in my own cancer fight as family, friends and even strangers banded together to support me by way of many gifts.

"They were gifts of generous actions, kind words, flowers and presents... but not diamonds, the cheap bastards.

"As I fought my way through my various courses of treatment, I was touched by the way so many people were prepared to cheer me on, in whatever way they could.

"From this came the realisation that is my reward so far...

"At the end of the day, when you go to meet your maker, your life here will not be measured by the things you accomplished, the races you won, your medals or titles.

"It will not be measured by the possessions you had, your job description, your fabulous attributes.

"No one will care about your petty vanities, your fantastic looks or the legacies you have left.

"Your life here will be measured by one thing and one thing only: The love you gave and the love you received."


Again, I've been going over this in my head today. It's really stuck with me.

I've been thinking about the things we say to each other, how we greet each other, what we comment on.

I've been reacting to bad things I've seen people saying about others on Facebook. In fact, I've unleashed a tirade and withdrawn any support for their 'pages'.

I've been thinking about how I showed love today, and what kind of love I may have attracted.

Importantly, I made pact with myself today: to mindfully seek out only positive people, encounters and experiences.

Life really is too short to be around people who are mean spirited, negative or self-centred.

Life is too short to waste time doing anything that does not uplift, inspire or enhance you in some way.

Life is just too short to waste time.

My Own Kokoda

As Brisbane moves into its bright and chilly winter season, I can't believe that it's been eight and a half months since diagnosis. Still, I wouldn't exactly say the weeks have been galloping away. It's been more like a fair trot if not a slow canter I guess as I've set out to regain some vestige of a 'normal' life.

With each passing day, the memory of my treatments recedes that little further and I regularly think how true it is that nothing is forever. One day Justin Beiber will be Keith Richards; one day Greece will be a thriving economy again (okay, that's a long bow: they'll need a work ethic first); and worst of all, one day Miranda Kerr will be a washed-out 'former model'

But recently, I'm aware that that 'one day' has already come where many of my friends are concerned. They have ticked that box saying "Bronwyn is well", and it's understandable that they may have already lost interest in what happens from now.

In fact, when I reported my first 'all clear' a few weeks ago, my friends were rejoicing with praise for my 'beating cancer'. Bless their cotton socks.

The sad reality though is that while I have the 'three month all clear', from now it'll be a case of getting past each mark - six months; 12 months; one year and then, the Holy Grail (apparently) the FIVE YEAR all clear.

In other words, it seems I can't really let my guard down for at least another 1661 days (but who's counting?) and until that time, I can't really crack the bottle of Veuve that Nim gave me.

It scares me a little, I have to admit: the fact that for the first time in my life, I am effectively living in the future. Whatever I'm doing now, out of the corner of my eye, I'm keeping tabs of what may lie ahead.

My titlessness notwithstanding, my creaking joints are there to continually remind me that all is not yet well.

Last week, for instance, Al, me and Ben went to see 'Men in Black III' at the local cinema. I haven't been to a movie in ages but imagine how I felt when, after the movie finished, Al had to help me down the stairs because I'd seized up so much. "Come on, granny," he said. Which is funny I suppose, but not very much when you're still only 48. It was mildly depressing.

I'm hardly bounding around like Snoopy in love, put it like that.

But "Mind over Matter" is my mantra and I'm not letting this sorry state stop me from doing the things I love or living life the way I like to live it.

Let me tell you about what happened last Sunday, two days ago.

"It was a dark and stormy morning..." No, really, it was! It was in fact pissing down with rain in Redland Bay where I live. It had been raining all night and all through the previous two days, enough so that soccer was cancelled, as were all the school sports.

It was wet and cold and I still couldn't breathe after carting round a bad cold for at least the past two weeks.

All in all, I was feeling pretty shabby but nonetheless, I found myself getting up at 4.30 am in the pitch dark and preparing myself for a CHALLENGE. Yes, another one. As if six chemo sessions weren't enough.

Firstly, let me explain that the details of this particular CHALLENGE weren't exactly clear to me until I did some research ... um... the night before.

As it turns out, I had foolishly agreed to participate in an event called the Brisbane Kokoda Challenge, all thanks to my BFF Louisa who, I must report, at least up to that point, had, shall we say, a rather inflated idea of her physical skill sets.

To those of you who are not Australian, let me explain that the actual Kokoda Trail is in Papua New Guinea and, if you Google it, you will discover that it is not exactly a Yellow Brick Road along which one might gaily trip while perhaps clutching a picnic basket under one's arm and singing a stanza or two from a favourite Gilbert & Sullivan opera.

This may give you some insight as to what the purpose of the Brisbane Kokoda Challenge is: it's to expose the otherwise comfortably manicured amongst us to what it REALLY means to be strong and courageous... at least that's what they say. The adjective I would use, in the case of Louisa and me however is STUPID.

Because as it turns out, on Sunday I found myself on a 30km CHALLENGE, heaving my sorry carcass, creaking joints, and crippled Size 37 feet up hill, up another hill, and up another hill, down slippery mud, through overflowing creeks and checkpoints with appealing names like "Hellhole Break" along with 699 other participants, mostly in an age bracket well below mine. Or Louisa's.

What's more it seemed that, in the main, the aforementioned participants did seem to have TRAINED for this event and seemed quite well equipped with hiking sticks, top-of-the range rain gear and so on.

Still, we persevered and along the way, I believe I found a metaphor. (I do LOVE metaphors!).

You see, the Brisbane Kokoda Challenge is not unlike any challenge you or I may face, and for me, of course, it was a metaphor for my battle so far with cancer.

I found myself taking the hills easily with a head down bum up approach, as I do believe it is better to get the more difficult bits over and done with as quickly as possible. Perhaps this is how I approached chemotherapy: my hills.

On the most difficult and slipperiest climb (the only part where I really found myself puffing a bit), it was quite easy because we were so far behind that footholds had been created by the crowd that went ahead. It's a bit like breast cancer I think: the experience of those who have gone before me have helped me with my climb so far.

