CT Scan

It's the end of April already and I wake late to a stunning day. It's a shame really because I feel tired and groggy after a terrible night's sleep. I took a sleeping pill but even that didn't seem to work. This business of menopause has one side effect I have failed to mention so far and that's frequent insomnia. If I don't exercise the previous afternoon, or have a coffee too late in the day, or find myself working too late into the evening at my computer, I'm screwed.

As a result, I'm almost afraid to look at my reflection in the mirror these days. I don't have bags but suitcases under my eyes and with only the vestige of eyebrows left and the tiniest clutch of eyelashes, I am a long way from my ambition to wake up in that universe where I really am Miranda Kerr!

When I finally drag myself out of bed, Al has left to work on the building in town, Ben has gone to school and Harry isn't home anyway as he stayed in town last night. (He had a gig at Uni, this budding deejay).

In the last couple of days I've really been aware of how sore my chest is. It's uncomfortable to wear a bra and I can't lie on my left side without wincing. The area where I have been radiated has turned a very dark colour. It is also covered in new freckles. Check it out:

Gross isn't it? It's such a shame I can't walk around with my bare chest because this would make my face look pretty good all things considered.

Apart from the chest, the feet continue to be rather sore, especially in the mornings when I walk like a Geisha with something stuck up her arse.

As she does most Mondays, like clockwork, Ethel comes over to do the office work she's been doing for Al's business for well, donkey's years. Pretty good for a 75-year-old I reckon! Ethel is a book keeper and has the lousy task of keeping track of Al's finances. It's a good thing she's his mum because I reckon she would have clonked him on the head with one of her hard-backed ledgers by now.

Most weeks when she's here, I can almost hear her gnashing her teeth as she rummages through the dismal pile of papers on Al's desk, seeking lost receipts, missing bank statements and loose figures for columns that don't add up. Here is a picture of how it looks tonight, in case you don't believe me:

If a messy desk is a sign of a genius then Al leaves Einstein for dead. From amongst this pile, my man creates graphic art masterpieces, manages fantastic properties, designs beautiful building and plans amazing ways of changing the world. So it may be a tip to me but to him, apparently it's inspirational!

My desk is a lot tidier and that's where I spend most of the morning despite feeling a little wrecked. The last 10 days have been huge.

Al, I and Ben travelled with Ethel to Sydney last weekend, then the three of us went on to Adelaide and Kangaroo Island. It was the Christmas and Easter break I didn't have - a chance to spend some time with Ben who has been sadly neglected over the past few months and I do think he seemed to enjoy having my attention.

We had a really lovely trip, full of fresh air, wildlife, good food and wine (or lemonade in Ben's case) and returned last Thursday.

On Friday, I did some errands, I visited Nim and had a quick drink at Elysium with Karen and Craig to toast the future whatever that might be. That's because Saturday was E-Day: the local government election I've been so diligently working toward for all of 21 months.

It was the rainiest day we've had in ages - in fact it poured non-stop and started with me picking up some supplies for Karen's celebration/commiseration party and driving a little old lady (Dororthy) to the polling booth. (She had lived in the UK, Wales, Africa and Belgium and greatly approved of my name, 'Bronwyn'.) Then I spent 2 hours at the school fete where I did bugger all at the 'African Food' stand. I basically spent the whole time chatting to some mums, including two ladies who are going through breast cancer like me. They too have both just finished chemotherapy. After that, I went home to pick up Harry and Al so we could go hand out how-to-vote cards in the drenching rain. Here is a very poor picture of Al, me and Harry at Redland Bay polling booth:

Guess what? Karen won. In fact, she didn't just win, she slew the opposition and I have to say it was a massive relief that culminated in my dancing my pattooties off at a Victory Party.

Yesterday, Al and I spent most of the day at a lunch at Nic and Tony's house and although I was whacked, after I went to bed I just couldn't sleep.

This morning I work on a thank-you ad for Karen that we are running in the local paper tomorrow.

The cupboard is bare so I do a huge shop at Woolies before hurrying home to approve the proof for the ad. It's pretty ordinary but it has to do.

Later, I have an appointment that I have been secretly dreading. It's the first of what I gather will be regular scans and check-ups.

