no2

A couple of weeks ago two poems went missing from the original AMMW (now ammmw) post. A couple more have now disappeared and it's possible (but not entirely probable) that one or two more may go before the end of October.

This is not a virus - some strange, poetically targeted, internet illness. This is because I have finally started listening to my Mum (it's only taken the best part of half a century for this phenomenon to occur) and entered a poetry competition.

The rules of The Poetry Society's National Poetry Competition state that the poems entered should be previously unpublished. I'm not sure if this little blog counts as published but it's probably best to err on the side of caution and remove any entries 'just in case'.

I'm not sure what I'm expecting from this venture. Certainly not to win (I am after-all a fledgling) but it does seem strange to send these small scraps of my self out to be judged. After the initial fear of allowing the words to escape into the outside world had been overcome; first by showing the poems to my Mum & Dad, close family and some friends; then stepping forward and speaking the words out loud to Mum & Dad, close family, some friends and close colleagues; I can now stand and speak words which I have written, out loud to Mum & Dad, family, friends, colleagues and strangers.

A small crack let in the light and now the rock has split wide open. Rather like the effect of water being frozen in a tiny crevice, forcing the rock to split and reveal the secrets hidden within. Will it hold a sparkling crystal? A rare and ancient fossil? Or is it just the same smooth, beige-grey inside as out? A solid but dull revelation.

To wring out the rock/crack/water/frost metaphor to its breaking point; if my family and friends were the water that got into the crack, then the cancer was the frost. It made me brave. I have always been an extrovert but (surprisingly to some) have always found exposure of my inner, vulnerable, soft-self uncomfortable to the point of pain. The extroversion a shield to protect the parts of me I do not want displayed or which I want to hide away.

These dark and uncharted parts of myself are drawn to the surface when I write. They are part of the reason why I write. The world becomes too sad or too complicated or too wondrous and to make sense of it words come out. Sort of. And in doing that, in untangling the knotty bits of life, hidden things inadvertently come to light.

Two more (as yet) untitled poems
...

I am utter
Stutter
Stammer
I am a
Whole soul
Inner
Outer
Faith doubter
Soul hole
Writer

​26/10/2016
...

My feet beat and
Carry me happily

Brain bubbles
Heart heaves
Soul sighs
And talk
As I walk
Words flow
Freely
Fluttering
From finger
And thumb
No longer
Dumb

The words
Bubble and flow
Inside pours out
Heart does not
Shrivel but grow
Softly
Whispered
Shout

26/10/2016

More soon...

.

It's national poetry day today. So to mark the occasion I've started a new blog, about poetry (and other creative pursuits).
For the first publication I've included all the stuff I've written so far of which I'm suitably pleased/proud/excited by. Some of it (most of it) is work in progress and gets tinkered with every now and then. I may go back to individual poems in future and write about what inspired me to write about what ever it was I wrote about.

In general, if I'm having a bad day or if things get stuck in my head and I can't work them out or if something bites to my core, writing it down quite often eases the burden in my brain and enables me to move on. This is mainly why I write. But not always.

Here follows the poetry so far (with the date of the first draft if I recorded it):



Rewrite
Womankind
Know your mind
And history
Unwind

Come along
Sing your song
Coz history's
Been wrong

We are here
Time is near
Make history
Be clear

Unwind
History and
Know your mind
Womankind

By Annabel 2/8/16

Late
Pronounce me late
And seal my fate.
My only sin
Not getting in
On the dot
But time is not
Something I've got
A lot of now
I'll take my bow
And have my fill
Death my fate
And then I will
Be truly late
2/8/16

Heat
Sweat slick
Salt lick
Breath quick
Skin prick

Skin wet
Slick sweat

Poor
Pore
Pour


Big hill
Legs like lead
But voice in my head
Says:
walk baby walk
Don't stop don't talk
Slow baby slow
Puff and blow
Climb baby climb
In your own time
1st July 2016


Bluebell Wood
Heavily scented and full blown blue haze
Crowds under light green filtered Lord of days
Sweet high sound of feathered tune competes with man made metal croon
Prickle sticky sticks & stings
tangle tarnished rusty things
This the Mother's nurturing nature
Death the life of plant and creature,

May 2016

Giving up the ghost
Battery is low
And so
I don't have long
To write this song

Wet rust dark
red hair
Green eye spark
Soft glare

Never here
Always there
Conscience clear
But now where?