This event also made it compulsory for teams to stay together, so I could not leave Louisa who is older than me. At the top of those hills I was forced to be patient and wait for her as she struggled up those hills, a few steps at a time. Here she is close to the end.



While I waited, eating my way through my fruit and chocolate bars and sesame snacks and peanut butter sandwich, I thought to myself that we all really have to run our own race in life. I couldn't be Louisa's legs. I could only encourage her. We all run at different paces. We all have our own strengths. I'm good at hills. Louisa is good at flats. (No, she really is. We were pretty well paired in the end).

And finally, like this challenge, breast cancer is not a race. It's not about coming first. It's not about being better than anyone else. It's about finishing. And hopefully not carking it along the way.

I should report too, that several participants (younger than us!) pulled out of the challenge. I didn't and neither did Louisa. If nothing else: we are finishers!

Now, I can't say I felt particularly fabulous about the whole experience. I can't say the heavens opened up with any Hallelujahs as I crossed the finish line. Frankly, I was over it at the half way mark as I don't need to prove anything to anyone any more about what I'm capable of.

I'm just one of these people who believes that if you start something, you finish it, no matter what. (To my soccer friends, may I just say the words "Garry Toovey" ... so you know what I mean. To the rest of you: never mind!)

What Kokoda has taught me though is that when you take on a Challenge it does help to know what you're in for. (It would have helped to know, for example, that that last bloody hill was not actually the last one. Not even the second last one!)

I hope this blog has done that for people who have a diagnosis of breast cancer.

And I hope that, like those with breast cancer who have gone before me, my footsteps will help someone else make it up that mountain.

For now? I'm putting my feet up.

My only challenge is learning to get up and down those steps without leaning on anyone.

But if you find me struggling, you know I'll gladly take your hand.

Radiation 3

Exactly 7 months since my 48th birthday, I take myself to the Mater Hospital for the last day of my radiation treatment.

It is a beautiful day and, as I navigate the Willpower Mobile through the traffic, I have the windows down and enjoy the feel of a cool breeze through the fine cover of follicles sprouting on my pate.

I think: "It's great to be alive." And I talk to George. I have been doing that a bit lately because I'd like to believe he is still around, watching over all of us, especially Ethel and Al.

"Can you believe it?" I ask George. "Where have the last five weeks gone."

All in all, I seem to have weathered things nicely. The area over my scar is a deep pink colour and the nurses have said it may yet fester a few days after today. But I don't think so.

There is nothing unusual about the visit to radiation services. I park the car and, because I'm a little early, I mosey on down to the coffee shop under the hospital to get myself a coffee.

You wouldn't know it was my last day. It's the usual: check-in, chat, strip, chat, zap, chat, change, chat, out the door. Except when I leave, I shake the hand of Adam, the radiation therapist who has been at nearly all my treatments. I thank him and the other therapist.

Through the last few weeks I've picked up a bit of information about the process. Here are some gum nuts I have picked up: You can be radiated for weeks and weeks quite safely, because it all depends on the dose. You need a Bachelor of Radiation Therapy which you can do at QUT. They radiate for all cancers including leukaemia and can do your whole body at once if need be. The numbers they call out are calibrations to help them gauge the depth at which the rays enter your skin. It doesn't hurt when you're radiated - even if the skin is burned. The room is initially darkened so they can see the laser lights one the ceiling that help them guide the calibrations. Only in rare cases will people need to go through radiation twice.

From the man at the front counter, I also learned that some people they treat actually don't make it. Well, that bit's a downer.

As I leave the radiation room, Adam says I can dump the gown they have given me if I like or I can take it home. I choose to bring it home as I plan to have a ceremonial burning - something to put all of this behind me.

But I can't go home yet as I have to wait a few minutes to see Dr Cox and my nurse, Esther.

While I sit in the waiting room, I think about all the side effects I've been left with. Unfortunately, I believe most of these are permanent:

Firstly, I have vision changes, especially at long distances, things look much blurrier so I suspect I'll need to have the prescription for my glasses changed.

Secondly, I have pains in the joints of my feet. It is painful to walk first thing in the morning. I also have pains in my knees that I only notice when I jog, but not when I sprint. Also I seem to be cramping up a lot, especially if I had been sitting still for a while.

The allergies I had grown out of once upon a time are now quite chronic. Dust, mould, cat hair. So alas, I think I'll be keeping up my stash of antihistamines - but I hope this is for the short term.

My fingernails are like paper but I hope they will strengthen over time. They had six white lines across them which are slowly growing out. Each line, apparently, represents a dose of chemo which killed cell growth.

I imagine when my hair grows back it will have a different texture and also, it will be thinner.

As well, I have a persistent cough that I've had since I went to hospital. That's why I also have an appointment this afternoon with Dr Choo.

After my meeting with Dr Cox, I give her a hug. This is also a side effect of this cancer: I have become a hugger! Who knew.

The way I see it, life is too short to withhold your affection, to restrain yourself from such displays. Give love freely, I say. It's no use to you when you're six foot under.

As I leave Radiation Oncology Services for the last time, I realise the sky is a pristine blue, the sun is out. I really am very happy to still be alive.

I have a couple of hours in between meetings so I confess that I drive to West End without any real plan. I chance upon an Adventure-Trekking shop and go and blow some cash on a piece of luggage I want for my upcoming trip. I even sweet talk the salesman into giving me a 20% discount.

I get to Dr Choo's in good time and have to wait a whole hour before I get to see her. While I sit, I think about all the people who have helped me through this battle so far.

The experts are now finding that cancer patients go through some emotional turmoil once their treatments end.

During treatment, ordinary women who may often be unappreciated slaves at home are suddenly the centre of attention. People, professionals, strangers are caring about them, asking them how they feel and actually taking note of their answers. For most of us, this is a strange place to be. And you get used to it. It is someone's job to care about you. People listen to you talking about yourself, your aches, your pains, your fears.

