Geronimo!

It's an easy, breezy Thursday morning after the Chrismas festivities and finally, I can feel the pressures and the tensions of the past year subsiding.

To say I feel like that fat man under the Steam Roller is an understatement.

I was telling Fiona recently that throughout this year, I have held an image of myself as a yachtie, steering a teetering boat through a turbulent sea.  It's all about keeping your eye on the horizon, and your hand on the wheel - steady as she goes.

By the time December came, I have to say my boat was pretty much limping.  I have struggled to catch the wind and, despite some fairly strong legs, haven't really put in a Cup-winning performance.

Now the weather has calmed and I feel as if I may have reached port.  How long I can stay here, I do not know.  I'm just planning to make the most of it.

I am looking forward to two-weeks of sitting on my now biggish arse, preferably reading.

Ben left for New Zealand yesterday as part of a two-week tennis tour.   Harry has been out most days, either mooching with his girlfriend or selling robotic toys at a shopping Plaza near Ipswich where he's been learning the dark arts of selling from the grandmeister himself, Craig.  (No, seriously, that man is GOOD!).

Today Al has gone down the Coast to play golf with his mates, returning tomorrow.

So me and my dog, Spunky, are now alone, he content to rest his chin upon the floor and me?  Well, here I am at the keyboard, contemplating the year that now foxtrots those last steps in its dying dance, the rest of us holding our breaths until its final bow on New Year's Eve.

What a year it has been.

Looking back, I can barely believe I have managed to get here more or less in tact - one breast, quite a few brain cells and a few litres of oestrogen short.

This year I  survived four shots of chemotherapy, 30 shots of radiation,  two funerals, and another cancer diagnosis in the family.

I've spent countless hours in the waiting rooms of breast surgeons, oncologists, hospital wards, surgical and oncology units, bloody collection centres, radiology labs, counsellors and plastic surgeons.

But along the way there have been some celebrations too.

After my last radiation shot in April, there was the family's memorable trip to Kangaroo Island in South Australia, followed by Karen's election victory to reward more than two years of my blood, sweat and tears.

In May, there was the Kokoda Challenge with Louisa,  in July, my sister's 50th birthday celebration, in August, a big party for 90+ people.

I think that's the month Al went to Thailand to play golf with his mates, too.

In September we received news of Fiona's cancer diagnosis.

In October, Lee and I left for our four-week trip to India, Nepal and Bhutan before I returned in November to settle down to five weeks hard but rewarding and exciting labour as part of my work while Al and the boys pinged off to Bali for an 8-day break.

And in November, Fiona started chemotherapy.  I have attached a photo below of she, me and Nicky taken on Christmas Day.  (It's not a great one but it's the only one I have).

You can see that Fiona is rocking the bald and I think she looks bloody great!  She's been handling the chemotherapy remarkably well, even better than I did, I reckon!

And at last, in December, the piece de resistance, just last week, when we had the great news that Al had won a car and some spending money in an art union.

We were able to distribute some of his booty among the family at Christmas,  our (apparent) generosity so astounding my mum that she burst into tears.    It's funny, because I really thought she would have been more inclined to burst into tears at the outfit I gave her - picked up for $7.50 from St Vinnies (because we had an Op Shop theme this year).  Those more ungenerous may say that the dress I chose was so hideous it would make anyone cry.

Much as I despise cliches, it has been, in short, a roller coaster - if not a Giant Drop - of a year and, if there is one thing the past 365 days have taught me it is that among the terrors, joy can be found.   Even among the struggle, can be celebration (if not celibacy, cough cough).

Now, looking back at the year that was, I have concluded that in fact, life itself is the ultimate thrillseeker's adventure.

Who needs base jumping or abseiling when you have this amazing, unpredictable,  hairy-scary thing that's simply, well, Monday (or maybe Tuesday).

Today, tomorrow, they are nothing if not terrifying.  So what are you going to do.  Tiptoe gingerly to the precipice and swoon?

Against all Mayan and other predictions, we have all lived to see another day and 2013 is  preparing to spread its wings.

Now don't be an idiot  and take it for granted.

I have my goggles on, my parachute ready and my compass, map and ration pack all set to go.

Chocolates, schmockolates, Forrest Gump!   Life is not some pathetic forage inside a box of Quality Street.

It's a jungle.  It's a minefield. It's Unchartered Territory.

Shit mate, it's not cancer that's 'not for sissies'.  It's Life!

So I urge you to take precautions.  Consult Bear Grilles, the Pope, or even Bert Newton, if you must but don't be like that fool, Hardy.   Expect the unexpected and be prepared.

You have no choice because Life is only ever a risk.  All you can do is stay alert and do what you can to survive should you anticipate the attack of zombies from outer space, Armageddon, the end of the Twilight saga, the final episode of 'The Real Housewives of New York' and other diabolical events.  Take whatever precautions you feel you need to.

Look after yourself.  Stay positive.  Wear a condom. Ask Mr Google.

There are a thousand pieces of useless advice I could give you - or you could ask your Mother for - but my point is that life is an adventure.

It is unpredictable, yes.  But it's also exciting!  Enlivening!  Engaging!  Invigorating!  (But not as invigorating as, say, a romp in the hay with George Clooney - in that G-String!)... (Al, I am only kidding!).

And with that attitude, I reckon that if/when you come to that ineluctable precipice, you will not retreat. You will not be frightened or upset.  You will not behave like I usually do when confronted with the sight of a large rat, or for that matter, the misuse of the word 'mortified' (I'll say this once, puh-leeeeese it means "embarrassed," people) or - truly teeth pulling stuff - the mispronunciation of the word 'Mischievous'.