Longing lips
Silk skin
Finger tips
Long thin

Never here
Always there
Conscience clear
But nowhere

Smiling heart
Safe soul
Eye for art
Black hole

Never here
Always there
Conscience clear
But not to share

Battery dies
Soul lies
Didn't have long
To write this song

18th May 2015 (on the way home)

Out in the open
I hope that when my time comes
And I lay me down to die
That the earth will be my bed
And no ceiling save the sky

9/4/2016


Willing
Passed a jolly fat lad
Out for a run
He's not doing too bad
He's having fun

Too many sausages
Too much cake
Softened up the sharp edges
Ate for eating's sake

Hello Mr fit guy
Hello Mr strong
Never touch another pie
Coz pies are WRONG!

Passed a jolly fat bloke
Out for a run
Being chubby's no joke
But he's having fun

Inspired by the rather jolly chubby fella running round Ealing common this morning (9/11/13) at 5.30ish


Valuable
Pride of our Nation
United in our team
Responsible elation
Respect our one team dream

Bring on the Great Lion of Britain
From UK's shore to shore
You've purred and we are smitten

Now bare your teeth and ROAR
13/5/2016


Chemo Chemical
Fizzy, fuzzy, dizzy
Popping, paining, aching.
Dragging
Lagging
Fretting
Sweating
Heavy heat.
Ice cold comfort.
Brain & body both.

Limbs think/mind feels
All one. All one.
All one.

November 2014

Walk
The straining of a spring in a watch wound too tight

The wild wind in the tall trees nagging me at night

The World weary tallship heaving to harbour home

The bird with broken white wing, dying all alone.

A Watch
A Tree
A Ship
A Bird

I am all of these in part
But these aren't all that I am

I am me - I am a human with a beating heart

So I will carefully consult the chart

And place my feet upon the ground

I will walk to my rhythm and I will revel in the sound

17/11/2014

Halfway
I should have known
I should have noticed
But life got in the way
Or rather I survived
And missed the slip
The point I tripped

So now I'm sliding
Down the sides
The black hole
Sucks me in
Hungry maw
Gaping
Pulling
Down

And I am more than
Halfway there now
To the bottom
Of the pit
Though I cannot
Quite perceive it
I sense my lot
And I will not
Give up but
I will fight it

Original draft 20th April 2015

Skin is Thin
Under our skin
Within within
All blood and bone
Alone alone

Flay that layer
Slayer slayer
All just the same
No shame no shame

Seeking out love
Above above
And down below
Aglow aglow

Skin is thin
Now begin

25/11/2016

Life/death/life lover
I awoke today
Wrapped in the arms
Of my midnight lover.
The dark man who
Comes in my dreams
To lead me away from
Harm and heartache
And remind my mind
Of my body's need
And heal my heart.
He cherishes me.

One day he will
Take me away
And I will remain
In his arms
For ever
October 2014

Time
Your shining fresh faces
Will one day be webbed
With the lines of your lives
Like ours
29/4/13

​more soon

Tit for tat

Today it is a whole year since I was told I had grade two invasive breast cancer.

Since hearing the words, “It’s not good news, I’m afraid.” I have been on the toughest journey of my entire life. I have experienced what it feels like to stay awake for as long as I possibly can because of not being sure that I’d ever wake up. I have been totally bald, all over (except for a small, extremely tenacious patch of hair beneath each knee) and have considerably more scars to show off now, should there ever be any sort of contest. I have had to inject myself in the stomach (!!), take steroids (brilliant for getting stuff done quickly, terrible for any sort of sleep) and take all sorts of other drugs at various times of the day (at one point I had seven different alarms going off to remind me which to take when).

After having had almost totally symmetrical but quite small boobs, I now have an extremely asymmetrical pair with a largish, pert (but rather obviously scarred) left breast and a now quite sad and slightly sulky looking right breast. My left arm is swollen with lymphoedema and although it is improving, I will probably have to wear some kind of compression sleeve every day, for the rest of my life. My hair is coming back thick, dark (not grey as I'd hoped so I could go blonde) and very very curly!

But the three main things I will take away from this last year are an immense gratitude and appreciation for the National Health Service, a true sense that I am loved by my family and friends and a new respect, which borders on awe for my own body.