Then all at once, there you are, your car keys in your hand, blinking in the sunlight and on your way, alone - possibly never to meet some of these doctors and nurses and therapists and receptionists ever again. You're back to being a schmo where most people don't get past 'How are you' and then, in my experience, you have to make it about THEM or you have no conversation. Most people are like this I find: lacking curiosity, one way talkers.

When I arrive at Greenslopes Hospital, I must walk past the Cyril Gilbert Centre and am strangely unaffected. It seems I have overwritten the bad memories.

It's lovely to see Dr Choo again and as I walk in, she laughs and says she's had good updates on my progress via Lee.

When I explain that I've come to see her about my cough, she expresses surprise that it's hung around for so long.

She pulls out her prescription book and tells me she's going to give me a steroidal spray for what she thinks is post-viral irritation of the airways.

Then she pulls out the forms I know too well - for blood tests. My heart sinks.

"I don't need a blood test, do I?"

Dr Choo explains that she has had several patients presenting with adult whooping cough, would you believe, so she wants to check me for pertussis.

Also, I'm to be checked for my white blood cell count, oestrogen & progesterone levels so she can determine whether I am truly post-menopausal now, and amongst other things, I'm to be checked for cancer markers.

As well, she's sending me for a chest X-ray to exclude metatastic disease and a bone density test. Hmmm.

Dr Choo tells me she is putting me on Arimidex and produces a booklet from her bookshelf.

From this I learn Arimidex is a hormonal therapy that is called an "aromatase inhibitor". In other words, it will reduce the amount of oestrogen in my body even further.

The common side effects include joint pain - that I can control through exercise (you beauty!) and fish oil - and loss of bone density so I must be religious about calcium supplements. From the booklet I learn that it can also cause upset stomach, lack of energy, thinning of hair, and headache. Fabulous.

I am to start taking this tablet after the weekend. I must take it at the same time every day ... for the next five years. Yes, I said FIVE years.

I can miss the odd one but it would be a worry if I missed, say, three in a row.

Since I finished chemo I haven't even taken a multivitamin. Now I am back to the world of pharmaceuticals. Yes, it's a bit depressing.

I am to check in with Dr Choo again in two weeks and after I say goodbye, I go down to the chemist on the ground floor and get my prescriptions filled.

The pharmacist is a pleasant Indian girl and she asks me if I've taken this medication before.

When I say no, she asks me if it's for breast cancer.

I say: "Yes, I'm worried about the side effects, but I suppose it's better than death."

I am grateful when the pharmacist explains that thousands of women take Arimidex and that to be considered "common", a side effect must affect one in 100 people.

She says: "It's all in the mind. Have a positive attitude and you might find you get no side effects."

I leave the hospital 2 hours after I arrive. It's peak hour traffic and a slow journey home - plenty of time to think.

So far so good. I've survived the rough seas and my ship has landed on a different shore.

I know life is a little different here but right now, I'm not entirely sure how. Chris has already told me that clarity about this will only really come much later in this journey.

Some people have already asked me if cancer has changed me. Physically of course it has. But I can't really be sure how it might have changed me in other ways although I am intuiting a little of it here and there.

Revelation doesn't come in one big flash. I am still piecing it together. The sliding door has opened and I suppose I'm on the other side. But it's all still pixellated. I am still deconstructed. At least I think I am.

When I return home, I leash up Spunky and go for a 5 km run. (My first in a couple of weeks!)

Al gets home and cooks a delicious meal of fresh salmon.

Afterwards he goes to his tennis night and I go for my weekly campaign meeting with Karen. Later the team pops over to Elysium for a quick drink. This is the last campaign meeting and we give ourselves a toast. We have done our best. That's all anyone can do. Win or lose, we have that to hang our hats on.

Karen and I work out that I first committed to helping her in July 2010. Oh my god! It's been such a long road and here we are today, probably best friends.

On Saturday, Al, me and Ben are going to Sydney and then to Adelaide - it's the holiday we didn't have over Christmas or Easter.

Next week will be the election - something I've worked toward for 21 months. Another big part of my life is ending. Who knows what will happen? Whether Karen will win or not?

I have finished the first part of my treatment. In two weeks, my blood test will tell Dr Choo what the result of my treatment has been. Whether the cancer is in remission or not?

For now, I'm crossing my fingers.

For now, I'm am still working out my new world.

I'll keep you posted.

Plastic Surgeon 1

Six months and 18 days since diagnosis and my hair has grown enough so I am again,a little Mao Tse Tung-esque around the jowls.

I wake to a beautiful breezy morning when I will set off for my first appointment with my plastic surgeon. I've been planning this visit for months. I was originally booked in the week I fell sick and ended up in hospital.

Afterwards I have another session of radiation so I know it's going to be a long day.

Since the Easter long weekend passed, my routine is all out of whack. I haven't had a chance to go to the gym and client and Karen commitments have made it impossible to get my afternoon walk in.

Perhaps it's a good thing because, as you may remember from an earlier post, I do need to cultivate some stomach fat if I am to have the chance of reconstructing poor dead Nicky in the optimal way. At least I think so.

This is what this visit is all about today. I need to know what my options are as far as breast reconstruction goes. I need to plan ahead because, these days, everything revolves around fighting or beating or managing this bloody cancer.

If I think about it too much, it really does get me down.

Lately, I've watched with dismay as days that may have been spent with my family are absorbed, submerged and eaten away by the fall-out of this disease.

Ben is on school holidays and, apart from a blissful three days spent away at our little shack down the Coast, there's been little 'quality' and not much 'quantity' to these precious times when I could be focussing on this boy - reduced to only-child status since his eldest brother turned 18 and regularly decamps to his girlfriend's hacienda.

Of course I feel sad. I know time is fleeting and madness takes its toll and all that. Ben is growing day by day while I am growing away from what was once normal.

As I bustle about, preparing to leave, Al offers to come with me, and Ethel rings too, offering to accompany me, but these eternal visits to one specialist or another are tedious. They involve long drives in the car. They suck precious time and it is best that only one of us is in debit in this department.

