tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9690067762997290412024-03-24T23:09:36.746-07:00Storm in a tit cup Welcome to Cancer-Land....like DisneyLand only more deaths.
Facebook: storm in a tit cup by Heidi
Twitter : @storminatitcupHeidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-37434619938814154062018-11-04T08:39:00.001-08:002018-11-04T08:39:24.131-08:00Chemo BellEnd
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chemo Bell End!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Did you know that on many Oncology wards across the globe
there are these bizarre contraptions called Chemo bells? (No, they are not a
knob related chemo side effect) They are actual Bells hung on the wall of the Cancer treatment ward. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It does not ring the time, thankfully, (that would be an hourly
reminded of hour long you’ve been sat on your arse) it is a bell that sounds
the end of treatment. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXhva1RKLKNDDqd2P0E_AsuoeQoHLafr-gD0F_m7Yym-vteQn3yL6pW1qACTeAQL8WwxmfFyMFBtt5_V4qKvJisa_c19djpX9TC61XKdZBRYeswB6GsMu_Bvg7x0o88z4lsg5tFNJbWc/s1600/rainbow+bell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="1136" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXhva1RKLKNDDqd2P0E_AsuoeQoHLafr-gD0F_m7Yym-vteQn3yL6pW1qACTeAQL8WwxmfFyMFBtt5_V4qKvJisa_c19djpX9TC61XKdZBRYeswB6GsMu_Bvg7x0o88z4lsg5tFNJbWc/s320/rainbow+bell.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is traditionally rung by the patient, spelling the end of
their chemotherapy course. An announcement to all the other patients in
oncology that they have reached the end of treatment and therefore are cured
and will not be returning to a cancer ward, (unless unfortunate enough to
experience a metastasis or secondary spread of the primary cancer as its more
commonly known.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Isn’t that marvellous. Ringing out your victory over Cancer,
across the Cancer ward for all the other Cancer patients to hear?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No, no its bloody not. Shall I tell you why it’s a metal
crock of shit? Because there are many patients that hear that bell knowing full
well that they will never get to ring it. Those of us unlucky enough to have
secondary cancer will NEVER finish treatment and will never have the chance to
ring that bell. That bell is another reminder that we will never be cured. We
hear that bell, whilst hooked up to our palliative care and endure the
resounding gong of a victory that we shall never experience. It’s cruel really.
‘Ding dong here’s what you’ll never have ding dong.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s not to take away from those lucky enough to have that
experience, but why oh why is it right in full view and ear shot of those that
will never qualify? I’m happy for those that get to do it, but why not shove that
bell somewhere we don’t have to be reminded of it. Maybe up Cancers ass? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My friend Mel, who is a ‘lifer’ like me, summarises what
many of us secondary patients feel about this bell….</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's time for it to go. And we aren’t the only ones that feel
this way. Many of the Primary clan do too. “I could see it was there but I just
didn’t have the heart to partake. It’s like rubbing people’s faces in it” Hear
hear. The bells were well meant, and provided by people and charities that care,
but it’s time to move them. Don’t be a thoughtless knob…. get rid of the gong. #ChemoBellEnd</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span>Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com99tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-58977839005114602692018-09-09T08:10:00.000-07:002018-09-09T08:11:11.983-07:00Saying Goodbye <br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I was first diagnosed 3 years ago on September 11th 2015,
all I heard in the ‘Bad News Room’ was “Inflammatory Breast Cancer, not
sure the extent of spread, 2-5 years prognosis.” As I sat there at 13 weeks pregnant,
with a boy that had just turned 1 the day before and a 2 year old at home, all I
could think about was how my children would grow up without their mum. If I was
one of the ‘lucky’ ones and reached 5 years with IBC, the kids would be 5,6 and
7 when I died. I’d see all three start primary school, watch them swim without
armbands and most likely (growing up in our house), see them nurture a love of
toilet humour. In a worse case scenario they’d be 2,3 and 4. There would be one
school start in which I’d die a week later, a free floating turd in the local
pool and a severe underappreciation of farting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I would be missing many important
milestones in the lives of my children, whatever the outcome. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then we had the full
results of my Cancer ‘shituation.’ The spread was into my lymph nodes and
lungs, then later a further spread into my blood. So, we were realistically looking at pool
turds only. It was shit. But what was I most scared of? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The lack of control played a
large part in my fear but the front runner was the act of saying goodbye. I
could visualise those final few days when no one knew precisely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">when</i> I’d die. Every time someone said
goodbye to me, we would think it could be the final time. However, <i>adults</i> understand
what’s happening. How do you say goodbye to a small child that has zero concept
of the gravity of those words. What if I said goodbye to the three kids and
then they had a tantrum in my hospital room because they were bored and wanted
to go home and watch Peppa Pig? The last sight I would see of the kids was them
wrestling to get away from me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> It ate me up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">What if they blamed me for leaving?
What if they thought I’d abandoned them? <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>How would they feel when they called out for
me in the night and I never came? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This is what is so profoundly difficult about
being a mum with stage 4 Cancer. It is a life limiting disease. There is no
cure. I will be on chemo or similar for the rest of my life. Fact. And at some point,
I will have to say goodbye. A real goodbye. One that is final. Its dreadful. Unfair.
Absolutely fucking shit. But then again, I’ve done it already. In a twist on life’s
rollercoaster of unfathomable wankyness, I had to say goodbye to my daughter, Ally.