Check your radio comms, put on those goggles, prime up that parachute, scream GERONIMO at the top of your lungs...  and jump for god's sake.

Trust me.  You'll be fine.

MRI

It is an absolutely splendid spring morning and today, joy of joys, I am off for my first ever M.R.I. I have to get there early because I suffer from claustrophobia and I must be sedated in case I panic.

I don't know why that is. I have always hated closed-in spaces. For instance, a few years ago I tried doing the Cuchi tunnels in Vietnam and barely lasted 3 minutes!

The last 24 hours have been quite emotional for me on one level. My good friend, Nim, who I believe is an angel is in disguise, has mobilised a team of women through her Facebook network to cook me enough dinners to see the family through the worst of the chemo stages.

I spy on the exchanges between Nim's friends as they discuss arrangements for cooking and delivery of meals and allow myself a little tear or two. (I must ration these as I imagine I will release a few over the coming months).

The thing I ponder is a comment by one of Nim's friends about how helpful the meals were "when I went through chemo".

At once I am struck by the way something that is so immense can be so easily summarised, much as one might say "I went through Auschwitz."

Nim's friend is so off-hand about it, about how she 'went through chemo' but these simple words do not begin to compote the enormity of what that means, what Nim's friend has endured and survived. Is this what they mean by 'courage'?

"Going through chemo" is not a short story quickly told, but an opus, an epic to be read on the Trans Siberian

This is no passing interlude, it is not a hiccup. It is a major event that will require patience, preparation and planning if it is to be seen to the end.

It means surviving the darkest hours of one's life, facing one's mortality, confronting one's deepest fears, weaknesses and vulnerabilities.

It means releasing your hold on physical strength and power and placing your life in the hands of others.

It means letting go of certainty, familiarity and peace of mind, it means saying goodbye to the person you have been.

Chemotherapy is a tearing away, a sliding door that catapults you from a sun dappled meadow into the claws of a vicious storm

How can they call it courage? For me, it is surely the ultimate surrender.

Before my MRI I meet my friend, Anne, for a coffee. Originally from Glasgow and born on a Council estate, Anne's life is the stuff of comedic dramas, the kind of light and shade that is manna for writers.

Amongst her stories is a grand love affair with Brian, her soul mate, who died of cancer at 46.

It is only when you hear stories like Anne's that you realise that cancer scars not only its victims, but also their family, friends, lovers and care givers.

Anne will laugh and tell you stories about her life but underneath it, there is the vein of steel you only find in those who have truly overcome the hardest of life's challenges.

This is a woman who inspires me, who makes me laugh, who exudes vitality and energy and will most likely release her mortal coil shouting 'Geronimo' with her middle finger in the air.

Anne hands me an envelope and inside I find five vouchers she has painstakingly created, each one for a for home cooked meal. Here is a picture:

A few more tears are produced. There is nothing more overwhelming than kindness.

When I arrive at my Queensland XRays I am already anxious. I am introduced to a technician called Andrew and I'm led to a neon-lit room at the back. I manage to take the photo below. I am not permitted to enter with my camera as the entire room is magnetised!

Shortly after, Andrew inserts a cannula into my arm that will receive the dye. I don't like needles and I look away as he inserts it into my vein. Shit! It hurts!

I am led into the room containing the scanner which is dimly lit. I can feel myself swooning. I feel like throwing up. Andrew leads me to a chair.

I think I fall asleep - I've dozed off surely - but when I wake up, Andrew is standing over me.

"Do you have a history of seizures?" he ask. "Or epilepsy"?

"Why?" I blink.

"Because you were unresponsive there for a while."

I realise that I have slumped forward in my chair. I panic. "Did you give me somehting?" I was expecting to be sedated remember?

"No," he says.

"But I'm alright now, right?"

Here is what happens in an MRI for a breast scan. You lie face down and place your breasts in two holes. Earplugs are placed in your ears then ear muffs. Soft music is piped. Jack Johnson! Alright!

When the machine activates it does so in stages with different rhythms. There are rock beats reminiscent of the bangles; there's a lunchtime siren; there are tribal drums. Your chest vibrates. You find yourself drifting off.

In the final five minutes of what will be 30 minutes of magnetic resonance imaging, it sounds like the machine is whirring the words: "Powerrrr-UP" in a three-four syncopated beat.

Then I'm done.

As I'm leaving I tell Andrew that I believe I fainted earlier. "Good thing you sat me down," I say. "Or it could have been messy, breasts flying everywhere."

We laugh. "Did you get a good image?" I ask.

"Fantastic," he says. "Everything went well today."

"Well, I do have fabulous material to work with even if I say so myself," I joke.

But it's not really funny is it? By bringing up epilepsy Andrew has raised another fear. He has taken a mere episode of fainting to another level. Maybe I have a brain tumour? Brain cancer? My imagination runs rampant.

$500 later (with no recovery from Medicare), Al has picked me up and I am on the way home. I drop him off and get straight back in the car as I have to return to the school for Ben's parent teacher interview.

On the way, I burst into tears.

This is the first time EVER that I've fainted. I did not like it. Where was I? I fell asleep but my brain went somewhere else. Is that what dying feels like?

Afterwards, I go to a campaign launch for Louise, a friend who is running for a seat in the Council elections next year. Craig drives me and on the way, we discuss Karen's campaign strategies.

It is nice to end the day feeling more or less 'normal'.

I make the most of that feeling because in my bones, I know that my version of "normal" will be altered irrevocably in the coming days.