On the form for Queensland X-Rays, Dr Choo has ticked CT Scan and written "Chest/Abdomen/Pelvis - L Mastectomy for Breast Ca - Exclude Metastatic Disease." In other words, the results are really important. Eek!

I have to say I am completely oblivious to what lies in store for me as I blithely present myself for the procedure.

I am asked to undress down to my knickers and sit briefly in the holding room as I sign a form. Apparently I'm to be injected with some dye and I could have some nasty allergic reaction. There is a very slight chance of fatality. One in 200,000. I think about the poor bastard who will be the 'one'.

The nurse, Trish, then leads me into a room where there is a machine that comprises a large circular loop attached to a bed. It looks like the MRI machine. I am informed that this procedure involves the insertion of a cannula and as soon as I hear that word, I feel my heart rate rise immediately. You may as well say "Constantinople".

There's another pretty blonde nurse holding my hand as Trish taps my veins and tut-tuts. She says she might go for the one in my hand but I remember how much that hurt so hopefully point to one under my forearm.

Trish seems to think that will do and before I know it, she's sticking a needle into me and I have to say it FUCKING HURTS. I am gritting my teeth and I feel like crying and the other nurse is stroking my other hand, trying to calm me.

But it's useless. "It really hurts," I whinge, knowing I'm pathetic but really, could someone have warned me about this before I came?

At this point Trish immediately suggests an ultrasound to help locate a vein. My arm is throbbing. God, I'd forgotten how much it all hurts!

They lead me into another room where a thin man with glasses puts an ultrasound device on my arm, he tells me he'll give me a local anaesthetic. At this point I am nibbling my thumbnail. It's strangely calming. I face the wall as I receive another needle and then, hallelujah, the bloody cannula is in. Trish tapes it up and then leads me back to the room with the CT machine.

When I lie down on the bed, she asks me to cross my wrists above my head. She says she will do two or three passes under the machine and I'll be told when to hold my breath.

She leaves the room and the machine whirrs to life. I'm startled when a robotic voice tells me when to hold my breath and when to release it. "Now-hold-your-breath"....The bed moves slowly through the loop, back and forth. "Breathe-Normally." Once, twice, three times.

Then Trish comes back in. It's time for the dye, she says, and moves behind me where I can't see her.

I don't feel it when the dye is injected. Trish asks me if I feel alright and I say yes. At least I think I'm alright.

I've been warned that I'll get a metallic taste in my mouth and feel a rush of warmth so I'm prepared. It's true. My throat fills up with heat, the kind you feel when you accidentally swallow a hot chilli, and it feels as if my windpipe is closing.

Trish has left the room but somewhere in a corner of my brain, I'm aware of a mild panic.

My heart is racing and I can hear my breath in my ears. And I'm praying, 'Dear God, please don't let me be the 'one'.

Then the machine starts up again moving my body upwards. It's all over in minutes if not seconds.

As I leave Trish tells me that next time, I should immediately request the ultrasound to locate the vein. She says thet if I come back here, there'll be a note on my file.

What a shame phlebotomists do not have access to these ultrasounds. It would have saved me so much anguish!

After I get into the car, I realise my arm is slightly swollen after the anaesthetic.

When I get home, Ben is back from school. I set him up with a recipe and ingredients to cook dinner as Ethel is coming over. We have Chicken and Chicpeas - a Moroccan concoction.'

I change quickly into my running gear and take Spunky for the walk we haven't seemed to have in ages. There's a cold win blowing and it's invigorating as I walk a brisk 7.5 kms.

When I return home, the house is suffused with delicious aromas.

Ethel arrives and Al and Harry return home. After dinner, we look at photos of our Kangaroo Island trip.

It's almost 11 o'clock now. Al is fast asleep and the house is so quiet all I can hear is the hum of my computer.

Tomorrow I have a blood test. On Wednesday, I have a bone-density test.

I have started taking the Arimidex that I am supposed to take every day for the next five years.

I already notice that one effect of these tablets is that it has made me that tiny bit more cranky. Oh well. As I explained to Ben as I snapped his head off for some minor infraction, it's either me in a bad mood or me in a box.