I watched as she left us at just 8 days old. The most surreal moment of my life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This coming Tuesday is 3 years since my diagnosis, 3 and a half years since Cancer arrived and I’m not dead yet. In fact in some ways, I’ve never been more
alive. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUawaeBklj9MdYov5SlwfCHzVZ_X_pWNL9pXBUAl-54U8z5hlFP-Is_Vzu_DYAagcZf9mfCSmQrqsqRQyDPpRTCMPrwlymildcGt7F7h90TmRMNwO7ujFqbLRcxS3iWWX50hyT0nU4Tg/s1600/blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUawaeBklj9MdYov5SlwfCHzVZ_X_pWNL9pXBUAl-54U8z5hlFP-Is_Vzu_DYAagcZf9mfCSmQrqsqRQyDPpRTCMPrwlymildcGt7F7h90TmRMNwO7ujFqbLRcxS3iWWX50hyT0nU4Tg/s320/blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Oh and on Friday, my 3 year old Tait had his first official swimming
lesson and he was brilliant. Not a pool turd in sight. That was last year.....</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ej-yO8EtAZ-u8aCA0HAzh6yeqDsU8YKvOJ7ReMkbB68lB7GmFEmjuUgG38zY3PRCQZRUEMFuqisLAGl59tiShTZCprqDY6cka-ml49bXsvcPF3feMppcr1s6o0ANhfnVKMzjsVigIVk/s1600/blog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ej-yO8EtAZ-u8aCA0HAzh6yeqDsU8YKvOJ7ReMkbB68lB7GmFEmjuUgG38zY3PRCQZRUEMFuqisLAGl59tiShTZCprqDY6cka-ml49bXsvcPF3feMppcr1s6o0ANhfnVKMzjsVigIVk/s320/blog1.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com488tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-91054308013588223652018-09-02T12:41:00.000-07:002018-09-02T12:41:13.263-07:00Get a life<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">On Friday morning on my way out to start the day, I noticed a shit on my drive. I don’t mean a person of annoyance, I mean an actual colon travelled food pile. A shit. Turd. Log. Poo. It wasn’t human. It was canine. This in itself isn’t blog worthy but I’m getting to that. Call me old fashioned, but I was annoyed. Someone had allowed their dog to walk onto my driveway, squat down and lay a cable on my land! I’ve got kids that expect to be able to walk on their own land, shoeless, without fear of nuggets between their toes. It got right on my tit. So, I did what any disgruntled resident would do and went to the town Facebook page to exude some passive aggression ... </span><br />
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I attached this as evidence....</div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I don’t know what I was expecting really. I just wanted to say how unamused I was with the shit. I’m not annoyed with the dog. I like dogs. In fact my brother has a dog called Steve and he’s a fine fellow. No, I was annoyed with the owner. Disgusting lazy wank stain not clearing up their dogs shit. If either of my </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">sons</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"> shat on someone’s drive, I’d clear it up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Anyway, the comments flowed in and I got the comradery I expected, shocked emoji faces, a few poo puns which I enjoyed, Janet reminding everyone not to tar all dog owners with the same brush etc etc but then there was Brian. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Now let’s be honest, Brian’s a bone head that failed to see the irony in telling someone to get a life for writing on social media about the shit whilst writing on social media about the shit. I love the 'moronic ironic's', they're fantastic and exactly why I love the local whinge pages. It gives a voice to the people, even the ones that wear sandals and socks in public but like to go home and dress as an adult baby. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Anyway, what did make me think was the term ‘get a life’. An idiom meant as a low level insult that suggests someone wastes their time on the mundane. Brian has no idea about my situation. He doesn’t realise that he’s just told someone with incurable cancer to ‘get a life.’ He’d most likely feel awful and a bit of a shit himself if he knew. So I simply replied with this... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">And ironically Brian himself hit the thumbs up button. </span><span style="font-family: ".applecoloremojiui"; font-size: 17pt;">👍I like to think it was more of a touché. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">What Brian’s comment did highlight to me is that since I’ve been “dying” (and I use this term for artistic value because although they keep telling me that my prognosis is 2-5 years and I’m 3.5 years in, I’m not even close to that yet) but since I’ve been "dying", I’ve never been more alive. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I travel loads, ride my horse, cycle miles and miles, have chemo, take each day as it comes, do the floss with the kids, see my friends all the time, laugh at farts, drink wine, play practical jokes and get annoyed by mundane stuff like dogs shitting on my drive. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Getting a life really is <i>exactly</i> what we should all be doing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Brian my lover, I <i>have</i> got a life. And for that, I’m truly thankful. </span><br />
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com81tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-67500927530967408512018-06-14T02:36:00.003-07:002018-06-14T08:58:00.992-07:00Don't call us losers<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Would
you like to know something that boils my piss? It may sound trivial to you or
you may think I’m being over sensitive, but as an official inhabitant of ‘CancerLand’
AND speaking for many others in my position that feel the same, that it really
grips my tit that when I die, you will call me a loser.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I
know! Aren’t you an awful person?!</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">You would
never do that. Would you? But I can confirm muggles everywhere do it so often
it’s become as common as wiping one’s arse. What kind of asshat calls a loved one
that’s died a loser? And yet when someone dies from Cancer, the typical cliché
that’s stapled onto their Facebook status is ‘They <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lost</i> their battle with Cancer’. </span></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Maybe
I’m being hard on you because of course, I don’t really know what you’d say if
you had to discuss a Cancer persons death. I’m chucking you in a box, aren’t I?