Al urges me to go with an open mind and without any preconceived notions about what I want.

I leave in good time for my appointment and set off in my temporary vehicle, the Willpower Mobile - a little Nissan that's emblazoned with Karen's campaign branding. At least there's one good thing about this repetitive commute: I'm getting Karen's face out amongst the traffic.

The drive takes me a good hour as I head to Sunnybank,and only make one wrong turn. Hooray!

At 10.30 sharp, I am sitting in the waiting room of a suite of professional offices that, I have to say, are rather schmick - all dark wood and shiny surfaces. It is clinical but luxuriant.

I don't have to wait too long before I'm ushered in.

Dr Lily Virtek is a pretty, slightly built Chinese lady who speaks, disconcertingly, with quite a strong Aussie accent. In fact, she's gorgeous.

A Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery specialist, I momentarily spare a thought for all the ugly and deformed who might present themselves to this vision of loveliness. How cruel must be the contrast!

After she takes my personal details, I explain to Dr Lily that I have come to see her early as I need clarification on where my body needs to be if I'm to have a reconstruction. I explain that, rightly or wrongly, I am thingy about my size. I don't want to be too fat and, as it is, I'm struggling with the idea of being five kilos heavier than is usual for me.

Please. Allow me this small vanity.

I accept that without surgical intervention I am stuck with my hideous crooked nose (that swells up to Aboriginal proportions after any hay fever attack), my spotted uneven skin, my short torso, and the clutch of wrinkles collecting on my face. I freely admit I'm no oil painting and that's okay.

But I won't be stuck with a fat body. I've never really had one other than through pregnancy so I just don't associate it with being, well, ME! Besides, I've always been a runner: I LOVE the chase of soccer and you can't really sprint unless you're built for it.

I'm just used to being smaller and now I have back fat and a belly that pokes out, and I've packed away the trousers I've been wearing for 20 years because suddenly, I'm not so much wearing my clothes as being upholstered by them.

That's why I'm here. Not just because it would be nice to have a matching set of boobs. I also want to know just how many donuts I need to eat to get myself a decent tit without necessarily ending up with a backside the size of Tasmania.

Dr Lily gets straight down to business the moment my now bigger backside lands on the chair by her desk.

She takes my personal details, then asks me what bra size I am. When I say 14D, she asks me if I want to stay the same size. She smiles softly when I say: "I want it as small as possible. Big breasts are overrated."

Then she asks me to clarify whether I REALLY want to have my remaining lone breast off.

"I can just do a reduction", she suggests but I explain that I don't want to as I'd be uneven and I am somewhat fond of symmetry.

I tell her I'd like it completely removed because of the high chance that my type of cancer could migrate.

She accepts that and, I don't know, but she looks a little sad. Funny isn't it?

Then Lily produces a small silicon cup with a kind of metal lid. She explains that this is an expander which will be inserted under the skin and gradually filled with millilitres of liquid. This is what is called a 'skin expander'.

Once the skin has expanded over a period of weeks, then a silicon insert is introduced.

Where Paris is concerned, the procedure will be quicker because I guess it's simultaneous with the removal of the beat.

Then Dr Lily asks me to take my top off and I stand there half naked as she squeezes Paris, much as one might test an avocado for ripeness.

She gets down on her knees in front of me and feels my stomach. My heart sinks when she shakes her head. It seems the news is not good.

As I put my top back on, Dr Lily tells me I have barely enough stomach fat for a B-Cup and 'even that would be a stretch'.

My heart sinks. I am about to say I'd be happy with a 'A' but I realise that really would be stupid.

You see, the operation I thought I would have is called a TRAM flap or Transverse Rectus Abdominus Musculotaneous flap involving what is essentially a 'tummy tuck'.

It's a major operation requiring 6-8 hours of surgery and you wouldn't go through with it for an A-cup. You just wouldn't. You'd be better off sticking two oranges down your bra and making do. Or two rolled-up football socks. But not ping pong balls.

Dr Lily explains the TRAMs are the 'Rolls Royce' of breast reconstructive surgeries but requires good tissue and good fat - but I'm simply not a contender because, believe it or not, I'm TOO THIN!

What! You have got to be kidding me.

"What about my thighs? My bum? I read you could suck some fat from there."

Lily chuckles. "You don't have any."

"But my stomach pokes out."

"Those are muscles. You must have been pretty fit before you got sick."

This is all well and good. Once upon a time, my head might have swelled to Jeff Fenech proportions at that point. But I need this fat.

"Couldn't I just eat a few more cakes?"

Here's the thing. For this kind of operation, stomach fat can't be 'cultivated'. Because once the fat is in, if I lose weight, I lose it from that breast. If I put on weight, it goes on that breast. Because it's STOMACH FAT you must maintain a size that's so consistent it maintains the breast in that size.

"You're going to go back to your normal size. I'm sure of it," Lily says.

"Can you transfer fat from the good breast?" She raises an eyebrow and smiles, humouring me with an answer.

"That fat could have cancer but yes, theoretically you could."

"My friends have offered to donate their fat?" I try. One last ditch effort. At this, she laughs out loud. Come on! I was really counting on that tummy tuck.

I don't know what to expect at this stage when Lily walks behind me and asks me to put my shoulders back. I feel her small fingers prodding my back.

She tells me that my only option is an operation involving the Lattisimus Dorsi muscle that is located on the back.

She will take this from the left side and apparently, it is kind of shifted onto the chest.

She explains she's done 100s of these and they're extremely successful with patients reporting few long term effects.

The consequences of this operation are only really critical for anyone involved in climbing cliffs or painting or anything involving heavy above-the-head work involving the arms - so if I was Spiderman, I'd be screwed.

I will have difficulty moving heavy objects from high shelves with that arm.

Who cares about that? What about the IMPORTANT stuff...

"Will I be able to raise my flag when I referee?" Yes.