On Thursday, I have another appointment with Dr Choo. Hopefully she will have some good news for me and that box with my name on it can be ignored for another good few years.

For now, please forgive my impatience. And if you think I'm too easily annoyed, I hope you'll understand.

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.

Pity Party

It's 7 am on day 11 and I awake with searing heartburn after a terrible night.

This is the first time (and I am assuming it won't be my last) that I have a pity session and, as I observe myself from a third-person vantage point, I tell myself I'm pathetic.

But I realise now, it's how the day set me up.

Here is how it starts.

I wake up feeling queasy and all day my stomach churns and, while I finish my writing project I'm aware at how tired I feel. I am so fatigued that I think: "Shit, I'm really not well."

I explain the tiredness by my activity the day before. I had gone for a swim in my pool, I had played 9 holes of golf with Ben and Al, then I had taken my dog for a short stroll in the evening (maybe 2 kilometres).

On the scale of calorie burning activities these were pretty lame, but you would think I had done a stint with Bear Grilles. I feel completely wrung out.

It's not good because it's this feeling I associate with the period leading up to be discovery of Cancer. In other words, it scares me a little.

Maybe this idea is bubbling somewhere in my subconscious as the day progresses. That I'm really unwell. I should be feeling better by now but I still feel like crap.

It doesn't help that, in the shower, I notice what I had thought was a pimple - very unusual - just above my left armpit. It should have retreated by now but it's still quite a noticeable protrusion.

And so, as you do, I start panicking and thinking maybe it's not on my arm, maybe it's part of a lymph node, maybe they missed something. Maybe I'm going to die after all. I make a mental note to ask Dr Choo to check it out for me.

This undercurrent of disturbance doesn't go away. It's there at the bottom of the pond, stirring the muck.

It's nearly 3 o'clock by the time I finish and because I'm feeling so awful, I think maybe an outing to the shops might revive me.

I get myself a coffee chilla from 'Wendy's' and sit down to write a short story because I've had what I think is a pretty interesting idea. I write for an hour and go home to let Ben into the house.

In the late afternoon I throw up.

Al and Harry have been at the Manpad again and when we all finally home, we go to Ethel and George's for dinner.

George is in bed when we arrive. He is battling the effects of emphysema - the product of a smoking habit - and is increasingly frail.

Ethel has made her famous fish pie and a fabulous fruit salad including a delicious red papaya. I eat cautiously wondering if I will keep it down.

As I eat, Ethel intimates that George has been writing his memories down. She says he can barely hold the pen and she's offered to type out his notes for him. For some reason, this makes me feel unutterably sad.

And so that is the set up when finally I go to bed. I take an anti-nausea.

I don't feel sleepy so as Al snores beside me, I open my Kindle and become immersed in the autobiography I've started, "Life" by Keith Richards. (It's bloody good).

Maybe this is what sets me off. I think about Keith and his life as a mega-rich superstar. Then I think about Madonna, flaunting herself at the Superbowl opening.

I think about the people who seem to have had a blessed life.

I don't know if the two are connected but my stomach really feels bad. So once again, I throw up.

And then it starts: The Pity Party,

Now folks, this is not a place I've been invited to much in the past and I'm glad.

It's the worst party you could go to, the kind of party where they only play One-Hit wonders like "Spirit in the Sky" (shudder), "Turning Japanese" and "Believe it or Not" (Come on, have you ever tried dancing to that crap?) and the guests are like zombies. And the only person you can find who will have a go at conservation... no contraception... no, aah, CONVERSATION only wants to talk about herself or her bloody kids or her bad marriage and her life story is fucking boring. And they only serve cheezels, party pies and cheerios. And they make you bring everything, even your own chair. And you have to sit on some shitty lawn or some shitty garage under neon lights while some mangy dog keeps trying to sniff your crotch or hump your leg. Oh, and I usually have an allergic reaction to something: usually a cat.

You know the kind of party? When from the moment you arrive you're if you might channel one of those 'Star Trek' guys and dematerialise on another planet as far away as possible from this miserable collection of D-Listers.

Yep. That kind of party.

Normally, I don't 'get' pity. I don't want it. I don't seek it. It's like the hideous, 18DDDD Hestia monstrosity left in the "Sale" bin at the lingerie shop. It's the one I don't want!