Whatever has been thrown at it – chemotherapy, radiotherapy, surgery and all the supplementary drugs and treatments in between… my body has bounced back (granted, it has sometimes been a bit of a slower bounce than I'd have liked) and I now feel as strong if not stronger than I was this time last year, pre-cancer diagnosis. In fact, three weeks ago I took part in the LDWA Red Rose 100 mile challenge walk. It was the fourth 100 mile challenge I've entered and completed and I finished in 42 hours and 55 minutes, beating my own previous personal best by four hours and 12 minutes. FOUR HOURS?!! (Next year... under forty?)

The human body is a truly amazing thing and I love mine, scars, sags, lumps, bumps and all.

This song sums it up for me (thank you Tim Minchin)

http://youtu.be/dg3PberzvXo

Getting back on the horse.

When you fall off it's best to get straight back on before the the thought of what just happened seeps into your subconscious and allows the fear to take over...

So I'm getting my headshots (professional portrait photos) redone in the hope that I can start getting called in for castings again (and therefore start to get some acting work.) before the 'goings on' over the last year seep too much more deeply into my subconscious and freeze up any physical creativity I may have left.

The aim of these photos is to catch casting directors' attention, which they almost certainly will but perhaps not for the right reasons... Who knows though? There may well be a gap in the market for a middle aged Caucasian female of average height and weight, with a 'number two' action man crop. Everyone needs a USP...!

The ultimate goal is to make a comfortable living as an actor. Something which (apart from a year or so of small scale touring back in '99/2000) has always alluded me. I have to admit that I have not been as focused as perhaps I could have been. But the job of mother (the most important, most rewarding (emotionally) but worst paid (financially)) has been my main commitment for over a decade. And I've always been so easily distracted...

Oh who am I trying to kid?! I've never been able to focus and dedicate myself to the singular pursuit of anything. Except walking. I can do that. But it's just too easy to be drawn off course when it comes to anything more complicated and less physical. Too easy to find something else to do.

Procrastination. What a wonderful word for a horrible thing. If my career was in a field which depended upon my talent for putting things off, making excuses and just plain avoiding the task at hand, I'd have won awards. Procrastination has eaten large parts of my life so far and despite the terror of the cancer and all that has happened over the last year, I can feel the sneak creeping back in.

I did however manage to get the new headshots this week (thanks to the very lovely and talented Jennifer Scott for a really fun morning!) so I have 'remounted the horse' and taken the first step (love a mixed metaphor!) Now to keep going and take the next step (choosing the shot that'll get me seen for the job).

This time I'd quite like to stay on the horse and get to the end of the walk...

The Good the Bad & the Ugly

My hair's coming back.

I mentioned it last week and now, two weeks and a day after my last wet shave, I have a proper suede head. My eyelashes are growing (albeit a little bit patchily) and my eyebrows promise to come back every bit as thickly and fully (although so far not anything like as darkly) as they were before I became hairless. In fact, the very first proper eyebrow hair to return was slap bang in the middle, between my eyes... Great.

So with the return of my good, head hair comes the return of the hair I'd rather not have back. And while I've really missed going to the hairdressers (love having my hair washed, cut and styled!) I have not missed shaving my armpits, epilating   my legs or waxing the old bikini line. I now totally get the rage for going hairless 'down below' but am not sure if I can put myself through the pain of maintaining it (if you know what I mean?! If you don't, look up 'Hollywood waxing'...). I'm also now sporting a quite impressive halo of downy face fluff which was definitely not there before. Just one of the many side effects of the Tamoxifen I believe (of this more later).

And with the return of all my hair (the good, the bad and the ugly) comes the return of all the mixed blessings which living a life brings. I have been one of the lucky ones. And I am determined not to let the last year slip away without it changing my remaining life for the better.

But I'm taking tamoxifen so it's harder than it might be.

Tamoxifen is a selective oestrogen-receptor modulator drug. It blocks the particular type of cancer tumour I had from using oestrogen to grow. But it has side effects (of course - don't they all?!) the culmination of which make me feel premenstrual ALL THE TIME!

YUCK!

Even if you've never had PMT (fellas and very lucky women amongst you) you will almost definitely have experienced it second hand. Moody, over-emotional (alright, sensitive) carb & chocolate craving, clumsy, bloated dull, low to medium level tummy ache, back ache and headache - all these symptoms and more are making 'getting on with it' a little bit tricky. But at least I'm getting less hot flushes than I was which is an unexpected benefit as they're one of the side effects under the heading 'common' on the information sheet.