"What about my golf swing?" We discuss this for a while. I don't even play that well but hey, in the unlikely event that I discover I am bloody fantastic at this sport one day, how the hell will this operation affect my backswing?

Basically, it will reduce the strength in my left arm and if I persist, I can work on that to increase its strength.'

"Can I go swimming?" Yes, "but please don't tell me you like the butterfly." So freestyle should be okay but I'll notice a weakness in that arm.

"Can I still work on my upper arms at the gym?" Yes. Even chin ups. Eventually.

And so, as my conversation unfolds, it's all about activity. That's just who I am.

A little later we discuss the potential timing of the operation. It takes a good six weeks to recover from the operation and I won't be able to move my arms much for that time. I won't even be able to walk for two weeks.

My only concern is that I will have reasonable movement by the time referee season starts. Maybe I can even return to playing soccer. Who knows!

The good thing about this operation is that the surgery takes a little less time (4-6 hours). It's not as major as the TRAM.

I guess another good thing is that I won't have another hideous scar on my torso to confront me in the mirror every morning.

Rats! I was really looking forward to, finally, getting the flat stomach we Sri Lankans are doomed never to have (damn my genes!).

Dr Lily then pulls out a folder and shows me some post-operative pictures of women of various sizes. I have to tell you I'm impressed!

I had no idea breasts could be resuscitated so well. Even the nipples stick out - so much so in the initial stages that, Lily says, you could hang your car keys off them.

By now, I think I've accepted that this is my only option. It's either this, or nothing (thank you radiation, you bastard).

From wo to go, the whole process will take up about six months of my life. What to do? It is what it is.

As we close the meeting, I joke to Lily that while I'm under, maybe she could fix a few more things - maybe a brow lift or a nose job.

Of course, I'm joking.

The truth is, if you'd told me 12 months ago that I'd be visiting a plastic surgeon this year, I would have laughed in your face.

The truth is, whatever my shape and size is, now or in the future, I am having to re-learn that thing called 'self acceptance'.

Sure, I'm a bit obsessive about not turning into a fatty but you know what? Give me time and whatever I am, I'll get there.

We are what we are. Whatever is meant to be, just is.

I have asked for a quote for this operation and will let you know in due course, whether I'll need to sell an organ to pay for this procedure.

Before I leave her, I ask Lily if the 'Virtek' of her surname means she married a Croatian maybe. Her maiden name was Lily Chen.

"No, he's Czech," she says.

"Do you have any kids?"

When she says "No" I think 'What a shame'. Because there's surely a one liner there: about the family of Chinese Czech-ers. Ha Ha.

As it is, I say my farewell and drive back to town.

I stop at Garden City and score myself a pretty fab David Lawrence dress at 'a further 25% off'.

I drive to the Mater where, once again, it's 'chat, wait, chat, change, chat, zap, chat, sign, off'.

I have just seven doses left when this tedious business of treatment will be over.

Afterwards, I meet Lee for a coffee because she works just across the road.

In the evening, I go to Trivia where we come third.

It's 10.20 pm. The evening has turned cold and blustery and I wouldn't be surprised if it rains tomorrow.

Today I have taken the first step towards clawing back to that person I loved: the person who was the old me.

I know I'll never look the same again, me with my Mao Tse Tung hair do and my scar.

Already I can feel the tug of that black water, drawing my ship away from that familiar shore where the old Bronwyn is waving, laughing. Living in her gym gear. Manic. Doing. Devouring it all. Imagining, foolish girl, that that was what it would be like. Forever.

How could she know then the terrors of all of this: the losing.

I'm trying hard to keep sight of her, the Bronwyn that was 'whole'.

Because I know that, when all of this is done, she will be overwritten.

And already, I miss her.

Radiation 2

It's a lovely day, a brisk wind blowing with a nudge of autumn in the air.

Today I start the second week of radiation and can report that so far so good. Apart from feeling a little tired by the Friday, I have no skin irritation yet and no real discomfort to speak of.

I have found out that I am to have 24 shots in total so I'm counting down them off one by one: 6 down, 18 to go.

As my days are now organised around the time of my appointments, I have started a reasonable routine.

This morning Ethel and Al go to collect George's ashes while I go to the gym.

This is the fourth week of my mission to somehow regain something of the fit body I used to have.

The first three weeks, I was too embarrassed about my bald head so I wore a hat. But the last few days, I haven't been bothered. It's just too hot.


Today when I arrive I think to myself that, after literally decades of regular gym exercise, I don't think I've ever seen anyone who looked like they'd been through chemotherapy. (You could call it a Double-X Chromosome Chrome-Dome Free Zone, all in all.)

I wonder what the other gym goers think of me but really, I don't care.

Now that the swelling from the drugs has receded a bit, I am able to fit into some of my old sports bras. I just stuff Fake Nicky into the gap and off I go.

Last week, the prosthesis got really hot and sweaty while I was on the running machine, so I just took it out in disgust and popped it into the drinks holder.

Still, it's useful missing a breast because it creates a handy space in which to stick my iPhone. Sometimes I take my iPod but I have to watch out because it falls through the crevice and can end up in my crutch.

I am winging this business of getting back into exercise as my research into the subject of mastectomies, breast cancer and exercise has proved largely fruitless.

Women wanting to get a little bit of their strength and conditioning back generally rely on the information shared by other breast cancer sufferers, as there's not a huge amount of information out there about the 'dos' and 'don'ts'.

As it is, I try not to spend any more than one-hour in there as it's important not to over do it. Even I know that!

All that time, I assiduously avoid my reflection, other than to check whether the tits are even. (A loose prosthesis tends to misbehave, somewhat. Especially at golf - I've only played once so far - where it ended up under my chin!).

Six months ago I had a fairly flat stomach and now, I have a Buddha-esque paunch. It is a little sad but what can I do other than breathe in - 2-3-4 and breathe out 2-3-4 while attempting to maintain good form?

After the gym, I have been trying to do some writing but today things are a little different.