But here is how it unfolds at the party.

"Why am I going through this? What have I done to deserve it? God must hate me? I have to feel like crap because I am crap? Why hasn't my life been easy? Boo Hoo. Why wasn't I born tall and pretty? Why wasn't I ever popular at school? Why do I always get picked last? Why have I never won anything? How come Madonna gets to be rich and famous and dance at the Superbowl in front of a billion admiring fans while I get to puke in a bucket? Why did my dad get diabetes? He already lost his Dad, you think that would be enough shit in his life? Why did I have to lose my boob? Why is everything so fucking hard for me?"

And then it ends with me sitting on the toilet and crying because I don't want to wake Al up.

When I get back to bed, my nose is a little stuffed up and I realise there is no way I'm going to sleep. And I think about the pity party. And I think what a waste of time it is. What a boring and unattractive place it is to go to.

Self pity achieves nothing! It's the most useless process you can ever go through, next to, for me at least, maybe getting a spray tan). It's just unproductive.

Come on. What do you expect? If life is a box of chocolates, some poor bastard has to get the hard one with the nut in the centre that breaks his tooth. And some even poorer bastard gets to be Forrest Gump. Okay?

You think you're the only one, feeling gypped? Hard done by?

Get a grip. Think of the poor villagers in Bulgaria who froze to death this week because they didn't have central heating.

Think of the people in Sudan and Iraq and Pakistan who don't know what it feels like to feel completely safe?

Think of that woman who had her face eaten by the pet orang-utan (although I must say, that would have to be just a tiny bit the product of gross stupidity).

In general, life has a bit of shit for each of us. I don't know what Madonna's shit is but I have it on good authority her latest song (LUV Madonna) is pretty close TO shit.

I'm learning a bit more about Keith Richard's shit and I think, in the main, he was either smoking it or injecting it.

What is there to self-piteious me other than:

Get over it, lady. And get on with it.

You get no brownie points for being pathetic.

Chemo Fog

It's a wet and dreary day today and I wake to an early nosebleed.

This is probably only the second or third nosebleed I've ever had in my life but it interests me, the things that are going on in my body.

It's just one of the many inconvenient side effects of chemotherapy.

Apart from the nausea, fatigue, hairloss, onset of menopause and discolouring of nails that I've already described, there have been other symptoms.

The most disturbing is an effect that was once ignored but is now widely recognised. It's called 'chemo fog' or more technically Post-Chemoetherapy Cognitive Impairment (PCCI) the long-term symptoms of which, apparently, are almost exclusively seen in patients treated for breast, ovarian, prostate and other cancers of the reproductive system.

Doctors and researchers call chemo brain “mild cognitive impairment.” Most define it as being unable to remember certain things and having trouble finishing tasks or learning new skills.

In other words, my memory is cooked!

Now those who know me well will know that my powers of recollection are unreliable to say the least.

Sure, I can learn off reams of information by rote if pushed but if you ask me what I did with my keys, it's likely you'll find me going round in circles (especially now that I have one breast and am favouring one side).

In fact, my penchant for leaving a trail of forgotten things behind me is legendary, and, sadly, I have passed this unfortunate gene onto my children.

Sunglasses, reading glasses, car keys a nd important documents I touch seem to disappear into the ether and this phenomenon was so endemic once, I convinced myself I was being dogged by a poltergeist.

What else do you do but blame a mischievous sprite when from car to front door, your car keys vanish?

I also keep a small statue to Saint Anthony, the Patron Saint of Lost Things on my desk as divine intervention is often all that is left as yet another valued item mysteriously disappears.

Indeed, my penchant for forgetfulness has often had my husband Al, growling into his morning bowl of muesli and he can barely contain his disdain these days when I claim: "It must have been stolen."

Because, clearly, the many objects I've lost over the years would indicate that I am being stalked by an entire generation of nimble-fingered gypsies (if not Winona Ryder), probably hiding at the bottom of my garden as I speak!

As I've alluded to, I believe this terrible illness that is forgetfulness and constantly losing things is a genetic curse as it seems to run in my family.

In fact, growing up, I have very clear recollections of my mum and dad's regular morning routine: running through the house shouting "Has anyone seen my keys!"