With all the other sheep out there... in fact I was probably once in that box
too.... in the corner eating a double decker and googling ‘Puss-Porn.’</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I
just can’t fathom this ‘losing a battle’ crap and why it seems synonymous with
Cancer folk. Imagine breaking the news on Facebook that someone you love had
died in a car accident? Would you write ‘I’m sorry to tell you Dave has
died...he was hit by a bus whilst crossing the road...he lost his fight with
the 359’. Poor Dave. He couldn’t bloody help it. I’m sure he didn’t just lie
down and bleed to death at the side of the road, I bet he was desperate to keep
breathing but he had no control. And not only has he died, you’re calling him a
loser. Christ on a bike! </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">When
you’re diagnosed with secondary cancer like me, (cancer that has spread to a
distant sight from the original place) you are incurable and can spend the rest
of your life knowing that whatever you do you will end up a loser. The
writings on the wall. At some point you’ll die and not only is being dead a bit
shit, you’re now also a loser. And it doesn’t matter how long you live for
beyond that diagnosis. You are still a loser. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I
catch infections quite often due to lower immunity from the drugs and rather
than a bit of Savlon and plasters, I can wind up in hospital for a week on a
rotation of intravenous anti-biotics and paracetamol without the energy to lift
my head off the pillow accept to watch ‘Love Island.’ I will throw up, be
prodded with needles and stuck in a ward with my fellow cancer patients
munching on unidentifiable food, listening to people fill their commodes.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I
remember a stay last year when I was in a ward with four others. The lady in the
next bed appeared uncomfortable but lucid. In the morning her husband came into
visit and later the Dr turned up. He pulled the curtain around them as if this
magical cotton cloth had evolved itself to become sound proof, and he delivered
the news. ‘Maud you’re not doing so well on these chemo tablets and therefore I
think it’s time we withdrew them. That reduces the time to about 7 days. Have
you given any thought to what you’d like to do? Would you like to go home?’
Wow. Home, I thought. Lucky Maud. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But
Maud was being asked where she would like to die. She had a week left.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Now
I don’t know Maud, but I know when you get to this point you’ve been through
every drug available and there is nothing left to try. You’ve run out of
options. Maud will have endured years of treatments, appointments, scans,
injections, blood tests, vomiting, the shits, nights sweets, baldness,
nosebleeds, dental issues, nail loss, sympathy stares, discrimination, loss of
friends, emotional trauma, mobility issues and now she is going to die. And to
top it all off, when she does die she will be branded a loser! Fucking hell!</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Whilst
enduring all the things that Cancer has to offer she could also have raised awareness,
fundraised thousands for charity, inspired countless people, travelled the
world, raised her grandkids, fought for drugs for others, reconnected with
what’s important, taken time for herself, loved very deeply, spent more time
with her friends, smiled constantly, reinvented her life and although she had Cancer
and it caused her death she died a hero! Maybe not your hero, but her own or
her families. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">She
is most defiantly not a loser. Just because you die it doesn’t mean you
lost. It’s what you do in life that defines you, not your death. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>No one lives forever.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">She
didn’t lose her battle with Cancer, she chose to live her life the way she wanted,
and she won. She won in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i> life. It
may have been shorter than she would have chosen and she couldn’t control her
death but if you find anyone that can... pass me their email. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">So,
I’m asking for me and maybe a few others, please don’t say we lost. Say
whatever else you like but just not that. We go to hell and back, enduring
years of being poisoned, burned and chopped up. Dealing with emotions about
death, wondering how to say goodbye to people when the time comes and all other
manner of horrors, but we still laugh our way through it and live our lives
just like you. If that isn’t winning, I don’t know what is. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And
if I find any of you writing the word ‘lost’ about me I’ll be so raging I’ll
haunt you. </span></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">If I
could have a wish it would be to live until 100 and beyond. But I can only live
now. Just like you. We are no different. We all die.</span></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">If
you outlive me... and you find yourself typing the words ‘lost’ into your
phones when announcing my death.... stop and remember this blog and copy and
paste the following:</span></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">‘Heidi’s
goal was to live her life the way she chose. And she won.’</span></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-65568832056339962182018-03-01T03:41:00.000-08:002018-03-01T03:41:22.801-08:00World Book Day and all who dwell on her<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">World book day is not something you really have to worry about until your child starts school. In nursery you can make a half arse attempt to get involved by allowing your child to fish out any mildew covered fancy dress outfit from the dressing up box. For example, today, Tait who is 3, went to nursery dressed ankle to neck as spider man but wearing a pirate hat and wielding a rather heavy cutlass. I conveniently ‘forgot’ the book that depicts Spiderman disguised as a pirate and just rolled him over the threshold. Tait’s keyworker Emma was dressed as the Witch from ‘Room on the Broom’ by Julia Donaldson, a book that holds a very special place in my heart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">On the day that our daughter Ally was brought to us in the Acorn suite at Southmead hospital, my husband read this book to her twice.</span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Now this may not seem that unusual, many people read books to their children in hospital, books that they love from home that they’ve heard a million times, to bring them comfort. The difference here was that Ally was only 8 days old and had never heard this book before. She hadn’t had the time to learn all the things that fell off the Witch whilst she was in flight, or to love all the animals that the Witch lovingly welcomed on to her broom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">And the Acorn Suite was the room in which Ally was brought in to die.