Shitty Titty Gang Bang

Shitty Titty Gang Bang

So, the two week wait. This is a term most women on pregnancy sites deem as the time in which couples pretend to suddenly want loads of sex, for no more than five days; to the point in which ones period is due. Lady then spends every day counting down 14 days when it is acceptable to start playing with her wee, crossing her foof that she is pregnant so she doesn't have to break out the crotchless knickers again two weeks later. ( Hey family members please ignore this. This is called 'embellishing the truth for dramatic effect'. Our kids were immaculately conceived. It's that Albatross with a back pack that dumped them in the garden. Not the lady garden I might add. What? Shut up Heidi)

Anyway, this is not that kind of two week wait. I would much rather be playing with my piss than playing with my life. 

Two weeks. Well what happens in two weeks? There's like 10 episodes of Emmerdale, 36 shitty nappies, 4 x-factors, 2 bin collections and 336 waking hours of touching cloth. Sleep is for whimps right? Well apparently so.  

In those two weeks I did my best to crack on as normal. I went to soft play with the kids and yacked with other mothers about weaning and the like.

Perfect mum 1: "oh gosh I would never give my Tarquin sugar. It's tantamount to lacing his organic cous cous with Ricin."

Me: "Gracious, nor I." (Don't mention the friggin dib-dabs they both had before we left)

I chatted with the 89 year old Doris on the high street and made the stupid mistake of asking an old person how they are.

Me: how are you?

Doris: oh well you know dear, I manage. I've got this hip you see, it clicks. Then there's my Sciatica, oh and my wrist, gives me hell in this cold weather. My eye isn't what it used to be and there's an ingrown toenail on my left foot.

Me: Oh I'm so sorry to hear that. (Too right you're hanging out your ass...your eighty fucking 9. You've the breath in you lungs to tell me the whose who of the NHS ailments webpage. Grown a diamond out your ass lately have you?)

You take it easy my lover.

Then I watch as Doris manoeuvres off up the high street towards Costa, reinacting her recent win in Ninja Warrior UK.

And I carry on as mummy. Chastising Pojee (age 2) for calling his Nanny a 'wrinkly old crone' (his vocabulary is amazing). Cleaning up Potatoes numerous Poo-nados equipped with a poo claw on the white lounge wall. Making sure the kids don't live on Birdseye hashtags 24/7 and being forced to read 'daddy pig loses his car keys' every night, twice. That stupid pig! No wonder they say Pork causes Cancer!!!!!

In amongst all this madness, and the weekend before THE RESULTS, I head off to the Cotswolds with my dearest Uni gang....yes dear reader, you might be shocked to learn that I actually have a degree from a real university! Woooo get me! 

This isn't a 'sorry you might die' holiday, it was booked waaaayyy before recent events. It was meant to be a 'managed to get rid of the kids, let's drink wine, eat loads of junk and sleep in all day' weekend. The kind of weekend every woman with kids of a certain age, dreams of. Men take note: we don't need fancy jewellery or posh nights out, we need you to bugger off with the kids for the weekend so we can sit in our pjs and do sweet FA.

We rented a nice little house in house in Shipston-on-Stour, and we were SO lucky to have a parking Nazi living next door who I toyed with the idea of running over several times. After all, I reckon I could get away with a few crimes now. 'But I have cancer your honour, I was out of my mind.' Diminished responsibility anyone?

So this is the first time I've seen these ladies since my diagnosis and the sweet prospect of 'terminal'. So of course there are tears, declarations of love and a bucket load of questions. The first night my friend climbs into bed with me and offers to stay until I fall asleep as I confessed I'd been having nightmares on the rare occasion I fall asleep. She listens to me as I cry extremely quietly into my pillow and tells me that she can't guarantee everything will be ok but she can guarantee that when my hair falls out, for this, I won't be alone.

On the Monday morning she drives me to the station and I make my way to Bristol where Scouse picks me up. "How do you feel?" He asks. "Honestly, like a woman on death row" . I don't know whether to piss or shit myself or spew. 

We arrive at the hospital and I wait for my Oncologist. So this is it. This is where I find out if I'm currently Terminal. I wonder how she's going to tell me? Will there be hugs? Head tilts? Tears? I deserve tears as I'm so marvellous and special. I want tears. Actually no. What I want is to be curable. I want chemotherapy. I want a chance. I want to be here for my kids as long as I can be. I want to see Pojee start school. I want to potty train Potato and marvel at the joy of when he curls one out on the carpet. I want chocolate mousse to actually be old enough to remember me and not just watch me on a video in 10 years time and wonder who the bloody hell is that bald, yet brilliant woman? It's clearly her fault I'm stuck with this nose! 

So I cross my fingers and I go in when called.

I'm about 10cm dilated at this point. We both sit down and I brace for impact. 

"So you know the tests are clear". 

What? 

"The tests, they're  clear. You know this." 

Uhhhh no I don't. "Oh right, well someone should have rang you last week. We can't rule out lungs at this stage as MRI's aren't great with lungs but the cancer is just in your breast and lymph nodes so currently you're in the 'potentially curable' bracket"

At this point, Apollo 13 launches in my rear. I'm ecstatic!!!! Drop it like its hot mofos, Schizzle my nizzle onclogist-izzle!!!! Or something that sounds excited.

"Wow you seem pleased for someone with cancer. Now the hard part starts, you Will have [ insert medical jargon that basically says that I'm going to be whipped, poked and burned akin to a great S and M novel] treatment that will take over a year." 

She then explains that when they chop my tits off I could be facing 'terminal twat face' again as they can't determine how curable I am until that point. 

But as of now I'm in that bracket and I love it. In fact I could marry it. Then I wouldn't have to marry Scouse! Woooo hooo. 

So it's bloody great news and I get Chemotherapy, radiotherapy, tit removal and hormone treatments. Bring it on butt munchers. 

I go home with a big smile on my face and I kiss my kids and I rub my baby bump in celebration. Mummy's got a bloody chance and by the power of grey skull I'm going to shake it by the nut sack.

I pop potato to bed and go to Pojees room for story time. 

"Mummy you're so beautiful (ahhhhhh) can I have daddy pig looses his car keys?"

Oh for fucks sake bring me a sausage!!!!