Once my sisters and I were all driving too, it was a little like a nuthouse at home. Five Sri Lankans going apeshit together in search of the elusive, disappearing keys. Very funny.

If breast cancer is caused by the stress of genetic forgetfulness, then I've always been a sitting duck.

But chemotherapy has taken this particular foible of mine to an entirely new dimension.

The quantum of stuff I'm forgetting seems to have exploded. I can't find words. I can't remember appointments.

In the middle of conversations I find my mind drifting off to Planet La-La.

I will start to tell you something and then completely forget what the hell I was going to say.

I have to ask Al to remind me of basic things.

My friends, bless them, have of course, tried to console me with claims that they suffer this too. It's old age! It's been happening for years!

But I don't buy it.

I used to be the one who did not need a diary to remember an engagement.

Today I went to a function at my mum's house to celebrate my Aunty's 76th birthday. I've had to ring three times to confirm I had the date right.

The ironic thing is that of anyone I know, I've taken my brain the least for granted. With a background in aged care, for years I've been saying how one of my deepest fears is that I'll end up with dementia.

I've always valued my mind. Short changed in the looks department, what else is there to feel good about other than maybe knowing the capital of Upper Volta and being able to crack a decent cryptic clue?

Still, knowing about 'chemo fog' is a good thing. Now, when I find I've stuffed up - forgotten something, lost the plot - I have something to blame.

And I guess one good thing is that, with this fog, I can forget some of those things worth forgetting - like blood tests gone bad!

In the meantime, I am grateful to have this blog, and you my readers inspiring me to keep recording this journey because, damn it, by tomorrow it's likely today will be a complete blur.

And next time you find me stumbling over a word or an idea, be a pal will ya, and remind me?

Oncologist 3

Eight days after Chemo, I think I should be feeling better but it's not to be. I want to chronicle this because it seems that it's taking that little bit longer to feel tickety-boo after each intoxination (is there such a word?)

I wake with pain through my legs and make the mistake of taking two Nurofen. Immediately I get heartburn and lie in bed feeling generally lousy.

In the morning I do some housework. Then I go to the doctor as I'm told I need a referral from a GP to Dr Choo in order to continue to receive my medical benefits. It's such a system, really. With comprehensive medical insurance that I've had for at least 25 years, you'd think these things would be easy!

Al has had to go up to Mooloolaba and, because Harry needs my car, I ring my sister Nicky and ask her to drive me to the Hospital. Bless her, she makes herself available without any fuss and soon, we are driving in.

If nothing else, it's a good chance to catch up with her as we haven't spoken since Christmas Day.

When we arrive, 10 minutes early, the waiting room is packed. It's a good thing we are both keen conversationalists as we are able to flit from one subject to another as we wait... and wait.

My appointment is for 2.30 pm but I don't get into see Poh See until 4.10 pm.

What I like about my oncologist is that she never rushes but will patiently and thoroughly answer any question I have. She answers every call on her mobile phone and will never say "I'm with some one, I'll ring you back." She addresses her patients as if they are intelligent and worth her time.

It's Nicky who later observes afterwards that my oncologist must lead a life of barely holding it together. Her shirt is creased, her hair barely tended, her face free of make up. These frivolous concerns must be unimportant in a world where your job is to keep people alive but, we bet. she also has to do the cooking, cleaning and laundry at home.

As it is, I have a very informative conversation with Dr Choo, and it's helpful that Nicky is there as my sister has an avid mind and a great curiosity for everything.

Firstly, I want to know about my menopause symptoms, what else to expect. Here is what I'm told.

Menopause mainly comprises the symptoms of hot flushes, mood swings, the loss of bone density (over time), increasing issues with vascular health (i.e. cholesterol) and vaginal dryness.

Obviously, each of these symptoms has ramifications of its own so I'm concerned about how long they last.

Dr Choo explains the persistency of symptoms varies from woman to woman and is dependent on the amount of oestrogen that remains in the system after treatment is over. In other words, it's the luck of the draw.

My mother sailed through menopause so I'm hoping it'll be the same for me.

The great news I take out from this is that, while menopause symptoms are intensified in women undergoing chemo, the whole process will be substantially shortened compared to 'normal' based on my age.