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">As parents, we hadn’t had the time to experience many of the special moments we share with our children, moments that we don’t always appreciate. We had changed her nappy and had held her, but we hadn’t been able to take her home to see her bedroom, she hadn’t squeezed a teddy bear and she hadn’t had time to fall in love with a story. We hadn’t had the chance to read her anything and have her gesture for it to be repeated a million times until we knew the words off by heart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">In a time when you look at your baby and know that they will soon be gone, there are no guidelines as to how you conduct yourself. How do you spend time with your baby knowing that this time will shortly expire? I could only stare at her and try to keep control of my constant urge to vomit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">I could only stare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">My husband reached inside a bag and produced ‘Room on the Broom’ and started to read. This was Noah’s first birthday present and had become a household favourite. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">It was perfect and imperfect in equal measure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">When he finished reading we continued to stare at her. Our perfect little girl.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Then some time later, he picked up the book and read it again. The second time was harder to process because we knew it would be the last.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">“the witch tapped her broomstick and whoosh they were gone”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">That is how the story ends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">But it wasn’t the end of our story. We will always be a family of five.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">When I dropped Tait into Nursery this morning I marvelled at all the little-ones dressed as their favourite book characters. All of them representing the books they had heard a million times read to them by their family’s… and then I saw Emma as ‘the Witch.’ </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">It made me smile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">As Noah and I left Tait to head home Noah shouted, “look a butterfly, its Ally”, (for some reason, all around Portishead where I live are these Butterfly stickers on lamp posts. I doubt many people notice them but when I first saw them on every lamp post on my street I cried. I’ve no idea where they came from or for what reason, but it has a hell of an impact on me). Noah points at 3 butterflies together on a lamp post by the bus stop and say’s “I love you Ally”. I then asked him what he thought Ally would be wearing today for world book day if she were here? He ‘umms’ and ‘ahhs’ and says, “I don’t know”. I suggest “maybe Peppa Pig?” and Noah replies that “yes” that’s exactly what she’d be going as. Noah, who is five, then asks “Ally is alive in Heaven Mummy isn’t she?” I say yes then no and then yes again because I don’t have the answers. Noah then tells me he is freezing and that he wants the heating on full blast when we get home for breakfast. Boof, just like that, a subject change so profound it gives you whiplash. That’s kids for you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">As we walked passed all the kids on our way home, we encountered several Harry Potters, a banana and what can only be described as a giant tomato scuttling towards their various schools. As we tackle the impending apocalyptic weather and a disastrous decline of bread rations at Waitrose, I’m aware that for all the moaning we do about costumes, everyone makes an effort. I think we realise the importance of books. Books make memories and memories cannot be taken.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">As we reach home to stuff some cereal down our necks before I throw Noah across the road to school, I think of Ally’s costume. She would be two years old and would possibly be conducting a dirty protest as she wanted to have sweets for breakfast. She could be tantrumming because she didn’t want to go to nursery and wanted to trash the playroom instead. I would attempt to exchange good behaviour with the promise of chocolate later and that would fail miserably. I would be considering giving up and then would remember her out-fit. I’d whip up the stairs and back down with the cloth bellowing behind me, hidden from view. Ally would be incandescent with rage over ‘Masher and the Bear’ finishing on TV as I produce what I’ve been hiding behind my back. She goes silent as I say, “here is your costume stinky.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">And I can see a smile spread across her face as she simply points at it and says “Witch”.</span></div>
Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-45977438818037706832018-01-22T09:48:00.000-08:002018-01-22T09:48:40.470-08:00Missing at Christmas <div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17.4px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.8px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Christmas time, mistletoe and wine</span><span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Children singing Christian rhyme </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">with logs on the fire and gifts on the tree </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">it’s time to rejoice in the good that we see.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Hold up....that’s a little misleading. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">How’s about this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Christmas time, can of ‘Natch’ like slime </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Children whinge and moan all the time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">shite on the telly; fucking hate my Christmas tree </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">the needles are stuck in my toes constantly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">That’s a bit more like it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">January’s landed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">And so has my ass. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Ahh the sweet Christmas hangover. You’re 6lbs heavier than you were prior to advent, everyone’s angry because they’ve had to trek up or down the M6 to spend time with people they don’t like and you’ve no idea when to stop saying ‘happy new year’ to people. You’re experiencing your annual seethe as you put so much thought into that hand engraved replica of an old Ming Vase for your sister in law Flangela and once again you’ve been thrown a purse from Poundland and yet another set of Lavender hand cream.</span><span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Your cupboards are packed full of food but there’s nothing to eat, your kids bedroom floor is still covered in boxed toys that he’ll never put away, you’ve had to hide the chocolate coin maker because, let’s be honest, it’s a load of shit and no matter how hard you scrub, your fridge still smells of cheese! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">Yes my friends!! Happy new year!!!!!!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">I grew up obsessed with Christmas. My mum always made such an effort to make it special for my brother and I. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">I’ve been enjoying a Christmas stocking up to the age of 35 and it’s still as exciting as when I was little. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">I used to wake up about 4 am, count all the stocking fillers and calculate how often I could open one to stretch the time out until 6am when we were allowed to get up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">I loved the smell of Christmas turkey whafting up the stairs at 5am (that’s not a typo) and running downstairs to plow headfirst into a pile of multicoloured paper. I really enjoyed sectioning off all the sweets and chocolates into their own box and working out which order I’d eat them in. I always felt cheated by a Twix....its not a chocolate bar...it’s a covert biscuit! That would go first.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;"></span><span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">I remember in April 2012 when I discovered I was pregnant with my first boy Noah that I’d quickly calculated a December due date and all I could think about was Christmas Carole’s. That lasted the whole way through the 2nd and 3rd trimester and I would well up every time I thought of ‘Christmas time mistletoe and wine’, imagining how amazing</span><span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">it would be having a baby in my arms while eating Christmas dinner. In truth I spent Christmas 2012 in tears because Noah was 5 days old, I hadn’t slept, my nips were the colour of Rudolph’s nose from all the feeding and felt like they were like ‘logs on the fire’ from the searing pain of latching. Dinner arrived and I cautiously lowered myself down onto my seat to pretend to enjoy the pigs in blankets and even though I’d reversed at a snails pace, just as my bum connected with the wood my lady-stitches all burst open and I was left with the worlds biggest Fanhole (imagine your Fan and bum collide - that’s right). It was a magical day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">After the anticlimax that was Christmas 2012, 2013 was fab. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17.41pt;">I discovered on Xmas eve that I was pregnant with Tait. It was Noah’s first proper Christmas too as he could eat by then and was no longer destroying my boobs. The Fanhole had returned to something resembling normal so I could sit down like a normal person and enjoy my Xmas dinner. Lush! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Christmas 2014 was exhausting. Noah wouldn’t sleep in his bed and I had Tait to feed through the night so that one was a bit of a blur.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">But nothing would ever prepare me for Christmas 2015. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Nor will another ever be this emotional, traumatic, challenging or inexplicably sad.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">You see our daughter was born 15 days before Christmas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Our daughter died 6 days before Christmas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Noah turned two, 5 days before Christmas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I began gruelling chemotherapy treatment 3 days before Christmas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I discovered my Cancer had spread 2 days before Christmas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">And we spent the so-say happiest day of the year without one of our children at Christmas. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">We then buried our daughter 5 days after Christmas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Yeah, Christmas 2015 was a bit Shit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">When Ally died I asked my mum to go to our house and remove all the cards, balloons and Christmas presents for her and take them to her house. I couldn’t bare the thought of coming home to a house full of all the well wishes knowing now that they’d turned into a symbol of living hell. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I remember the drive back from hospital after we’d said goodbye and we drove into Portishead and the Christmas lights were twinkling away like nothing had happened. I was dumbfounded at how everything was the same as the day I’d left to give birth to her. I couldn’t compute that the world was still turning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I remember how sick I felt on Christmas morning trying to be so happy and excited for the boys that Santa had come and made their wishes come true and yet inside all I could think was how could I make my wish come true and bring Ally back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Well that year was the worst year of my life. Believe me when I tell you that Cancer is a piece of piss comparatively to losing your child.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I wondered how I’d manage to keep going but those two little boys were a stark reminder that I wasn’t going anywhere soon and that I had a job I damn well needed to get on with and that was being a mum! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Truth be told, the boys saved my life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">People often ask ‘how do you get over it?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Well, you don’t. You just learn to live with it running alongside your life. My grief is very much like my cancer. It’s there in some ways and can pop up anywhere at any time. It never goes away but your body and mind learn to manage it. It has to. It’s how we humans survive. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">So now I’ve suitably depressed you. I’ll tell you about Christmas 2017.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Well I’ll tell you, the kids were feral!!!!! Feral!! My house was like fight club meets the Thunderdome from the minute the Christmas tree went up. That tall green asshole was like the </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">starting gun for toddler warfare in our house. Noah shoots Tait in the face with a Spider-Man gun, Tait whacks Noah over the head with The Incredible Hulk so Noah picks the stuffing out of the skull of Tait’s dog, Tait chucks Pirate Pete off the top bunk, Noah tells Tait that Santa will pull his pants down and fart on his head instead of filling is stocking so Tait rips a page out of Noah’s favourite book and chews it. Then they both wee on each other in the bath.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Santa turns up to the house for a visit before Christmas ( this was arranged for the boys by a charity called Towards Tomorrow Together) and they both act like angels for an hour. Then they crash on the sofa to watch ‘Stickman’ as all that acting has worn them out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">In truth December was sheer and utter carnage so over the last few weeks people are asking “nice Christmas?” and I say “yeah it was good. The kids were feral. I blame the Christmas tree. Bye”. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">This year though I remembered to have some ‘me time’ and decided to rein-act my youth at the local pub ‘the Plough’ where no ones heard of Malbec and they serve the local battery acid in £2 cans. There’s a DJ ( Nice one Clarkey) and us mums and dads out-danced all the local cool kids by a mile. I stagger home at 3am in the December rain with no shoes or socks on because quite frankly that’s how I roll.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Christmas morning comes and the boys open far too many presents that have been wedged in under and around the Christmas tree. It’s quite frankly ridiculous but no matter how many gifts under that tree it’s so apparent to me that one pile is missing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Ally would have been two this Christmas and I know that my little girl would have unwrapped a bright pink Barbie...and then whacked it straight across her brothers heads. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">That’s my girl.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Happy new year all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">In 2018.....don’t sweat the small stuff. </span></div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-6437048444685924892017-11-23T10:01:00.002-08:002017-11-23T10:28:23.747-08:00Dead Wrong <div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
