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.

End of the World!

A rather hot day in Brisbane and I've been holed up in my office for the past two weeks working my little Sri Lankan bum off on my major once-a-year-project.

In a nutshell, I specialise in assisting people who build nursing homes to squeeze some bucks from the Federal Government so they can build new facilities.

The last week has been spent studiously at my desk, broken only by a sojourn to the hospital.

Because after her first chemo shop, my sister Fiona had a bit of an allergic reaction - we think to the antie-emetics - and ended up in hospital on Day 2.

Nicky and I motored over to see her and were our usual sympathetic selves with the words:  "You look like shit" being the first words uttered as poor Fiona sat their forlornly picking at her plate of unappetising hospital food.

The good news is that, as as result of her allergic reaction, it MAY be that she will only need four -not six - shots of chemotherapy and I can only hope this is the case.

It's a few days later today and true to form, Fiona the self-confessed worry-wart has been imagining the worst of what, in my opinion are small and insignificant side effects.  Today she wanted to speak to me about a pain in her hand.

I have urged her to shrug things off more rather than assuming every ache, pain and reaction means we should be polishing up her wooden box.

Today she also told me how the school at which she has worked had run a fundraising drive to raise funds to support a weekly cleaner through her treatment.  We agreed that one thing cancer teaches you is how unbelievably kind and generous some people can be.

And, as we seem to do a little bit these days,  Fiona and I contemplated the inevitability of our respective untimely demises.  We all must eventually leave this world, eh!

It only after I hung up, that I realised the context of our discussion.

For you see, if the Mayans were right, in exactly 22 days it seems the World Will End.

It's not something I've paid much attention to - Doomsday Sayers.  I avoid them like the plague - as keenly as I avoid cliches.

Nonetheless, in taking stock of my adventures thus far, my curiosity was piqued.  Will the world end four days before Christmas, annoyingly meaning that the tickets I bought to a show in January will go unused?    Frustratingly meaning there'll be no Boxing Day sales to tempt my wallet?  Sadly meaning that I will miss the Senior Referees Seminar in February?

Is this how it will end?  Fiona only two shots through her chemo program and hairless;  I, one breasted and cursed with a head amass with follicles more suited to a pubic region?

Will it end with Harry half way through his degree, all those years of private education, academic achievements and scholarships gone to waste? And Ben, still to get the hair cut he needs?  And Al still to get that hole in one?  And me, still to see George Clooney in the flesh (in that G-string)?

You think it's a callous thing, life suddenly ending, but there is a bright side.  If nothing else, the impending End of the World should give us all cause to take stock and see where we are, and how far we've come.  Cancer has certainly done that for me.

If nothing else, knowing or seeing that end must teach us to applaud ourselves for what we have achieved, and what we have overcome, simply to still be here!

Because, as I have come to appreciate life is fucking hard and, really, it takes some guts and stamina to make it to whatever and whenever turns out to be THE END.

In my line of work of course, I meet many elderly people, many of who are in bad shape.  These are the good folk who have reached what might be called that 'ripe old age' when your life is past that climax, and is now about denouements, finales and codas.  When it's no longer about colons or commas or even ...ellipses... but full stops.

Frankly, I feel I should applaud them, cheer them on.  For neither you nor I can imagine what traumas or perils and challenges these elderly have survived, and how strong, persistent and tenacious they have been simply to get to that stage in life where they might actually be described as OLD.

Every old person is a survivor.  Every elderly person has hauled that now wrinkled backside through lordy knows what swamps and jungles - and for that we must surely respect them (however mean, irascible or unlikeable they may be).

Put simply, it takes sheer balls to have a long life.

And so, I guess you have to admit, the End of the World - in 22 days - is looking like a merciful release.  Either that, or the coward's way out.

Doomsday may well be a realistic scenario - check out this site http://www.liveindia.com/mayacalendar/index.html (copy and paste the URL into your finder window).

I for one, am unconcerned either way.  I enjoy life and I enjoy living.  There is something rather quaint and old fashioned about, well, breathing!

However, as I have said, there are no guarantees for any of us.  Who really knows what the future has in store for you or me?

All we can do is live now and live well.

Seize the day however you can.  Tomorrow may, still, not come.