What do we do about men?

Sarah Everard was abducted and murdered as she walked home one evening last week. Her kidnapper and killer as charged, Wayne Couzens, was a serving police officer in the Metropolitan Police Force, a father of two with not an inkling of the chaos within showing upon his handsome, smiling face. He awaits his trial in a cell. During custody he has sustained two head injuries, it is easy to imagine the first injury may have been inflicted by his custodians, the second I am surmising was a self-inflicted injury. He will I am sure appreciate, there will be lots of prisoners and others already wishing him ill.

In response to this terrible crime, women around the UK organised Reclaim These Streets vigils in honour of Sarah`s memory and to demand women`s safety on our streets and one such vigil was to be arranged at Clapham Common, close to where Sarah was abducted. The Metropolitan police denied this gathering and instead told the organisers to “stay home.”  Did they honestly believe women would take notice of this? 

Mourners became angry after police tried to forcibly remove speakers from the bandstand at the south London park. So as thousands of women gathered at Clapham Common yesterday daytime including our future queen, Kate Duchess of Cambridge, and continued to gather into the night, they were eventually surrounded by aggressive police officers who pushed them about and manhandled them. One woman was pinned down and knelt on by four police officers. To say the women were manhandled is a misnomer since it seems there were a number of equally aggressive female officers present. Four women mourners were arrested and charged with breaches of the peace, officers clearly not recognising the strength of feeling women have about violence perpetrated by men towards women.

Home Secretary Priti Patel described footage circulating of the police’s actions as “upsetting” and confirmed she has demanded a full report on what happened. This is a huge hypocrisy on the part of the Home Secretary since separate leaked reports have already confirmed she and the government are holding secret talks in order to push through legislation making it illegal for us, the people to peacefully gather and demonstrate.

They want to silence dissent (goodlawproject.org)

Dame Cressida Dick who is one of the UK`s most senior police officers and Commissioner for The Metropolitan Police Force described the shock and dismay felt by the Met`, when they discovered it was one of them who had been arrested. Why?  The guy is a male, does the Met` think that male police officers don`t abuse women? There are calls for her resignation following the media reports from Clapham Common last night.

Men call too, for us women to understand that they aren`t safe on the streets either. It is true a man is far more likely than a woman to be assaulted with a weapon on the streets but that isn`t what this is about so please don`t make this about you. Fact is, most women are injured, raped, killed and abused at home by someone close to them. Their husband, boyfriend, a male member of the family or a close neighbour.

During lockdown one hundred and eighteen women have been killed by men. I was extremely moved to hear their names being read out in parliament last week by my MP Jess Phillips,

MPs listen in shocked silence as Jess Phillips reads list of women killed by men – Mirror Online

“Men should have a 6pm curfew imposed on them!” I hear some men and women cry.  What difference might this make? Do people believe rape and abuse and violence towards women only happens during the night?

When I worked at Rape Crisis in the nineteen eighties, I quickly learned women and girls, old age pensioners and babies, are ALL in a world where violence towards females is common place and is not taken seriously. Punishments for violence towards women requires an urgent review. Only recently a man who killed his wife by battering her head in with a claw hammer, received just six years for his crime, he was convicted of manslaughter and not murder. Less than two percent of men accused of rape are ever prosecuted. Fewer even than this small amount received custodial sentences and these statistics have not changed in many, many decades. Lots of women do not report their perpetrator`s crime so we also know that the figures are hugely underestimated.

I don`t profess to know what the answer is but I do think that educating our youngsters about respect for one another is of vital importance. When my daughter was five, she was asked where her mummy worked and she said, “A rape crisis centre.” The head teacher took me to one side and expressed her concern that my daughter used the word `rape`. In response I said that my daughter understood children were vulnerable to being hurt by adults and understood who to tell if an adult was doing something to her that made her feel uncomfortable.  That`s a start but we have a long, long way to go in order to teach our males that it is they who attack women and it is their responsibility on every level, to speak up and say why this is so wrong.