Today, Ethel and I go to my mum's for lunch with a good friend of my parents, John. He and his wife Dell have just returned from a big trip around Australia and, on their journey, I kid you not, he has telephoned every single week to check on my progress.

John actually gave the toast to my parents at my wedding. As a dear old pal of my dad's, I think he realises how close I am to my father. Dad has had many sleepless nights since I was diagnosed, and I know John really understands his distress.

I am really glad Ethel comes out with me. As you can imagine, she has had to make a huge adjustment in her life lately. She and I share one thing at the moment: we are both trying to create a new 'normal' in our lives.

When Ethel and I arrive, John and Dell and another couple, Richard and Ruth are there. I think it's good that I made the effort to go because John looks relieved. Ruth comments on my 'good colour'.

It's only now, I guess, I realise that there seems to be a stereotype of 'cancer sufferers'. I think people expect us to be kind of pale and wasted and sickly looking! Maybe a bit like Dr Evil after a couple of months on the water diet?

Indeed, many people seem to be surprised at the activity I am managing. Two weeks ago I even returned to being a soccer referree.

Physically, refereeing can be as hard or as mild as you want to make it. Some of the fatter ones will call a ball in or out from the other side of the field because they are too lazy to run. (I'm sure some would call the game from the change room if they could get away with it. We soccer girls call these ones "special". You know the ones?)

But importantly, it's a good brain exercise because it involves spatial awareness, observation and memory.

And it's good for my confidence, which, I have to admit has taken a bit of a knock in recent months.

The real test of that came last Friday when I had to attend a Youth Referees Seminar. There were 400 or so of us, mainly, well YOUTHS in an auditorium at Griffith University. And there I was with my bald head.

I wasn't as self-conscious as I thought I would be. However, at one point, I realised I kept trying to shift my prosthesis into a more comfortable spot. I fear, it was only later I realised it must have looked as if I was channelling my inner porn star.

So today at lunch, I am careful to keep my hands away from Fake Nicky and, instead, I enjoy the company and conversation.

Afterwards, I leave Mum and Dad's place with an Esky full of left overs for the family dinner. Score!

Ethel and I drive into South Brisbane but I'm in a bit of a lather. My appointment is at 2.55 pm and I don't allow enough time. I end up speeding a little as I think I'm running late. (I get every red light and there are ALWAYS roadworks on the M3).

At the Mater, I ask Ethel to park the car and sprint to the Radiation building. Virtually as soon as I sit down I am called in and as usual, everything happens quickly.

I know the routine like clockwork already: Strip, pause, chat, bed, chat, zap, chat, front counter, carpark, home!

We end up with a cruisy journey home with not much traffic. We pick up Harry from Capalaba and get home.

With no dinner to be prepared, I manage a short stroll with Spunky then settle down with a weak Scotch and soda.

Outside it is a cool, clear night with a crescent moon. In the bedroom I can hear Ben chuckling in his famous Scooby-Doo-esque way at something funny on Youtube. With Spunky at my feet, the world is otherwise quiet and still.

All in all, this is a great moment for breathing.

I for one, am not taking a minute of this thing called living for granted.

Radiation 1

Today Al and I go into South Brisbane for the start of my radiation treatment.

My appointment is at 12:40 pm so I opt to pass the morning as fruitfully as possible. I tell Al as it's a good 80-90 minute round trip into South Brisbane, if this business of driving back and forth is to be my/our lifestyle for the next five weeks, I need to work out a routine.

I'm not exactly nervous. I've been told the chief side effects of radiation are fatigue (the effects of which are mitigated for those who have already been through chemo) and very bad sunburn. I'm not particularly perturbed by the likelihood of either. I am managing my fatigue through regular exercise, and I have skin that doesn't easily burn. However, time will tell.

I do some ironing, I pay some bills. Before I know it it's time to drive in. I guess this is the thing about early afternoon appointments: they interrupt the flow of a day.

In the car, Al says he is happy to sit with me but I've been told it's relatively quick and easy, these treatments. The plan is that he'll go and distribute some flyers today after dropping me off.

It's a smooth ride in and, once I've hopped out of the car, I know I have to go downstairs and present to the desk there. While I'm there, I help myself to a free scarf, made by the Mater's volunteers. Who knew a mere triangle of material could be so useful!

Next, a lady called Ruth comes round the desk and gives me a quick run down of what to expect as she leads me to the waiting room. I have a dedicated nurse whose name is Trish I think, but she's away today. All of my treatments are to happen in Room 3. I am to moisturise the radiated area regularly, but not two hours before my treatment. Side effects will set in around two and a half weeks after I begin, so there's no need to panic that I seem to have come completely unprepared.

In the waiting room I make myself a cup of tea. I am distracted by an elderly gentleman who is putting the finishing pieces into a jigsaw puzzle that's laid out on a small table.

"You didn't do that all yourself did you?" I ask him.

"No," he says, "Some of these pieces have been placed in the wrong place."

"That's a relief," I say. "It would mean you've had to wait kind of a long time if you've managed to finish a jigsaw."

I am quietly amused when another older gentleman joins the fellow and, over the next 10 minutes or so, the two begin an earnest discussion about the tricks and traps of jigsaws and those pesky pieces you put in the wrong place. Actually, it's kind of cute. They really take this jigsaw business seriously!

I open my Kindle but before I can read a single word, I am called in. Jeez, that really was quick!

A nice looking boy called Adam leads me into a room where the light is muted. He tells me he's a radiologist and there are about eight of them so I shouldn't bother trying to remember his name.

Inside the room are three other young people and all of them are involved in the process that is my first radiation.

There's also the same kind of machine I was originally measured up in. Here's a picture of it:

As I am dressed in shorts and a top, I am allowed to forego the whole business of changing into a gown, and instead am given a towel. I basically whip my top off in front of these strangers while trying to protect Paris from peering eyes. Dear me. She would make a very sorry sight indeed if she were to flap loose.

I edge up to the machine and lie down while I'm covered with a white sheet. I am face up staring up at the machine with my arms behind me.