One other good effect of this is that I learn that my platelets are actually up! Yeah! As a chronic anaemic, it is good to know that my poor red blood cells finally have a chance to regroup and make friends with each other.

Antarctica is now officially barren (fingers crossed!) and the overall effect on my eco system may result in more energy in the future.

I ask Dr Choo how long drugs stay in my system, when I can expect other side effects to ease. She tells me that the drugs are expunged from the system fairly soon after treatment but the effects will hang around 2-3 weeks after my final chemo.

Other side effects, such as fatigue may take up to four months to abate.

We move on to the vexing issue of my continued and chronic nausea. Dr Choo says I have an 'anticipatory response'. We discuss possible other interventions, such as psychology. I ask her for a drug I was told about that you can take before you actually arrive at the chemo centre to pre empt the nausea and she writes me a prescription.

I should be done now, but I want to talk about my breast reconstruction and my options. I am thinking of having the other breast removed completely and then waiting a while to heal completely before worrying about perfecting my boobs.

Who needs boobs when you're dealing with vaginal dryness for god's sake!

Nicky is keen to know whether having both breasts off reduces the chance of recurrence, why, after chemotherapy and radiation it is necessary and so on.

What I surmise is that oncologists see every combination and permutation of cases, and of course, in some, recurrence does occur in the other breast.

In my case, I'm not so much concerned about recurrence, but I hate being unysmmetrical.

You have no idea how hideous a single, low hanging Double-D breast looks on its own. It's like that last withering mango that not even the bats are interested in. It's like that lone sock, left on the washing line. You know the one? It's usually discoloured and has a hole in the toe. It's the where you know the matching pair is missing and you wonder how long you will leave it there before you can make the effort of reaching up and unclipping the clothes peg?

Dr Choo tells me something I didn't know before: chemotherapy is only effective in the event that there are malignant cells present. So yes folks, all of the shit in my body could be a complete waste of time. A bit like shooting fish don't you think?

Anyway, that's basically why the norm is to attack cancer on several levels. You can never be too careful.

We should be done but after years of interviewing people, I can't help myself. I ask Dr Choo if her job ever depresses her.

I'm surprised at the depth of her answer as she goes to great lengths to explain the motivations of an oncologist. She talks about the importance of leaving her emotions at the office, respecting people's wishes and the fact that ultimately her job comes down to the "privilege" of helping people cope with the ramifications of their disease - i.e. carking it.

I expect it's a well practised spiel and I'd love to ask her more questions but people are waiting. Between Nicky and I, the poor woman could be stuck in her office answering questions until next Christmas (although, come to think of it, according to the Mayans, there ain't gonna be a Christmas this year).

When we leave, I am still feeling squeamish. I realise that even going within a mile of Greenslopes Hospital makes me feel like chucking. My stomach is churning and I feel truly vile. Almost as vile as when I listen to any version of the "Hokey Pokey"... that's what it's all about!

Nicky drops me at home and as I go through my front gate, I check the mailbox.

Inside is a small, book-sized parcel addressed to me. It's wrapped in waxy paper and has a white string tied around it and is covered in stamps.

Inside I find a special Sri Lankan cake (very time consuming to make) called a Love Cake. It's from old family friends, Moira and Tanya. There are a few ants clinging to the side like Indians on a rail siding, but I am really chuffed. I love love cake. In fact, I love, love, love love cake (in which cashew nuts and semolina form main ingredients).

Within minutes of arriving through my front door, Al has dinner on the table. God Bless my man!

An hour later, Craig picks me up and I go to a meeting. (I'm working on a political campaign for my friend, Karen William, who is running for Mayor, and things have started to become nasty).

It's actually a funny night because, at the end, we have to record a jingle.

I get home late, I have to say still feeling bloody awful. By 12.30 pm I still can't sleep so I take a sleeping pill.

After just five hours sleep, I'm now awake.

This morning I'll be baking some cupcakes for a funeral tomorrow. A 10-year-old girl, Chloe, in my nieces' class at Sheldon College, died on Christmas Eve, after a short battle with a brain tumour.

I think about her grieving family.

I think how little time some of us are given.

