Wednesday 18 November 2015


Did you ever have a 'My Little Pony' as a kid? The really colourful one with a tale like a rainbow?
Well, I've just discovered that I am 'My Little Rainbow Pony.' 
No, I'm not off my face on roids, I haven't yet grown a tale, but boy can I pee in amazing ways!!!
I my friends, can now piss a rainbow!!

I have started my chemotherapy and the one I'm having to keep chocolate mousse on the big slide towards the birth canal is called 'RED DEVIL'. ( nods to medical nerds..... Adriamycin and Cyclophosphamide.....salutes to fellow chemo chums AC dude....waves to my mother....Chemo. Right that covers you all)

So as the name suggests, it's red. My chemo is received via a pic line in my left arm. This is a permanent tube thing that dangles out of the mother of all veins just above the arm crease and has a line that comes up your arm and right into your body.  I sit in a chair for just 30 minutes in a ward full of people who are three times my age and at varying levels of decay, whilst a nurse squeezes syringes of red juice into my arm. It doesn't hurt at all, it's by far more painful having a front row seat for the rehearsals of The Walking Dead. 

Anyway, my wee. The first trip to the bog post chemo is a very fierce and angry stream of bright red. 'Oh my god, I've cut my foof on something!!!!!' 
How? I've stopped wearing cheese wire thongs in favour of Bridget Jones knickers ages ago. Maybe I pulled the zip down too quickly? Maybe I accidentally snipped a flap when I last trimmed.....oh that can't be it.....that was around the time Columbus discovered America. Best go and tell someone. 
"Oh that's the chemo dear, just one of the interesting side effects. You'll get all sorts. 
Funnily enough we have green and blue chemo too. Does the same thing." 
I smile and remember all my uni nights chucking back blue WKD and getting excited about the wee that would await me the next day. It never disappointed.

So through the course of the next few days the rainbow continued. After the red incident it was the Breast Cancer! Now you know I hate pink so this pissed me off.  It's everywhere I look.  In wigs in the oncology waiting rooms, running the London Marathon in the form of tutus, on all the friggin cancer leaflets and now it's in my toilet!!! Oh you've got breast cancer.....have some pink wee in sympathy. Oh Flush right off!!!!

Then it was orange. Now this was handy as I went down and added several things to my shopping list. Satsumas, lucozade and ginger biscuits. That's a Voldertit victory right there.
 It also reminded me to drink more. And of that disgusting time I saw rugby boys drink pints of the stuff in some kind of 'penis-off'. This is a breed of human I'll never understand.

Then there was yellow. Oh how I'd missed yellow. Yellow is normal. Yellow is sunny and reassuring. Yellow means a closing of a chapter and the progression of the treatment. It also meant I didn't have to keep hearing "Mummy why is your wee like that" everytime I nipped to the bathroom. Also, that reminds me, can someone please let me in on how one ever gets to wee or poo without an audience when they have kids? I can't have a lock on the door as I don't trust myself not to hide there when the kids are stamping on each other's heads. I feel fairly certain I would never reopen the door. Which also reminds me that I should keep vodka in the bathroom. 

I digress. Weemo is one of the very interesting side effects I am experiencing. That and the invasion of my everyday language. Not only have I started swearing a lot more, i actually ordered 'drug-bread' at the curry house the other night.

Waiter: Onion Bhajee please, Lamb Rogan and pilau rice. Any bread?
Me: oh yes. I'll have a chemo-Nan please. 
Waiter: very good.

A Chemo-Nan? 
And there I was....transported back to the Oncology ward looking at all the old Chemo Nan's wondering around in their pink rinse wigs or pirate bandanas. 

So I went straight home and tried to lock myself in the bathroom. 
"Mummy I need a pooh"

"Sod off. Mummy's drinking Vodka"

Tuesday 10 November 2015

Cliche Bingo - The Cancer Remix

Cliche Bingo - The Cancer Remix

Disclaimer Disclaimer : If you are one of my readers that enjoys insults and inappropriate digs at people who mean well, then please skip the disclaimer as I wouldn't want to ruin your experience. 