My mother was just four years` old when she was sexually assaulted by one of the farm hands on the farm she grew up on. Perhaps because the sexual abuse of children was not widely talked about, if at all in those days (around 1915) she felt able to tell my grandmother what had happened and the man was subsequently arrested by the local police. I do not know if he received a sentence. By the time I grew up my mother was already giving me instructions like, “Let me know where you are going/ three rings when you get back/ do not get into an unmarked taxi/ do not go home with a man unless you want to have sex with him since that will be his assumption,” etc. etc. I still do not know how I feel about these messages I was given. Should I be grateful for her advice? Should I stand up with my sisters and protest male violence towards women? Should I have told my daughter when she was growing up that it is ok to get drunk with your mates, leave the pub alone, jump in to any car that calls itself a taxi? Because it clearly is not a good idea. and I remain unconvinced of any talked about changes to the law that will alter my viewpoint. Male violence towards women is as old as time and in order to restore balance and sanity, men must be willing to give up their power and I do not see that happening any time soon.

Sarah`s appalling death has my three teenage granddaughters talking about prison sentencing, chemical castration and the death penalty and honestly, it takes me back to the nineteen eighties when I first joined rape crisis, still severely underfunded even in these times.

I would like to be able to say that now I am heading towards seventy, it is no longer my problem but that is not the case and violence towards women is all of us – our mutual problem.

Unfair sentencing for sex offences #metoo

Very recently a young actor called Bruno Langley who is well known in the UK for his role as Todd Grimshaw in Coronation Street, was convicted in court of sexual assault. Bruno did not go to jail for his crimes, instead he received a twelve month Community Service Order, a £250 fine which will be paid to each of the two young women whose breasts and crotch he grabbed while off his face on alcohol, a twelve week “rehabilitation course”, a twelve week police curfew, a twelve week tag and he will be on the sex offenders` register for the next five years. He will almost certainly never work as an actor again; his promising career is ended. I commented at the time that I felt quite sorry for him. Several of my friends agreed with me and some did not, it`s the way of the world but I`d like to clarify, why I made that comment.

None of Bruno Langley`s behaviour is acceptable, he was clearly extremely drunk when these events unfurled and he has since admitted that he has a serious alcohol problem for which he is now receiving treatment. Bruno also explained to the court that he has some mental health issues as a result of unresolved conflict in his earlier life so I imagine he self- medicated with drink. This obviously doesn`t mitigate what he did but it in some way explains what happened and why the lines for him, became blurred.   It isn`t the sentencing per se that makes me feel sorry for him, the unacceptability of his behaviour is not in dispute. It`s the severity of the sentencing he received that troubles me, for an offence that I consider trivial in comparison to many other levels of sexual assault from which the greatest percentage of perpetrators walk away acquitted.

It seems to me that in the current climate of #metoo, Bruno Langley has been pilloried for his crimes, while men like Trump, Weinstein, Branston and countless hundreds of others are never going to wind up in court because of what they allegedly did. They are far too wealthy to have to undergo the experience of such humiliation, they can quietly settle the matter out of court should the likelihood ever rear its embarrassing head and from the safety of their palatial homes, they can most likely continue to behave in the way that the press reports they do. It`s all wrong, it`s a disgrace and it`s bloody unfair. So that is why I feel sorry for Bruno Langley.  It seems to me he has been scapegoated and because of the current climate the decision of the judge was a legal expedient.

Perhaps it is Mr.Langley`s​ karma, perhaps he will go on in his life and achieve something magnificent to attain for his crimes, I do hope so and I hope he will be given a second chance. His remorse in court was said by the judge to be absolutely genuine. As for the two young woman who took him all the way to court when in my opinion the issue could have been resolved far more helpfully for all parties out of court, I imagine in hindsight they wish they had never pursued the matter into the public domain and it is my opinion that they haven`t done women any favours. I bet I am right.

#metoo

We`re all doomed I tell you, doomed!

I`ve had the past week off as annual leave. It`s just as well really because I have some further, unexpected tests and scans to get through relating to my breast cancer or breast banana as I like to refer to it.  Just when you thought etc. etc……

I was due to visit a cousin in Ireland this week but another time cuz, too much on my mind at the mo`.

The holiday at home has afforded me some much-needed time to reflect on my mortality and possible demise, which may be earlier than I anticipated even a year ago although obviously I hope not.  When I was given the news that the banana may have migrated to my other breast, at first I sank into the Slough of Despond but eventually I find, my mind habituates to even bad news, the most morose of thoughts and emotions lessen and in doing so, they become more manageable and life goes on.

I have been reflecting on my life and whether I have any regrets. I have a few, but then again…..