At every stage of the process, Adam carefully explains what's going on as I can't see a thing from this rather vulnerable position.

A mark is made on the tattoos on my scar, the scar is covered up, the team circles me like a bunch of crazed mathematicians, announcing a series of numbers: 18.2 from the right side, 19.2 from the left and so on.

My scar is covered with the gel strip, the making of which I described in an earlier blog.

I am told that they will leave the room and they'll be watching me so if I need them, I'm to wave an arm.

I will hear a buzzing noise. I can close my eyes if I like but I won't be able to see any light so it doesn't really matter.

"How long will this take?" I ask and am told it will take 5-10 minutes.

The team leave the room and so there I am, lying still on this machine. I hear a sort of loud clicking noise followed by a low hum, and watch as this large round formation of metal and glass first focusses on my right side.

It seems to take ages while all the time, I'm aware that it's bloody freezing because of the air conditioning.

The room is still - just me with this machine clicking and humming - but in the background somewhere, very softly, a radio is playing a tune I can't recognise.

Then the machine moves across me to the left hand side. It moves quietly but I can't help thinking that there's something deadly about it. The radiation it exudes is powerful enough to kill cancer cells, powerful enough to damage vital organs if incorrectly used. I try to project positive thoughts about being cancer free.

I close my eyes and breathe.

And then, suddenly, the team is back in the room. It's done in a snap it seems. All over red rover and barely five minutes I reckon.

Wow! That really was quick and I didn't feel a thing!

After signing my Medicare form, I go outside and telephone Al. I arrange to see him in half an hour while I go across the road to the Coffee Club to enjoy a bit of my book and a Flat White Extra Hot.

All the way home, I read my book.

After we get home, I go for a 6 km run. This will be a good way to see how well I travel through the next phase of this treatment.

I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Tally ho!

A Death in the Family

On Sunday, March 11 at 12.15 am, after battling emphysema for several years, my beloved father-in-law, George passes away.

He is a man I truly loved and now, there seems to be a deep gap in my family: a gash.

Here is a picture of him with Ethel:

Al and Ethel are by George's bedside the morning he dies at the Wesley Hospital in Brisbane, a place they have been travelling to and from for the past three weeks. It has been exhausting for both of them.

Afterwards they will report how it all transpired. How George was taken off the machines that helped him breathe, how they watched, distressed, as his heart then his blood pressure, all his vital signs, dropped suddenly then flatlined, and how quickly it seemed his body went cold.

Al is able to tell me how George was intermittently conscious, how he was able to say his goodbyes.

Neither can relive the experience without crying. It's awful.

I'm still trying to shake a cough. Still a little susceptible to bugs, I couldn't visit George in hospital. I had to rely on a kind of semaphore to let him know I was thinking of him.

It is some compensation that Ethel managed to read him my last blog, "Blessings", while he was partly conscious. I could console myself that through these words, I was by his bedside in a way, but it would be a small consolation.

As our hopes have been raised then shattered through his battle, Al and I have cried then recovered. It's been an emotional roller coaster that has culminated in this terrible sense of loss.

George's illness and death hits me harder than I anticipate.

On the day George goes, I go for a 6 km walk and I cry from beginning to end. It's like a cartoon cry, like Olive Oil cries when Brutus is a brute: big chunky tears that spew from my eyes.

All day I think about loss and losing, the cruelty of life, the way things we love or need are taken from us by a thousand, slow cuts.

That evening Al and I hold each other and sob.

This is all new to me: this thing that is grieving. It is a deep and debilitating feeling, a shredding from the inside.

Still, life goes on so the week passes. All week, we work on the funeral service. Al and Ethel sift through hundreds of old photographs. Ethel navigates the sea of formalities that come on the heels of such an event. I rally myself somehow to source some music and craft some readings for the service.

On Monday Al and Ethel go to see the funeral director. We will cremate George at the nearby crematorium at Mount Cotton and the plan is to spread his ashes most likely in the Bay where, for many years, he loved fishing and boating. There will be no hanging around there afterwards we're told as it seems that the Grim Reaper has been really working his scythe lately. (Bastard!)

Nicky rings and explains how even Peter, her usually stoic and quiet husband has been crying. She asks about the funeral arrangements and makes me laugh when she says she's so bad at funerals, she's thinking of hiring herself out as a professional mourner.

On Tuesday, Al speaks to the celebrant.

Friends are invited to the funeral and those who offer to bring something for the wake are not rebuffed. We are expecting at least 60 people to come to our home afterwards for refreshments: I don't have the energy to prepare everything myself.

That evening we go to the see the Nigerian-English comedian, Stephen K Amos, at the Brisbane Powerhouse. (I booked the tickets ages ago). I'm really glad because we both have a good laugh. It's much needed. Afterwards, we have a drink on the deck and again are somewhat melancholy.

On Wednesday, Al prepares his presentation - a production worthy of Spielberg and extremely time consuming.

Nicky rings again and we chat about George, a man who lived with such absolute integrity. I find myself saying how for such a quiet and unassuming figure, he made such an impression on people. I ponder the fact that George was a man who really lived by a strong belief in doing right, in everything and for everyone. He is a man who never cheated, never lied, was incorruptible. He worked hard without complaining and paid his own way every day of his life. He genuinely had few if any regrets.

In the afternoon we have an inspection, and Ethel comes early to help clean up. It's such a lot of work this business of selling a house but keeping busy helps us all.

I go for a 5 kilometre run with Spunky lagging behind for a change and in the evening, we go to Trivia and win.

On Thursday, Al finishes the artwork for the Order of Service and we send it off to a local printery. (It helps that he's a graphic designer.) A little later, we go to view the body which is held at the funeral director's head office at Mount Gravatt.

We are met by the funeral director who looks like a stereotype of an undertaker although I notice his bright yellow tie is crooked. (He is tall and thin, dressed in a dark suit. Why don't undertakers dress like Al Grasby? Come on! Would it hurt to wear some lairy stripes from time to time?).