Potentially I'm going to be taking tamoxifen for five to ten years. So I need to come up with a way of dealing with these side effects or get Dr Lowdell (my oncologist) to try me on something else... This time next week I'll have seen him so we'll see how that pans out.

One of the good things I am managing to do is keep up the training for the 100 mile challenge walk I'm doing at the end of May and the marathon length Moonwalk the weekend before. Good because walking definitely helps my symptoms but also because I'm raising money for Walk the Walk- a grant giving charity specifically for breast cancer causes. I'll add the link to my fundraising page at the end of this blog - any donations, great or small very gratefully received.

Today, as well as finally completing a whole week at work, I managed a 10 mile walk into work and I don't feel too bad on it.

Next week I'm having some new photos done by the wonderful Jennie Scott. It's about time I started getting on with the search for acting work. (I'm loathe to label said search ugly, but it's tempting...)

Oh, and work continues slowly but surely on the show...

Here's that link to the fundraising page: https://moonwalklondon2015.everydayhero.com/uk/annabel-1

Getting There

It's been a while. Six weeks to be precise.

Not blogging (if that's the right way to describe it?) wasn't a conscious decision. I started writing on a number of occasions over the last few weeks but it never came to anything. Didn't seem interesting enough to bother other people with. I now realise that is probably more to do with what's going on in my head than the subject matter. because that's how I feel about everything at the moment. Nothing is interesting or engaging. Everything is flat and dull and unimportant. Except of course, I know that it's none of those things really. It's me.

I'm just suffering from the fallout and side effects from 10 months of draconian, life changing cures for a disease which could've killed me. Would probably have killed me sooner or later, if I hadn't found it when I did (thank heavens for my bonkers penchant for 100 mile walks!).

The last blog entry (again I'm unsure if this is the correct expression?) was written in the middle of radiotherapy. By that stage I was getting used to daily visits to either Hammersmith or Charing Cross hospitals. It's amazing how quickly us humans can normalise even the most arduous, uncomfortable and bizarre ordeals. Exposure to gamma rays five days a week for six weeks (and I might add, not a super power in sight!) definitely qualifies on all three of those scores.

On day three of the thirty radiotherapy sessions I was to undergo, I woke up with a fat hand. The Lymphoedema had started.

(Please read 'Keeping Abreast of it' blog number 7 (Lymphoemaniac) for an explanation of the chronic condition of Lymphoedema.)

My left hand, arm, side and boob began to swell and didn't go down (not complaining about the swollen bosom - ironically it's now bigger than the right one, despite having had a proportionally largish lump (the cancer) removed). My hand, arm and side are sometimes horribly uncomfortable but most of the time it's just annoying. And upsetting. But although it's fatter, my left hand does now look 20 years younger than my right hand, which is nice(ish) (always a silver lining, however thin it may be)

It quickly became clear that continuing to work (as a part time receptionist at the British Olympic Association) was going to be virtually impossible. Firstly, the radiotherapy department seemed incapable (for some reason or another) of giving me morning appointments (I'm supposed to be at work from 12:30 - 17:30 Monday to Friday). And secondly I discovered quite spectacularly (and very embarrassingly) that I was a lot more stressed out, emotionally exhausted and 'fragile' than I'd realised...

I basically ended up having a proper, teen-style tantrum.

It had been building since 6th January when the radiotherapy course had started. In the run up to the treatment, I'd been led to believe that they'd be able to fit my daily gamma ray blast around work. I suspect, under normal circumstances, that wouldn't have been a problem. But Charing Cross radiotherapy department is having a major overhaul and they had a machine down. A lot of us were being farmed out, for a fair number of sessions, to Hammersmith hospital. On the third occasion I'd had to point out that I worked in the afternoon and therefore couldn't attend the mainly afternoon appointments they'd booked me in for, I'd dissolved into tears while trying to explain. The fourth time, I totally lost it.

The radiotherapist had handed me the Outlook diary print out for the following week's appointments and all but one of them were slap bang in the middle of the afternoon. I ran out of words as I tried to explain (for the umpteenth time) that I worked in the afternoon and so therefore couldn't attend four of the five appointments AND go into work. The words ran out as the tears welled up, choking me. I then launched into a throttled, half shouted, half whispered, "That's it. I'm not doing this anymore. I've had enough. I don't want anymore radiotherapy." And with that I turned on my heel and, sobbing loudly (with snot) I ran from the department.