I regret sending Fred Ryland a valentine`s card which read “Roses are red, violets are blue, cabbages stink and so do you.“  Mostly though, being of the nature that believes everything happens for a reason, I regret nothing and I remain an optimist.  I find the main problem with having an optimistic nature is that optimists really believe they can help people become better human beings and are genuinely surprised when we realise yet again and far too late in the day, we cannot.  Hey ho, I digress.

One of the things that living with banana has given me is a really chilled out attitude to the things that don`t really matter which I have discovered is almost everything. Take this morning for example, I have eaten a piece of toast and butter spread liberally with salad cream with a fried egg on top.   Accompanying this feast, I then chomped down an extremely large piece of gorgonzola cheese, two big chilli olives and a bowl of baked beans with at least a desert spoon of Lidl tomato ketchup stirred in.   To finish it all off I took my daily supply of paracetamol, mega doses of magnesium, vitamin D3, cod liver oil, devil`s claw and curcumin supplements.  I fluctuate wildly between eating healthily and not touching alcohol, to downing a bottle of wine and smoking five fags in each hand all at once.  Do I care how much I am abusing my digestive and bodily systems? Not a jot, I`m going to die anyway. Oh come on!  It`s the only thing we can be really sure of and as my sister Sue`s wife said to me the day my sister died, “I knew she was going to die, I just didn`t think it would be today.”  (“It`s a good day to die today,” Dustin Hoffman in Little Big Man.)

I don’t want a funeral. I`ve been to three recently and another one on Monday of next week. They have all been sad and that is absolutely fine of course but I don`t want sad, I want a happy affair.  The only funeral I have ever attended which was an affair involving lots of laughter and celebration was that of a dear friend and colleague Debbie Lees. Hers was a humanist funeral that really spoke of her, it was great.  So after I die, I`d like some kind death person to come and remove my body please and cremate me and may my family and friends have a big party, get drunk, take illegal substances if that is their bag and have a laugh remembering the me who I am.  And I don`t want any hymns sung, I`d rather you sang “Is that all there is?” and “Cabaret” and “You`ll never walk alone” and “The sun has got his hat on,” at the top of your voices and send my ashes off in the form of a firework. Hah!

So there you are, I don`t have anything to leave anybody, if there is one thing I learned from my Buddhist studies, it`s that material things do not matter.  I was about to write something mean and unpleasant here about clinging to wealth and belongings and about hypocrisy but my mother Bess suddenly materialised across the table from where I`m sitting and drumming her fingers on the wood, tut tutted at me and said, “Now, now Helen…..” so I won`t. She died 23 years ago and she is never far away. Thanks mum, you taught me there is a time and a place for everything and most of all you passed on to me your irreverent sense of humour which showed me how to laugh at life`s adversities.  I`ve enjoyed a lot of laughter in my life, you can`t beat it.

So, more tests over the next two weeks and the results at the end of the month, meanwhile, where did I put my baccy?

Taking back the power.

I`ve been feeling rather emotional this past week, a bit weepy, a bit low and not really registering why. Then it struck me this morning as I was walking with my dog, it will be a year on Wednesday since I was diagnosed with cancer, so the light bulb came on.

In my case, after my treatment had finished and the doctor spoke to me those lovely words, “you have the all clear,” for a brief, heady few days, I felt an incredible high. It didn`t last and as I gradually came back down to earth I realised that cancer never really leaves us. I have a long way to go (five years) before I can relax a little and know I am in remission and even then, it may return. I feel sad because cancer has impacted on me so massively, I have spent so much time trying to manage my feelings, remain positive, productive, engaged with the people who I love, I don`t think I`ve given myself time to mourn the loss of who I was before this diagnosis and feel the feelings of sadness and rage for how much cancer has taken from me.

Well here`s the thing cancer; I`m taking it back.

Yesterday I was reading a post my daughter had put up on social media, I think she put it up there for me to see because it was all about those people who feel selfish when they are coping with an awfulness in their life, after all, there are so many people out there who have it so much worse. This describes exactly how I feel, it`s as though surviving cancer so far somehow means I have less right to my myriad of feelings because at least I am still here to tell the tale. The piece goes on to say, “don’t buy into it, because it’s nonsense. It doesn’t matter if someone else had it ‘worse.’ Every person who experiences a trauma deserves to get the attention and care they need to heal from it.”