We are directed into a tiny chapel where Pachelbel's Canon in D is playing softly. George is laid out in a coffin at the end of the aisle. He's dressed in his blazer and a navy tie. As soon as I see him, I burst into tears. Al cries. Ethel cries but, at the same time, she says he looks really good, so much better than he did in hospital. I notice he has red lips. His skin looks smooth. He looks like he is fast asleep.

Ethel places George's cricket cap (he was once selected to play County Cricket - he was a great bowler), a box of chocolates (George had a notorious love for dark chocolate especially) and a picture of Peanut, the dog that seemed to have been superglued to his side as long as they've had her. If the Egyptians could prepare for the after life in this way, why shouldn't we?

I am still crying out in the car park, and sniff all the way home with Ethel. Ethel says she is glad she went to see George at rest. It makes her feel better.

After I get home, I have to go to the shops to pick up some ingredients for the goodies I am baking for the wake. At the shops, I digress from my mission and browse through a dress shop.

While I am there, I exchange pleasantries with a lovely lady with quite a youthful face. She boldly (baldly?) asks me if I have 'Shaved for a Cure' (an annual fundraising initiative of the Leukaemia Foundation) or if I have gone through chemotherapy.

From there a conversation develops when she tells me she is curious because her four year old has also been through chemo for something called 'neuroblastoma'. I ask her if that's leukaemia and, almost sunnily, she basically says the prognosis is usually much worse. Her son's name is Oscar and I can't help saying: "Poor little mite, I'll pray for him". I mean, what else can I say?

Then I discover she is buying a new dress for a funeral tomorrow too - except it's the funeral for a two year old little girl.

Now, there you go. That puts things in perspective doesn't it?

In the evening, I bake some muffins and a cake and later, I go to my meeting with Karen's campaign team.

That night, Al stays up until 3.30 am finishing his presentation.

We wake on Friday, both feeling unrefreshed. After a week of rain and gloom I am surprised to find it is a lovely day with a blue sky and a nice breeze. George has done well.

After tidying the house, we all get ready. Ethel comes over and runs Ben through the poem I have written for him. All four of us are to speak at the funeral but I'm not sure how the boys will go. Al has cheated as his presentation includes his spoken tribute. (He has to do it this way as he is really shy of presentations. If you add his emotional state to the equation, it is unlikely he would have spoken at all. Besids, he can share the presentation with his relatives in the UK so it's a bonus.)

At 12.15 pm we set off for the Great Southern Garden of Rememberance at Mount Cotton for the service.

Pretty much as soon as we get there, guests start to arrive. They include Rob, Al's cousin, who is based in Sydney and several friends from Brisbane who have taken the morning or day off work to come and show their respects.

There are friends I haven't seen in ages, months, years! It's terrible that it takes a death in the family to bring people together.

All my closest friends are here or represented. My sister Fiona brings her whole family (which is awesome!).

My sister Nicky is crying even before the service begins. So is my mum.

In memory of George's love for chocolates, a plate of Cadburys are offered on as silver platter and I have to stop my youngest nephew, Raphy, from gorging himself before everyone has had one.

Al consults with the celebrant, Robyn and another representative from Metropolitan Funerals.

There are kisses, hugs.

At 1.00 pm, right on the schedule, Amazing Grace as sung by Judy Collins begins. The A Capella strains fill the small chapel at the end of which George's coffin rests. It's decorated with an arrangement by Ness which includes the fragrant frangipani grown by George.

Al's presentation is great - photos, film. It was worth the effort. There is a moment of reflection as we listen to 'Blue Moon' which was George's favourite tune that, I daresay, took him back to the days when he loved dancing.

Then it's Harry's turn to speak. He is crying and has to gather himself. I'm so proud of him. I can tell you from experience, there is nothing harder to do: to rally yourself in the face of grief. Harry reads a poem and then a personal tribute he has written. It's very healthy I think: for a boy to be able to grieve like this.

It's Ben's turn to read the poem I wrote for him but the child is sobbing. He can't do it. So Robyn reads the poem instead. (Al was right: Ben really IS like him.)

Finally it's my turn. I am surprisingly collected and can only assume that I have wept myself pretty much dry over the past few days. I cry a little through the service but all in all, I am doing well.

The service is completed in half an hour. As Lionel Richie sings "Goodbye", the curtain finally shuts on George Hope. It is at this point that I bawl.

We shuffle out of the church, wiping our eyes.

In the carpark, the next group of mourners has arrived so there is little time for farewells to those who aren't staying for the wake afterwards.

A long row of cars heads back to our place. It's hard to know how many ended up coming back. All I know is every last bottle of alcohol was drunk and every morsel that was prepared was eaten, barring some cake.

My friends are a great support, serving food, filling up glasses, helping with washing up. Aren't they wonderful?

There is conversation, laughter as we gather on the back deck. Guests come and go.

As the light leaves the sky, the breeze gathers. It's pleasant and I think of George, up in the sky.

The last of my guests do not leave until 8.30 pm. By this time, Al has conked out, fully clothed on top of our bed.

Rob and I clean up.

I am asleep by 9.00 pm I think. George has had a great send-off.

It was exactly three weeks yesterday, since I got out of hospital. With everything that has happened, some friends have commented that I must have 'run over a Chinaman' but I am quick to dispel that idea.

Really, I don't see myself as any luckier or unluckier than anyone else. We all have our bad patches and this just happens to be Al's and mine.

Sure, there have been some moments recently when I have felt a tiny bit overwhelmed, even a little negative. But overall, I can't say I think I'm that badly off.

What is life without a few knocks, eh? It's what gives us context.

This week 22 children were killed in a bus accident in the Swiss Alps.

This week, a two year old toddler ran onto a busy motorway and was skittled by two cars.

I think about the suffering these incidents have left behind.

I think about Oscar battling neuroblastoma at just four years of age.

Here is one thing this week has emphasised. Dying is easy. It's living that isn't for sissies.

You have to dig deep if you want to hang on.

George hung on to his life as long as he could. That's all any of us can do.