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My mum is awesome! </div>
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She's called Ange. Well Andrea actually. She's also been known as Flange, The Crow and The Old Bag/Bat etc. </div>
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She's a pretty remarkable women.</div>
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She brought my brother Jody (yes it’s a boys name too) and I up alone. We both turned out exceptionally well by the way....all credit to her.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother - Jody (with a ‘y’) Loughlin </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And me - Who said alcohol and chemo don’t mix?</td></tr>
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Mum worked 3 jobs so she could get us stuff and feed us, we went from living in sheltered housing to our own home with a mortgage! She took us to really awesome places across the globe and ran her own business. She even jumped out of a plane last year from 15000ft at age 66!</div>
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She did all that. </div>
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She's brilliant. </div>
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Remarkable.</div>
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But WOW she can't do technology for shit!</div>
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Watching her type a text message out on her flip phone circa 2002 resembles a one eyed robber typing a code into a safe.</div>
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Now she has retired she has made the brave decision to catch up with us younguns and get an iPad!!!!! I thought she must have soiled her TenaLady when she made that brave decision. </div>
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I took her to the Mall a few weeks ago and told the Apple hipsters to give her the most basic IPad with really good memory and none of that fancy shite. She left with her fashionable drawcord double lined white bag muttering about ‘what was a wrong with a normal carrier’ and then promptly tells me that I’ll need to teach her how to use it!</div>
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Ok I think, I can do that. I have zero patience, no free time whatsoever and am unable to filter sarcasm even in the most extreme of circumstances....this’ll be fantastic!!!!</div>
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So the next day she bowls into my house with a 50/50 mix of excitement and fear hanging around her jowls, sits down with the iPad and says “ok, what do I do next?” And I say “well you obviously need to switch it on first you pillock” but she doesn’t move and continues to stare at me then says “ok” and stares again.</div>
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What is she looking at? I quickly glance over my shoulder...clear. I run my tongue over my teeth....clear. I waggle my finger in both nostrils...pretty clear.</div>
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And it slowly dawns on me she doesn't know how to turn it on. </div>
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SHE DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO TURN IT ON!!!! </div>
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Remain calm....breathe...you can do this....you’ve bossed life with incurable Cancer....don’t let the old bird give you a heart attack....breathe I tell myself. </div>
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So I remain calm and show her.</div>
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Me - “Press here and enter a password.” </div>
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Flange - “What’s the point in that?” </div>
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Me - “don’t ask questions unless it’s extremely necessary and we may both survive this” (End scene)</div>
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Then flash forward and hour and she's still slamming the <i>screen</i> with her sausage fingers every time I shout "the home button! The button!!! The fucking home button! THE BUTTON! It's the only fucking button on there for fucks sake!!" And I realise that although the odds are that I'll die from Cancer....there's now a bloody good chance I may be claimed earlier via an aneurism from old lady technology induced stress! </div>
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“Mum, I'm signing you up for a class at the Library for iPad wankers. It starts on Wednesday”</div>
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And off she goes. Bless her.</div>
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Anyway, what's this got to do with anything I hear you shout?</div>
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Well I tell thee...</div>
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Mum can now use google and she wanted to read my blog. Isn't that nice? (She'll have forgotten how to find it by the time this ones posted so don't worry) </div>
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So she says one day whilst whipping out here iPad (that’s now incased in a picture of a Giraffe wearing pink accessories)....'look watch me. I do it like this. I press the compass thing (she means safari) and then the colours come up (she means the actual word ‘Google’) and I click the white line below it and I type what I want to search for.’</div>
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I'm actually rather impressed. Good ole Brian at the library... that geezer deserves a medal....and probably a month in The Priory. </div>
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So she says ‘I'm searching for you’ and she types in 'Heidi Loughlin' and do you know what comes up my friends? The first search...as in the one people do most? Is this:</div>
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‘Heidi Loughlin Death’</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEDsJ4rNlUF-gLdlQgPP7KnizDMvGM4CAAmggngR7nYkzzswFCPrWTltyfP2zQANZV1eSXTstRNis8g6mm6zLJ8CX4gp2RIVGbGgE46dlCsijLuRlpWsRDlxl9ml7BbBBbVbNh25577A/s1600/IMG_0891.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEDsJ4rNlUF-gLdlQgPP7KnizDMvGM4CAAmggngR7nYkzzswFCPrWTltyfP2zQANZV1eSXTstRNis8g6mm6zLJ8CX4gp2RIVGbGgE46dlCsijLuRlpWsRDlxl9ml7BbBBbVbNh25577A/s320/IMG_0891.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Well bless my mum, she says "you're not dead" and I say "I know! The flipping cheek!" </div>