So I rang Macmillan Cancer Care (love, love, love them) and they told me that they are working jointly with Relate to offer people who have had cancer some free counselling sessions. You may think of Relate as working with people who have a troubled marriage (they used to be called Marriage Guidance, do you remember?) However, Relate recognises that cancer affects all of our relationships including the one we have with our self. So I`ve booked me in for some `me` time with Relate and an opportunity to work my way through some of this shitty stuff that`s stopping me from getting on with my life in the present. I am looking forward to it and to letting go of some of this negativity, it is so unlike me.

And to my friends and family who are fighting to keep their head above the waves, not waving but feeling like they are drowning. I will get back to me and then I can give you that hand up once again as so many have offered to me over this past, really difficult year.

I would like to end on a high note so here you are, it`s a  middle C.

🙂

Treat yourself with kindness…..

My ex mother in law Joyce, died yesterday morning. She would have been ninety on June 22^nd and for the past few months has been deteriorating with what her G.P. described as  “a touch of Alzheimers,” as well as various other conditions.  She was a poor old thing when she slipped away and my immediate emotion was one of relief, no-one wants to see another human being linger when they are already struggling.

Joyce and I never shared a close relationship, in fact for two years of our lives we did not see or speak to one another at all and they were two good years for me, for Joyce was always so very critical of me, my lifestyle, my parenting skills, my skills as a housewife. I won`t list here the many, many times she undermined me and whittled away at my confidence because she is gone now and it was all so very long ago. Instead, I`d like to comment on the few occasions she made me smile and try to sustain those as my enduring memories of her.

We were walking together up Longbridge Lane, we`d been to the local shops for something or other. It was a hot summer day and a wasp started buzzing around my head.  Joyce began to bat her hand around my head in an effort to scare the wasp away. Suddenly she swatted the side of my head so hard, she bounced my glasses off my face and half way across Longbridge Lane. She collapsed in hysterics and laughed about it the whole of the rest of the way home.

Joyce`s little side swipes were always quite obvious to me however, not to innocent bystanders. For example, when I was leaving my marriage for the first time in November 1991 for my Christmas present Joyce gave me a bag which had “Bon Voyage” printed across the front of it.

I was quite a bit older when I started to take Joyce and her sisters Jean and Lillian out for meals from time to time. I don`t know why I felt duty bound to do this for Tony and I had been divorced for a lot of years and I`d had two serious relationships during that time although I did love Jeanie. (Jeanie also died, two weeks` ago and her funeral was just the other day.) I used to call them The Golden Girls and every meal I took them to, panned out in the same way.  They would mooch around for a table and sit down. Lillian would then complain it was “too draughty” and they would move.  Jeanie would then complain it was “too dark” to see the menu so off we`d go again. It was not uncommon to move at least four times before they were in agreement. Then Joyce would be imperious and terribly rude whilst ordering and say things like, “this glass is dirty (it never was) bring me another clean one immediately,” in hindsight she may have been in early dementia for some years and this could quite easily have affected her perceptions but at the time, I recall being deeply embarrassed and the numbers of waiters and waitresses I have apologised to over the years doesn`t bear thinking about.  Then they would bicker, like three silly children, all the way through their meal.

I was with Joyce on Thursday, a day and a half before she died. She was being nursed in a residential home and we all knew she did not have very much longer, she was so terribly frail and had stopped eating altogether. Like many people with dementia, Joyce was repeating a single word over and over again and the word she chose was “please.”

I know she wanted to go home but she was ensconced in her long term memory by then and probably didn`t know where home was. I tried distracting her which didn`t work and in the end I said to her, “You know Joyce you don`t have to say please, you could say another word….”

“Alright,” she said in a tiny little voice, “what word shall I say?”

So I continued and suggested, “well, you could say balloon, or tomato.”

“Or I could say shit.” She said to me.

“You could indeed,” I replied.

So Joycey sat there, like a little bird in her big bed quietly saying “Shit, shit, shit.”

When I left, I kissed her forehead and said, “Goodbye old lady.”  And she gave me a watery smile and I thought, she is still there, she is still Joyce underneath that haze of dementia.

RIP Joyce Inman.

June 22^nd 1927 – June 10^th 2017

 

 

 

 

Beating the Banana.

I decided to put all my breast cancer blogs together in one book-ette. It will be available on Kindle in the next week or so. Isn`t the cover fantastic!  Thanks to my editor/publisher, Andrew Sparke for his encouragement and support.

 

A Tale of Two Titties.