I think: I have nothing to complain about.

Demon Days 4

Day 2: A beautiful, fine sunny day segues into an overcast one and I spend most of the time in bed, reading. I'm chuffed that, with some determination, I'm able to concentrate long enough to power through several chapters of the book I'm reading. It's one I've set for a book club I've organised for next month so it's given me some motivation.

I feel a little more tired than I did last time. I also noticed the yukky feeling in my mouth has settled in a bit sooner than usual.

Louisa rings in the morning suggesting a walk, but I know I am tired and demur.

Anne rings soon afterwards, offering to cook me a meal and I'm thinking maybe next Friday would be good. She says she is always there if I need anything.

Janet rings around lunch time and we have one of our longest conversations yet, covering a host of topics including World War 1 and the pitfalls of rigorous exercise.

I hear Lee arriving at the door to give me my injection and finish my conversation. These seem to be hurting less as I guess I'm getting used to them. There is also Lee's immaculate technique as she is really a highly experienced nurse.

We chat for an hour or so and in-between, I field a call from someone wanting me to write a grant application. Work is the last thing from my mind right now.

In the afternoon I go to the shop briefly to pick up some art materials. In the car, I realise it's a bad move as I feel exhausted.

When I get home, I think about hopping back into bed but decide to attempt a walk. It's a breezy afternoon. It feels good. I manage 3.5 km.

Day 3: I wake after a bad night of alternating hot sweats and feeling cold. I know menopause is setting in and it doesn't feel good.

I have a stomach ache and I feel queasy.

I spend nearly the whole day in bed, making further progress through my book, dabbling on Ebay, fiddling on Facebook, completing a cryptic crossword.

It's not a good sign when the ceiling fan malfunctions. I send Harry to the garage to fetch the back up air cooler. Hot flushes are no good when it's steaming outside.

Ethel is pottering around. She is such a gem. If she weren't keeping up with the household laundry for me, it would all be putrid by now.

Fiona rings and we have a nice long chat. My sister is starting her PhD this year. It's difficult to keep up with her as I swear, she can do 10,000 things at once. She's got a brain that never sleeps!

Later Al tries to fix the ceiling fan in fading light but tonight we have been invited to two 50th birthday parties - for Wasiela and Spitzie.

Even though I have said I will go to both, I think I can only manage the one closer to home. I feel a bit bad about continuing to miss out on fun and outings but what to do? As the summer holidays disappear before my eyes and Ben is only weeks away from returning to school, again I am aware of being the one outside the lolly shop with my nose pressed up against the glass.

I last 3 hours at Spitzie's party which is held just down the road. A few people comment on how good I look and I observe that makeup and dim lighting helps!

Day 4: I wake feeling quite nauseous to mild sunshine and a still morning. I notice that my fingernails are quite discoloured. Apparently, I'm to expect them to fall off eventually but I'm hoping I'll be lucky.

The day pans out unexpectedly. The sky clears and it's a pristine day, Al completes the installation of the fan in our bedroom. I swear, this man can fix anything.

It's a stinking hot morning and it's stifling inside though there's a breeze outside. Waiting for Al, I fiddle on my guitar on the back deck - I'd love to get back into the classical guitar I learned briefly a few years ago. I reckon I'm about Grade 4 but I'm really really rusty.

Fan fixed, we decide to mooch down to the Redland Bay markets with Harry and Ben but it's already 10.30 am and half the stalls have packed up - it's so damn hot. I buy two mingy handbags from a woman because I feel sorry for her - and regret my purchase, as you do.

Harry drops us down at Pelican's Nest, a lovely little restaurant overlooking the water. The breeze is brisk here and thankfully cool. Al and I have a light breakfast and walk home.

On the spur of the moment we invite the Neils over for an early dinner and cook a chicken, spinach and mango salad together in the kitchen.

Al remarks upon how well I'm holding up and I have to say, I am!

By the time we are sitting on the deck, eating and chatting with our guests and watching the full moon rise in a pink sky above an incoming tide, the only clue that I am unwell is the fact that everything tastes terrible. Mind you, the anti nauseas are helping.

It's a great day - everything considered.