Through the waiting room.

Past everyone waiting (mainly) patiently for their turn on the gamma ray machines...

I got to the railings outside Charing Cross radiotherapy department and stopped short. Just glad to be out in the fresh air I think. I slumped down onto the top step and, the flood gates now open, burst into proper, old fashioned, shuddering sobs.

Moments later a bewildered radiographer caught up with me and gently coaxed me back inside...

I have rarely felt so embarrassed and ashamed of myself (and I've done some breathtakingly embarrassing things in my time!). Still, it gave those waiting a focus and distracted them for a while so... (There's that wafer thin silver lining again!)

Needless to say, when I'd calmed down, I realised quite how much all the months of treatment, it's side effects and the mental stress had affected me. That's when they suggested (very tactfully) that I should use the doctors note written for me the previous week after the first (and now minor) tearful incident. That's how I ended up signed off work. And I'm still trying to get back up to my full, part time hours.

Since then lots has happened and yet not much has changed. Yet...

In the last 6 weeks I have: finished radiotherapy, walked 50 miles in 16 hours & 29 minutes. I was whisked away to Rome for three days. I started taking Tamoxifen. And I did my third (and probably final) standup spot at the Bearcat Comedy Club at our local in Hanwell.

Oh, and all my hair's started growing back!

For details regarding this and more, watch this space (I reckon that sounds like the right sort of expression to describe a blog)

And meanwhile here's a great article about the strangeness of finishing treatment...

http://mobile.nytimes.com/blogs/well/2015/03/16/lost-in-transition-after-cancer/?_r=0&referrer=

One Step Beyond...

I'm walking again. Not that I was ever laid so low (thankfully!) that I couldn't get about on foot but I'm now increasing the distances I travel on Shanks's pony, preparing for my first 50 mile challenge walk since September last year.

Hooray!

Over three quarters of the way through 30 sessions of radiotherapy, I have to admit that I'm now experiencing considerable fatigue. This is not the same as tiredness (or even exhaustion) it is a sluggish, heaviness which seeps through the body into the bones and the brain. Sleep is fitful and even with a seemingly good eight hours I've woken up feeling worse than I did the night before. It drains all energy. Self motivation, both mental and physical feels impossible. But unlike plain old ordinary exhaustion (or just simple tiredness) if I ignore it and push myself to get out and (for instance...) walk, it goes away almost entirely. Then I can get myself properly tired (and sometimes even exhausted) and then I (usually) get some proper, sweet, restorative sleep.

All the experts have expressed their approval of my walking (much to the surprise of some of my family and friends who think this relatively newfound hobby is a form of madness or a massive but largely harmless midlife crisis). It's a great way of beating the fatigue and keeping fit and healthy while I finish the treatment and begin to fully recover from the mental, physical and emotional trauma of the last eight months. One of the medical experts I've met with during this journey (unfortunately I can't remember which one) said that if they could prescribe walking as part of the treatment it would be up there (and close to the top) of the list of drugs and interventions used to fight cancer.

How lucky then that I took up long distance walking when I did? I have UK Sport (in particular, Laura King and David Cole with support from everyone else but especially Angela Field) to thank for getting me into this wonderfully therapeutic (but a little bit bonkers) pass-time.

It all started in September 2011 with a valiant but largely unsuccessful attempt by about 20 colleagues and friends at UK Sport, to complete the National Three Peaks Challenge... A tale for another time but for now, suffice to say that's when the bug started to bite.

Someone (David Cole) then suggested some of us might 'like' to attempt the Long Distance Walkers Association 100 mile challenge. In 2012 it was taking place in and around London and the south western Home Counties and was going to be called the Games 100 in honour of the London 2012 Olympic Games. Being employees of UK Sport it seemed only right that at least some of us should take part.

I had never heard of the LDWA. I had never heard of people walking 100 miles 'for fun'. I hadn't even heard that long distance walking was a 'thing'.

In order to qualify for entry into the Games 100, we had to have successfully completed a 50 mile challenge (50 miles in under 20 hours or so) and the only official one on the calendar that we (there were only four of us by now) could all get the time off to do was the Winter Poppyline in Norfolk. In Febuary.

That's the walk when I truly got it. When I discovered that long distance walking was gong to be my 'thing' for as long as I was able to put one foot in front of the other. And I remember the moment when it took root in my soul.