Apparently my boobalinkas have become the subject of speculation at my local hostelry.

A couple of weeks ago a neighbour at the top of our road, passed away and as is the custom in these parts, his missis had put some money behind the bar so that his buddies could toast his heavenly departure.

I didn`t go because I don`t really like pubs and I didn`t know my neighbour, however lots of others did, including two ladies who also know me. (I use the term ladies, loosely, apparently they were absolutely lagging which is an English euphemism for pissed as farts.)  For the sake of modesty let them remain anonymous.

A third neighbour was also present at the merry goodbye and took great delight in repeating the following conversation to me…….

Neighbour 1:  I see Hel has some new boobs.

Neighbour 2:  Yes but they`re not her own, I reckon she`s got summat shoved down her bra.

Neighbour 1: They look too good to be real, I agree.

Neighbour 3:  I can assure you they are real!

Neighbours 1 & 2 jointly:   Nooooooo!

Neighbour 3:  They most definitely are all her own, the doc` gave her an uplift and I know because I`ve seen them!  She has the titties of a thirty year old and her skin is beautiful.

Like me, this lovely lady has recently recovered from breast cancer and so we have swapped many a treatment tale.  She had a lumpectomy and recently she asked if she could see my new boobs. I obliged as to be honest, so many people have seen them over the past year I no longer care who gets a gander…..

She said that neighbours` 1 and 2`s faces were an absolute picture.

Wish I`d been there with my camera.

Yes – we have no banana!

I had some wonderful news yesterday. I went to see my surgeon Mr. Basu for a check up.  I am totally in love with him anyway and even more so now because he told me that following my breast cancer surgery, all my biopsies are clear. There`s nothing in my breast tissue, no live cancer cells in the bits of banana still remaining after chemo, and nothing in my lymph nodes.

To say I am grateful is putting it very mildly. I am grateful beyond words.

So this is my last blog on my breast banana, as I have referred to it.  I have to have a small amount of radiotherapy Mr. B says, to err on the side of caution but that is NOTHING compared to chemotherapy.  I will be fine.

Thanks to the many, many people who have supported me on my journey, who have made me laugh, held me when I cried (Tony) bought me flowers and treats far too many to mention here. People who have prayed with me and for me in their prayer circles, the friends of mine who are atheist or pagan, or agnostic or of completely different faiths, thank you for your good wishes, positive vibes and many, many messages of support.

It carried me through and I will never forget it or any of you.

With all my love.

Perky Pitt.  🙂

Keep breathing as long as you can!

If you have been following my posts then I hope you will be pleased to hear that last Thursday I went to have surgery for the removal of any remaining breast banana and a reduction in both breasts for the purpose of symmetry. I was very excited. The first procedure I went through was actually the day before, when I had an injection of isotope which preceded my scan. It didn`t hurt at all, it didn`t even sting, the nurse just made me radioactive. The next day I arrived at the hospital with my lovely daughter by my side, bright and breezy, ready for the operation.

The next part of the proceedings is called a wire insertion. A very thin piece of wire, a bit like fuse wire, was placed inside my breast under a local anaesthetic with the purpose of assisting the surgeon. It guides he or she in what shape they need to be making with their scalpel when they are taking bits of you away. Ultimately it leads them to the tiny, titanium implant which is at the heart of the banana and which I had inserted way back in February. It`s all about getting the incision right. The procedure was again carried out under a local anaesthetic and although it was mildly uncomfortable, it wasn`t anything to write home about. I was then taken to the operating theatre where one of my close friends works with the anaesthetist team. This made it a very jolly experience with lots of crass jokes, micky taking and general hilarity while they fiddled about with tubes and cannulas.

The last thing I remember before dropping off was one of the doctors telling me to think of my holidays and asking me where I was going and I said, “The Maldives,” which I am not and then I was out like a light.

When I woke up in the recovery room, I was being observed by a very lovely nurse from the Filippines. She asked me if I believed in God and clearly wanted to talk about her faith which I guess you know, is generally forbidden in a hospital context but as I am a firm believer, we talked for a while and then I said to her to stop now, because if a colleague hears, you will be in trouble. I`ve had this experience of nurses wanting to talk about God a couple of times while I have been having chemo, they were both nurses from abroad so perhaps it is more acceptable in other parts of the world. One of them was so nervous she even crossed herself and prayed before administering the dreaded stuff to me which was a little disconcerting at the time.  When the Filipino nurse left me she said, “I love you,” and I replied, “I love you too!”