Day 5: Unfortunately, I have a terrible night. The hot sweats are terrible and the nausea is chronic. I am dry retching over the toilet bowl at midnight. (Choice, broo).

Eventually, I cede to a sleeping pill.

I am woken by Al with a recording of a recent development: my chronic snoring. Actually, it's quite funny.

It's a putridly hot day and I'm tired and still squeamish so I lie like a half-dead squid on my bed nearly all day. I do a tiny bit of work on the painting I'm doing, I finish my book, I watch 'Jane Eyre' on Foxel. It's about as constructive as I can be the way I'm feeling.

The thing I'm noticing again is the disgusting smell of this process. I hate to tell you this but seriously, the extrusions from my good self are indescribably putrid. I can't stand the sight or smell of me right now. It's utterly gag-worthy. I feel like Chernobyl on legs.

At mid morning, the lady from 'Damp Doggy' comes to shave my dog, Spunky. Now the whole Hope Family has joined the 'Shave for Solidarity', as Al calls it.

Speaking of which, there is something else that is funny today. I had thought I'd lost my wig but it's turned up: accidentally washed with a pile of towels in the washing machine. Ethel says it's acrylic and should be fine but it looks like a sad rug. I spray some wig sheen stuff on it to see if it will bounce back.

In the late afternoon, I coerce myself out of bed for a 4 km stroll. I go bald headed wearing a pale tee shirt my sister gave me for Christmas. It says: "Cute Bald Chick Kicking Breast Cancer's Butt." I don't know about the 'cute' part. On the way, I pass a couple of tall, teenage boys, carting their crab pots home. I don't know if I feel self-conscious but I try to hold my head high.

Two younger girls pass on bicycles and smile, in sympathy I'm guessing.

By the time I return home, I know my body is sore to the touch, like it was last time.

I pray tomorrow there'll be a storm and this revolting heat will break.


Day 6: I have difficulty sleeping yet again and, perhaps ill advisedly, take another sleeping pill around midnight I'm guessing.

When I wake, it's hot outside but not so stifling indoors. I feel okay today but there's still a disgusting taste in my mouth. I spend the morning reading until on the spur of the moment, I suggest a movie.

My wig looks dank and pathetic on its wig stand. It would give Donald Trump's rug a run for it's money I reckon. It looks like I should spray Baygon on it. It looks like something pulled from a drain even though I've combed it several times, trying to tame the bits that don't quite seem to sit so well anymore. I'm hoping Maria will be able to rescue it.

Al has to drop off a car we're trying to sell in town, so I agree to drive in with Ben.

On the way, I am acutely aware of how exhausted I feel.

We have a very quick meal in South Bank and I rue the fact that I cannot taste my apparently delicious red beef curry.

We go to Southbank Cineplex and watch 'Sherlock Holmes' with a full theatre of 500 people. It's only afterwards that I think maybe it was not such a good move.

On the way home, I'm aware of feeling surly and removed. Later I worry that my sense of humour may be evaporating.

Increasingly these days I am aware of a lack of expression on my face. It is I guess what I would call resignation.

As a regular Facebook User (hey, at least it's not heroin!) I am aware of how many of my active, joyful friends are out exercising, experiencing life.

People are moving onwards and upwards while I seem to be wallowing.

We get home close to 6 pm. Al cooks me dinner and goes off to play tennis. I read a little more of a new book and when I've reached 60% (thank you Kindle), I turn the light off.

By this time Al is snoring.

Day 7: It's a humid morning and I can sense a scorcher coming on. I have a blood test today and must try to drink at least 2 litres of water before hand so that I am spared the ordeal of being pierced once too many times.

Tomorrow, I have another appointment with Dr Choo. She wants to check my white blood cell count. If it's too low, my next chemo may be delayed.

My taste buds are still a little way from normal but I'm grateful that at least, last night, I managed to drift off to sleep without the use of pharmaceuticals.

There are other things I'm grateful for, of course. I still have a smattering of eyelashes and eyebrows; I may be as big as a cow, but at least I'm not an elephant - yet; some people do still care enough about my welfare to continue to check on me.

This afternoon, I'll hopefully go for a walk with Linda.

There's a cool change anticipated later in the week and I remind myself, everything passes.

Nothing is forever.