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And I start wondering why people have searched this? </div>
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I mean there could be a million answers. </div>
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It could be that people are looking for pictures of my sarcastic corpse?</div>
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It could be that people have seen me on a live feed somewhere and think I speak so loudly because I’m overcompensating for hearing difficulties (and they, like me, can’t spell and/ or have bad grammar) </div>
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Or maybe it could be that people have noticed I’ve not written much this year and have decided I’ve snuffed it? Now I mention it ..I did have a few inbox messages asking if I was dead, to which I replied "Yes. Yes I am. I'm so sorry to be the barer of bad news, I died 4 weeks ago. PS I'm in your wardrobe".</div>
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I wonder if people think that because I've got an incurable and aggressive strain of Cancer (inflammatory breast Cancer) that I must have died by now. </div>
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I guess it’s a fair assumption.</div>
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But, I'm not dead!!! I’m very much alive....look here’s the evidence....</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEpVmqCApjCyQxIbJa7Pa6kSvTkF2RGIPHZzmjh7bVPL3cFj7OnrgrzZPcSgUnaOoxmw_lzWVr_sVvZHIR3TlTfROVshjeFBVDdCZUMck2KnRJYUN30zjy1wtNQd8zHgSC-kbwu13nZ5s/s1600/IMG_0911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEpVmqCApjCyQxIbJa7Pa6kSvTkF2RGIPHZzmjh7bVPL3cFj7OnrgrzZPcSgUnaOoxmw_lzWVr_sVvZHIR3TlTfROVshjeFBVDdCZUMck2KnRJYUN30zjy1wtNQd8zHgSC-kbwu13nZ5s/s320/IMG_0911.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebrating Tait’s 3rd birthday in style</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvmNfHLLJ0Es5u-uelrlwx9L2Zw5pma5obZGutauk7_VBauux2kie8Jqc_pt1Lr2JobdknDVABhoUD7y5WgUI03dBRCcQFCRaS8NEk1pX_kTJwmqHew9wt65M9Nz7DVGDttkznGDUmKXI/s1600/IMG_1502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvmNfHLLJ0Es5u-uelrlwx9L2Zw5pma5obZGutauk7_VBauux2kie8Jqc_pt1Lr2JobdknDVABhoUD7y5WgUI03dBRCcQFCRaS8NEk1pX_kTJwmqHew9wt65M9Nz7DVGDttkznGDUmKXI/s320/IMG_1502.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coming second to last with our quiz team at the school but drinking through it....</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-eSfPZTFk7YIhvE-lttBvsGInp4e0D7Os7ZJZNtI-esXpc0JibijB6mf4qxB5MrpXwYXbdGPnQcdojf-XOU17xQjgxe3tuzS_H8m3dJCBeMI9_YHqP9SJxl2xbKbvgSWHr01N8Ot6Cg/s1600/IMG_1500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-eSfPZTFk7YIhvE-lttBvsGInp4e0D7Os7ZJZNtI-esXpc0JibijB6mf4qxB5MrpXwYXbdGPnQcdojf-XOU17xQjgxe3tuzS_H8m3dJCBeMI9_YHqP9SJxl2xbKbvgSWHr01N8Ot6Cg/s320/IMG_1500.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">....and innocently climbing the kids wall on the way home.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5c7r3zk3kDjnVDWVb0wRriqzYhuYY1qDK-cyJ3iCz3sw9zGSqqLIltZFShQOeH6E4yEGCC4Hr2Qpmm8ipeoNOYuknK2n81YDgpZ5KUG3QKbbkqZ85gwrRrwOU0MJ2fnaviGe8NONF9Q/s1600/IMG_0885.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5c7r3zk3kDjnVDWVb0wRriqzYhuYY1qDK-cyJ3iCz3sw9zGSqqLIltZFShQOeH6E4yEGCC4Hr2Qpmm8ipeoNOYuknK2n81YDgpZ5KUG3QKbbkqZ85gwrRrwOU0MJ2fnaviGe8NONF9Q/s320/IMG_0885.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spending time with my favourite man on 4 legs.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-fK5b_dTaNSBbpC-EcQLUmIfURBDMV0fUed5Rr56WqBr8xjfE2Dq6KWsRANWpjSB7gPSjS9lY7TqtxroStX5Jci5XaHHrpsqIKlV_pGcN-vdnZh8_dDfow8HHczqY0SsYzdEu-S1HaK8/s1600/IMG_0887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-fK5b_dTaNSBbpC-EcQLUmIfURBDMV0fUed5Rr56WqBr8xjfE2Dq6KWsRANWpjSB7gPSjS9lY7TqtxroStX5Jci5XaHHrpsqIKlV_pGcN-vdnZh8_dDfow8HHczqY0SsYzdEu-S1HaK8/s320/IMG_0887.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZeRNwcPNMXQ-091t7gPUbkKhLO4adPNGfn7BskKvaxhPRXGrxhFEug7krlW960jBshF5rXJy9vASrqeGwJ_nI_bezaIdvy8vFImhfe80CbPuFq1JXOgr7e3XuekSIYNhsIYsUP8OMl80/s1600/IMG_1533.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZeRNwcPNMXQ-091t7gPUbkKhLO4adPNGfn7BskKvaxhPRXGrxhFEug7krlW960jBshF5rXJy9vASrqeGwJ_nI_bezaIdvy8vFImhfe80CbPuFq1JXOgr7e3XuekSIYNhsIYsUP8OMl80/s320/IMG_1533.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winning Inspirational Mother of the Year at the Butterfly awards.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DNMoN7MnVkutXmYAIehyphenhypheno31u87Y2mBzNfqvjwydPmUb8mA8genJUmF-gtANBxsFKCva5JfQ3LINcKPYjSieEHigx8WXanSU8ac4V9IwXjP6pjil3TztK_fukwf7lmbxXp7A_TkjX42E/s1600/IMG_1532.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DNMoN7MnVkutXmYAIehyphenhypheno31u87Y2mBzNfqvjwydPmUb8mA8genJUmF-gtANBxsFKCva5JfQ3LINcKPYjSieEHigx8WXanSU8ac4V9IwXjP6pjil3TztK_fukwf7lmbxXp7A_TkjX42E/s320/IMG_1532.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8NfiGszi0KfPKbqha0OrChU-1qavZlv3aADjg-LIRuCse6ooNgtHXDP86OwtOd2S53SjidAKZG5G0nTr3Ttdt55KUbzSTA9GLJHT9I9b8M__k0xRk9ZMe5Ge8Dw7Q00JvL4aCT9boheY/s1600/IMG_1663.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8NfiGszi0KfPKbqha0OrChU-1qavZlv3aADjg-LIRuCse6ooNgtHXDP86OwtOd2S53SjidAKZG5G0nTr3Ttdt55KUbzSTA9GLJHT9I9b8M__k0xRk9ZMe5Ge8Dw7Q00JvL4aCT9boheY/s320/IMG_1663.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halloween dinner party....all very civilised....lots of red wine</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1Do7QZXwD6E96pn92fbGt7Zc5MFZy92UC6l7ExaBlYmniMDZXkJGJp2ay2u_kes8sFdmOSaqpLG7x_zdSGB3w6BRccvNejZg_Q7OHKr2TnBSr5_QZ6qPIsX0aG_Lc-SxjvsKTkHCWWM/s1600/IMG_1670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1Do7QZXwD6E96pn92fbGt7Zc5MFZy92UC6l7ExaBlYmniMDZXkJGJp2ay2u_kes8sFdmOSaqpLG7x_zdSGB3w6BRccvNejZg_Q7OHKr2TnBSr5_QZ6qPIsX0aG_Lc-SxjvsKTkHCWWM/s320/IMG_1670.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Later that night after I’d spewed off my face paint</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1 firework every 5 minutes....that’s old school.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">Oh and if you want dated proof of life.... here it is....</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FYI that train line is never happening </td></tr>
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Let me tell you what I did a few weeks ago....I canoed 22 miles for Stand up to Cancer. Yeah I did that AND I have treatment everything 3 weeks. I had the drugs two days after the canoe trip actually. </div>
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Here are the pictures as proof that I canoed alive. AND I was still alive at the end.</div>
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A few days before I headed up north for the challenge I said to my mates that I was a little concerned that I wouldn't be able to do it because I hadn't trained and actually it was a really long way and all the others had trained or were really fit generally as they are celebrities and keep their shit together. </div>
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My mate Emma (who seems to come up a lot in my blog posts and is a hard core spinning instructor) said 'that's bullshit. You'll be absolutely fine because <i>that</i> type of endurance is mental strength and you are the strongest person I know' and you know what, she was bloody right. </div>