I wasn`t to know that while I was under the anaesthetic there had been an event and as a result, I had been in theatre for 5 hours, it should have been about 2. I have absolutely no recollection of anything at all untoward happening but apparently I had an anaphylactic reaction to some blue dye that is used in breast surgery. Very quickly after injecting me with the dye, the team noticed I was having difficulty breathing and my blood pressure plummeted. AIthough I didn`t go into cardiac arrest, my breathing was stopping and had they not swiftly pumped some adrenalin into me I certainly would have. My poor daughter went straight into panic mode as doctors rushed hither and thither past where she was waiting, trying to stabilise my blood pressure.

Afterwards I was taken to a ward to sleep off all the excitement. I remember my daughter leaving me some sandwiches and a drink and a friend telling me not to try the sandwiches too soon, she was right!  My lips were claggy and I couldn`t chew or swallow properly as my mouth was so dehydrated. I fell asleep. At 3am I woke up and ate the sandwiches, they were delicious and then I decided to go and take a look at my greatly reduced in size, new boobs. I was wowed, I still am. I haven`t looked this good since I was a young woman. The internal stitches melt after 10 days. The external skin is superglued so there will be minimum scarring, not that I care….. if the banana has vacated the premises then I haven`t got a care in the world.

At about 8am the surgeon came to see how I was doing. He said he had left no margin in the affected breast and had removed about 180 grams of tissue, hoping that he will have removed any remaining banana. About 120 was removed from the other side and they are now of more or less equal size, I am so pleased. My daughter who is an ace chef immediately said, “mother that`s about 6 and a bit tablespoons from one side and four and a bit from the other,” so I feel like someone has had their pound of flesh.

Now my nipples no longer gaze at the floor and my boobs are about half the size they were, I have become affectionately known as Perky. The operation has made it very obvious that I have a belly which needs some serious downsizing, meanwhile, I am going to keep on strolling. I am in minimum discomfort, there is some bruising but the swelling is already going down and psychologically I feel wonderful, so if you woke up breathing this morning then congratulations, you have another chance!

If you`re FEC`d off with tales of chemo then don`t read this!

I just had numero four of my chemo treatments. The one I was on for the first three months, Taxotere, is known as “The Batterer” in the unit I attend. The nurses assured me that the final three FEC treatments would be “a walk in the park” in comparison. Taxotere certainly has a reputation and in my case, not entirely earned although it made my body ache horribly, I found it was manageable with copious amounts of Ibuprofren and the occasional gin.

FEC is so different, I don`t think there is anything to be gained by making comparisons. For the first four days FEC absolutely floored me, I have felt so weak I could hardly get up the stairs to go to the loo and yet here I am on day five, I`ve been to the park on this beautiful morning and walked my dog oh joy and feel a gazillion times better. I consider myself very lucky as many people have horrendous side effects with FEC, the most severe one being chronic sickness and ulcers in the mouth and gullet. So hurrah but by golly I shall be glad when it`s all over! My nails are weird, ridged and peeling but not yet blue as some people`s nails become.

Yesterday I felt very low, in my depressed state I decided that I wasn`t going to have any more chemo, enough is enough and it simply isn`t worth it, the quality of my life is so different in comparison to the robust human being I was at the beginning of the year, why prolong the agony? FEC it! I shall have the surgery and takes me chances.

This morning though, feeling better and after a really good sleep (I am sleeping incredibly well, it`s very odd) I see it all a bit differently and rearranging my thoughts, I will of course optimise my chances of remaining well in the long term by completing my chemo course. Chemo I find is a bit like childbirth (sorry men, it`s the best comparison for me) and once you begin to feel better your body has a marvellous way of placing it all aside and filing it away under “rather challenging experiences it may be prudent to forget.”

And that`s my continuing message to anyone undergoing chemo. You will get through it, and once through it you can crack on with your life.

So take heart, stay positive, if you feel as rubbish as I did yesterday then I promise you it will pass.  Try and say so and ask people for a bit of help. My friend Annie called to see me yesterday and chatted to me for an hour and that was so lovely and made a difference. If you are facing chemo on your own then in the UK you can always ring the MacMillan nurses and they are ACE!

And by the way…….. JOG ON CANCER!!!

Four down and two to go! 🙂