It was night (more than half the Winter Poppyline is walked in darkness due to the time of year). The four of us (David, Laura, Anne-Louise and me) were heading at a steady pace along a slightly raised footpath which cut diagonally across a massive, ploughed field. Anyone who's been to Norfolk will know that in parts the skies are massive (on account of the flatness of the countryside) and on that night, at that point, the sky was clear. By the time we got half way across the field, as far as I was concerned, we could have been at any point in the whole of human history. And I could feel the Earth turning - the sky was so huge, the path was so straight and the stars so clear it was suddenly obvious. And totally wonderful.

From that moment on I was hooked.

I finished the walk slightly behind the other three and in considerable pain. My hips and knees complaining due to my body being a little bit unfit and about a stone overweight. But my mind and soul were elated and so, outnumbered two to one, my body conceded defeat and I resolved to lose weight, get fit and walk 100 miles...

At the end of this month, my first long walk of the year (and since just after the chemo began in September), will be the 2015 Winter Poppyline 50 mile challenge. Once again I am carrying a bit too much weight and I'm not quite back to peak fitness yet...

But that gives me something really good to work towards (so much better than just working away from something bad).

How to Become Invisible (and other stuff)

Happy New(ish) Year!

I worked out one or two things over the festive period. The first is that staying at home, spending time with my family is not at all conducive to writing. And the other is that chemotherapy and Christmas do not mix.

At all.

Thank goodness Mum & Dad offered to do Christmas this year. It meant that Arthur (nearly six), Henry (nearly 12) and Mike (44 and a half) had a nearly completely normal Christmas, absorbed into the goings on of the wider family. And I could shrink into the shadows of the chemo chemical with little or no stress or guilt.

Which is pretty much what I did. Other than the "Trivial Pursuit Incident"...

I very foolishly took part in the Christmas Evening Trivial Pursuit game. It very quickly became apparent that the vagaries of the old TP do not mix with chemo side effects at all well either. After several rounds where I knew the answer to everyone else's questions but had absolutely no idea what the answers were to any of my own, I announced (very firmly!) that I was surrendering my empty 'cheese holder' by declaring that the game was "Not fun. Not fun at all", then stomping off in floods of tears convinced that TP had just become a cruel allegory for my luck since the middle of 2014.

So the first part of the festive holiday was a bit of a blur (or should that be 'bleurghh'?). Things (including my horribly grumpy mood) gradually improved from Boxing Day onwards. And by New Year's Eve (which we spent with friends just outside Bristol) I was in a positively party mood! Chocolate was almost tasting nice again (despite the truly disgusting taste when combined with chemo mouth (of this more later), I persevered bravely with the normal, Christmas consumption of chocolate and other (normally) delicious, sweet delights of the season. This as it transpires (according to my scales) was foolish in the extreme. Never mind), the atmosphere was warm and relaxed and my sense of humour began to return.

And now I'm back at work (hooray!), the chemo side effects have almost cleared and I've begun radiotherapy treatment. This involves 30 sessions over six weeks...

I am now totally hairless (my eyelashes and eyebrows have completely gone, bar some strange baby fluff stuff. And my hair is so patchy I'm still shaving my head bald). Travelling to the hospital and work by public transport, I have noticed that when I have to remove my scarf (due to the increasingly frequent hot flushes (yuck)), it renders me invisible - especially on the tube. I'm still deciding whether to test just how invisible I am by doing some 'invisible man' tricks like picking up a pen and waving it across the carriage past people's faces; or snatching someone's Metro from their hands and flicking the pages in midair in front of them. I think I may well become immediately visible again but it's tempting to try it anyway...

On a slightly more serious note, I suspect that people (in that very peculiar way - is it just us Brits?) are embarrassed to look at me but I'm not quite sure why. Is it because they feel pity for me? Are they not happy to face up to, and look at someone who has suffered (or still is, for all they know) from the dreaded cancer? Or is it just that they would have to give up their seat or their chance of one (for those still standing) if they acknowledged my presence? No, it can't be the last option, not entirely anyway, as even when I do get a seat, people don't seem to see me unless my head is covered and I'm wearing make-up (and then it's eye contact and smiles as normal). But the fact that no one's tried to sit on me yet probably proves that at some level they're aware that some sort of entity is present...