Disclaimer: I love all my family and friends and I'm very much aware that when someone you love is diagnosed with a very scary life threatening illness, you don't know what to say. I'm also extremely grateful for all strangers who have reached out to me since the dawning of Voldertit. I really do appreciate all your support. So please don't leave me.... I know you all mean well and I'm of the school of 'say something rather than nothing'. So please read with a pinch of balls. 

Right. Arse wipes, mere mortals and cringe bags. A very wise woman once told me when she found out about my situation, to prepare myself for Cliche Bingo. 
It quickly became apparent to me what this meant. So I wanted to share it with you all. This is actually one blog entry that I haven't just written for me. 

A secret Facebook group kind of entitled 'edgy women with cancer meet here to be hilarious and say the word cunt a lot', tracked me down through the blog and thought I might want to join them based on my love of swearing / inability to string a sentence together, without swearing. 
Anyway this lot have been on this train for a lot longer than me and have heard the Cancer cliches over and over. They've banged their heads against many a brick wall, and visualised punching various people in the head, tits and clunge on numerous occasions, so I wanted to pay a kind of tribute to them. 
Therefore it's very sweary and abrupt but trust me when I tell you, these ladies have heard these phrases a lot!!!!!! I've heard them enough to be motivated to write about it so I feel these ladies must be doing their nuts by now.

Here's some fun, give yourself 10 points for each one you've said or heard in a crisis. 

FYI I've said 30 points worth and received 90 points worth and that doesn't include repetition. 

Right, go!

So, I've got cancer, what a crock of turd!
It's bloody shit-scary for such a fit young bird 
It's sad for all who know me and you don't know what to say, 
So don't just stand on ceremony; drop a fucking fat cliche!

"At least you don't need to shave" which is pretty fair - 
I may look bald to you but I've still got growler hair!!! 
And not to bloody mention it's still in my arm pits
If it's not bad enough that they're chopping off my tits

 "But you'll get a free boob job" which is cracking news
As I'm sick of these big swingers, scraping passed my shoes
But these have fed my children, are feminine and mine!
Would you like your perfect chest to resemble Frankenstein?

"You've got to stay positive" for whose sake? Mine of yours?
I'm well aware that all my tears can't meet with your applause.
"At least it's in your boobies, It's the best cancer to get". -
You what? It's bloody cancer! Not a razor by 'Gillette'!

"But you're too young". I know that. My life has far to go 
but I'll state the bleeding obvious, cancer knows no friend or foe. 
"But Age is on your side" - ok, I know I'm not a granny
But I'd rather just be cancer free with grey hairs on my fanny.

"It's only hair. It grows back." - my wig though bloody itches 
And how'd you feel representing Roald Dahl's friggin Witches?
"I can't tell you've got no eyebrows, you can't see they're drawn on"
But thanks for just reminding me you stupid-ass moron 

"You've got a 'good head', it's lovely" not just for radio
But 'good head' is synonymous with great fellatio 
I can't help but link the two. I know. I'm a disgrace
But when you say 'good head' I hear 'you've got a blow job face'!

"You're lucky your ears don't stick out, as I did suspect"
Yes I'm lucky to miss out on the Toby-Jug effect.
"And think of the hairstyles you can try while it grows back"
Andy of Little Britain or an unwaxed hairy crack?

"My mates neighbours brother had cancer and he's completely fine"
So I smile and nod whilst knowing it's way different from mine
'He ate cous cous, sniffed dog shit and bathed in tears of virgins
You don't need chemotherapy just offer prayers to gherkins'

 "You'll kick cancers ass!" This one has me in bits
As I visualise the attempt to kick myself straight in the tits.
"You look amazing". Mid-chemo.  Hang on, give it some thought,
Should you be told you're stunning when you look like Voldemort?

So dear readers, what can you say to someone who has cancer?
Honestly, I've no idea, I can't give you an answer 
It's just too fun to mock you but perhaps a little cruel
As its best to say something than to say nothing at all.

So here's one for my ladies who prefer to laugh than whinge
Wanky arse flaps, shit head, butt, penis breath and minge
Cunty mangled tit rag, smeggy willy hat
Eat shit you bastard Voldertit you fucking evil twat.

Monday 2 November 2015

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". 
"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!!!!