From now on I'm going to make sure that I acknowledge anyone who looks like they might be going through chemo. Not to single them out, but in the same way I would with anyone else. Look them in the eye (but don't stare) and smile. And I don't feel bad that I've never been offered a seat on the tube - I'm taking it as a compliment! I obviously don't look ill enough to need a seat (mind you, if they're not looking then I'm not sure how they can tell...).

Which brings me on to a couple of other things which have come up recently.

The first is a bit of an unusual one. Recently I've had a couple of people say how good I look but in the same breath, apologise in case it was in any way upsetting or insulting or un-PC. Certainly from my perspective it most definitely wasn't any of those things. On the contrary, it was lovely and a real boost to my now quite wobbly self confidence. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that if you think someone (however ill they are) is looking good it's unlikely that you'll upset them by saying so. I reckon it's worth the risk if it makes them feel anything like as good as it made me feel.

The second is a concerted effort to come up with an accurate description of what the taste in my mouth was like (yes! It's finally in the past tense - HOORAY!). I'm not entirely sure why this information would be useful or interesting to anyone else other than that quite a few people have asked if it was a metallic taste, which (for me at least) it wasn't. So maybe the incentive is giving an accurate answer? Or perhaps it's just the challenge of the description?

Here goes...

For me it was like that aftertaste/texture thing which you get when you've had too much chocolate or full sugar coke. A 'furry' tongue; viscous, slightly sticky but at the same time slimy saliva and a highly chemical flavour, similar to putting a couple of artificial sweeteners directly in your mouth and letting them dissolve on either side of your tongue near the back of your bottom teeth (try it - you'll see what I mean). And it burnt like bleach probably would if you gargled with it. A bit like all those things.

Chocolate and coffee tasted disgusting - most sweet things tasted horrible - even fruit. And everything else tasted on a sliding scale from really hideous to a bit weird. Exceptions for me were tomatoes, marmite, weak black tea and solero ice lollies. And sucking ice cubes really helped.

Phew.

Now that my skin's getting back to normal, I'm in training for the long distance walking again - 50 miles at the end of Febtuary. More of that and how the radiotherapy's going next time. Ooh and I'm having another go at the Standup on 26th of January... Details to follow.

The Temple

So no blog last week.

I'm afraid it was just too much.

Is that an admission of weakness or an honest response and responsible reaction to the rather hefty burden of the antibiotics I was taking the week before, on top of the five accumulated chemo rounds? I'm going to be kind to myself and own the latter.

The antibiotics were (probably) necessary in order to prevent the rather 'fruity' (to put it nicely!) cough I had picked up, from becoming a full blown chest infection and thus landing me back in hospital. They (probably) worked as I didn't/haven't yet developed a chest infection, or for that matter any other type of infection (let's hope I haven't just spoken too soon there...!). But the antibiotics did send me half way round the bend.

That probably isn't a very PC way of putting it but adequately describes what was going on in my head the week before last. It felt likely my mind was fracturing and I was losing myself to an unknown (and not particularly pleasant) part of my personality. I started taking the antibiotics on the Monday and it wasn't until Wednesday (and 48 hours of mental turbulence) that I thought to look at the leaflet to check the side effects...

Eek!

At 50cm long, the leaflet looked more like a scroll when I'd finally finished unfolding it. Both sides were covered in closely printed 8 point text and most of that text listed the possible side effects...

Among some really ugly warnings about impaired liver and kidney function and gastrointestinal disturbances was a section on the possible mental side effects, "Altered sense of reality, anxiety, depression, hallucinations, nightmares and strange dreams" were all listed. It didn't give a likelihood of these quite scary side effects occurring but I'm pretty sure anyone who read the last blog entry would agree, I was certainly suffering from at least some of them!

And now I'm just exhausted.

Taking the antibiotics on top of the chemotherapy and bearing in mind that it was then only three weeks since my sojourn in Ealing Hospital (and all the drugs they'd plied me with there!), I think the tiredness I am now experiencing is only to be expected.

My poor, brave, embattled body.

I'm in awe of my body. I do on occasions feel a bit betrayed by the cells which went rogue and mutated, growing into the Lump; the cancer (always now with a small "c") which had started to worm it's way from my breast to the rest of my body via those poor old lymph nodes. But the rest of my body... It is an amazing, biological machine. So complex and incredible; so beautiful in the way it works, in the way it keeps trying to heal no matter what is thrown at it. And strong. Despite the last six months of treatment. It's ironic that I was apparently so fit and healthy back in May (I walked 100 miles after all) and yet if I hadn't found the lump, I was probably only a couple of months away from the cancer escaping to other parts of my body thus becoming secondary breast cancer and rendering itself 'incurable'.

But I felt so well.

Now I do not.

The cure has made me more ill than I have ever been in my life. By increments I have become unrecognisable to myself (inside and out). I have lost almost all my hair (there are a couple of tenacious eyelashes and eyebrows on each side hanging on in there and the hair on my head keeps trying to grow back (incredible perseverance from those follicles!))

And yet...

I have learnt so much about myself. I have rarely felt so loved and supported. I have discovered how much I enjoy writing. And I have finally tried standup (and enjoyed it so much that I will be doing it again). My priorities have changed and continue to evolve. But most of all I now have the utmost respect and love for my body (which definitely includes my mind - the chemo has conclusively proved them to be part of the same homogenous whole).

Last chemo (number six) today. One more ride on the rollercoaster. I have reached almost total inertia now and everything is much more of a monumental effort. But one of my walking mates on Twitter (thank you Chris!) pointed out that Sunday is the Winter Solstice and from Monday the days will gradually get longer again. At his very simple but inspiring suggestion I will hang on to the coat tails of the sun and use the returning light to me to guide full recovery.

HAPPY WINTER SOLSTICE EVERYONE - may the returning light inspire you too :oD

The darkest hour

What a week!

Last Wednesday (26th December) I made my standup comedy debut at The Cavendish Arms in Stockwell. A five minute set of funny stuff I've noticed about cancer and the road to recovery...

On Thursday (27th), Macmillan won the Brand of the Year award at the annual Marketing Society awards ceremony in London, for the "No one should face cancer alone" campaign. The ad I'm in is a major part of that campaign and the post on the Marketing Weekly website had the photo of Vikki (the real life Macmillan nurse) and me taken from that ad.

I remain very proud of the work we all put in on that one minute of finished film. And there is nothing about my own performance I would change in light of what's happened. Nothing.

On Friday (28th), I had chemo round five - the second dose of Taxotere (Doxataxyl). Down to earth with a horrible bump and still descending.

Before now, I could never understand those who chose not be fixed at any price.

Now I do. I am now in the chemical depths of this penultimate chemo round and those of you who've stuck with me through all of this (thank you, by the way) will know that I've largely managed to deal with the aftermath of and treatment for, breast cancer with a positive frame of mind and a sense of humour (albeit a bit on the dark side). But right now I am in a dark place. With a severe sense of humour failure.

One of the many side-effects of the Doxataxyl (Taxotere - the T of the FEC-T regime) chemo drug appears to change my perception of the world, both physically (my eyesight is definitely different - altered somehow - not my eyes but the connection between them and my brain I think) and metaphysically. This change in point of view has shifted my personality. For the time being, I am no longer the person I know.

It probably sounds a bit bonkers and I know this is just a temporary shift (well, I hope it is) but I have now asked myself the question, "If I'm not myself, if I can no longer exist in this life as the person I know, do I want to carry on living as someone else?"

I've never thought of myself as having a particularly strong personal identity before. I always thought that I was a bit of a chameleon, drifting from situation to situation; person to person, merely adapting myself as closely as I could to the circumstances and individuals I encountered along the way. But, it turns out, that's one of the character traits I hold most precious. That and compassion, humour and a sunny, positive (sometimes annoyingly so, even for me), optimistic outlook. Would I want to continue to exist if those things were removed from my make up?

No.

It turns out (surprisingly for me) that I do not want to survive at all costs. If that cost is an alteration in my personality so fundamental to who I am, that I was no longer myself, then I would rather cease to exist than become a stranger to myself, my family and friends.

It's a bit of a knotty one though...

Because if I was no longer the person I am (I'm still here in the background and can feel the shift back to old me starting to occur as the chemical effects of chemo number five very slowly begin to wear off), then how would I recognise that I'd ever been anything else? And who's to say the new Annabel wouldn't be immediately adamant about staying? And remaining as long as possible, thank you very much? Hard as nails, grumpy and next to no sense of humour. Great.

Enough of this introspective nonsense (that's her!).

The title of this week's blog is from the saying "the darkest hour's before the dawn" and that's where I am now with the chemotherapy. It's just over two weeks until the final dose and I can almost see the first light of daybreak in the sky... Almost.