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I actually became stronger as the day progressed and finished with a tonne of adrenaline coursing through me. </div>
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I know my little girl gave me an extra push and was egging me on from the start. And I know my boys, although back in Bristol, were also fuelling my determination. </div>
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You see I gather strength from all things around me. The short life of my daughter Ally still gave me some very happy memories, the knowledge that my boys are safe and well and need me as there mum, my husband that would continue to send Noah to school in the wrong coat if I wasn't around, my friends that always say the right things, my brother whose sarcasm and stoicism rival my own and I’m a tough act to follow and my Mum, who keeps going regardless of the obstacles and will one day be able to type like a normal person. </div>
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Heidi Loughlin Alive</div>
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Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx </div>
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<br />Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-84919533074962725682017-09-17T07:34:00.000-07:002017-09-17T07:34:41.877-07:00Leg of Lamb<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">(To vote for me as 'inspirational mother' in the baby loss star awards please <a href="https://babylossstar.co.uk/2017/09/04/inspirational-mother-heidi-loughlin-storm-in-a-tit-cup-profile-page/">Click Here</a> and click on the heart. See bottom of blog for more info. If your phone won't let you click the link then you can also vote on the Facebook page 'storm in a tit cup by Heidi'. Xx) </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I cried on Sunday!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">That makes it sound like I never cry...I do.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I cry at every Oxfam or RSPCA advert. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I cry every time I hear the 'Moana' soundtrack because it reminds me of the moment in the film when the old granny comes back from the dead as a giant ghostly stingray.</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I cry when I laugh so hard my face hurts.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And I cry when I've had a good nights sleep because the following night I'm not exhausted enough to drop unconscious while watching 'Suits' on the iPad and my mind starts wondering.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But this Sunday I cried whilst massaging a leg of lamb. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Let me paint the picture...last week my eldest, Noah, started Primary school. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I've been mega excited about this day all summer...particularly when Noah pushed Tait off of the bunk bed and when Tait kicked Noah in the balls. (</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We then had to have a discussion about 'balls' and whilst I managed to explain like an educated adult that the 'balls' </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">are where boys keep their potions to make babies, I couldn't find a more palatable word than 'balls' for the 'balls.' So they are now officially called 'balls' in our house......" Tait's</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> got small balls!", "daddies got big balls!", "do some people have three balls?", "Where are your balls mummy?" Etc etc) </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So on Wednesday I stood shoulder to shoulder with a playground full of mums and dads waving off their 4 year olds. All these tiny children in oversized clothes dragging book bags in equivalent heights artistically interpreting 'the stone of shame' scene from 'The Simpson'.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It's fair to say that there were a shit load of tears in this playground not coming from the eyes of children! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Actually my friend Emma had been crying for three days straight prior to Wednesday (accounting for the 'yellow' weather warning for Bristol) and had forced her husband to take secret photos of her meltdown as evidence...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">(Disclaimer: Emma wanted me to make it quite clear that this was more period related then child starting school...personally I call bullshit.)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So there were many playground tears and I recalled a conversation I'd had with one of the mums at the 'settling in' day who was also crying and she said to me 'is it weird I'm crying'? And I said "of course not" as I also had a few tears start to prickle at my eyes. She said 'I'm going to miss her and it's the end of an era' and I thought 'I'm crying because I'm so relieved I'm not dead'. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">So Wednesday came and all I could do was grin from ear to ear like I'd slept with my face pinned back with drawing pins! To others in the playground that saw me that morning they must have thought I was just so bloody glad to have one of them off of my hands or that I was simply beaming with pride! Well to be fair both are true.....I love him dearly but I'm glad he's starting this amazing adventure and that someone else may be able to answer his one million questions without having to google. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But mostly I was beaming with relief. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I remember the night 2 years ago when I was told I had Inflammatory Breast Cancer whilst pregnant with my 3rd baby. I came home and I checked on Tait who had just celebrated his first birthday. He looked so peaceful and I felt immense guilt that things would never quite be conventional for him and that because of his young age that he would never look back on a time in his life when his mum didn't have cancer. I felt bad that this would be his 'normal'. I shut his door and went into the next room where Noah was sleeping. He was 2 at the time. I climbed into bed with him and cried desperately into the pillow. I felt I was going to miss out on his life. I was going to miss all his milestones and I would never get to share one of those pictures of my little lad starting school in his oversized uniform baring the logo of his new life, of his independence and really the beginning of his pathway to who knows what. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I wouldn't see that. I wouldn't know what that felt like.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And now I do know what that feels like. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Both feelings of course.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I know what it is like to take my son to school.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I also know what it's like to not have the chance to ever take my little girl to school.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But Wednesday was about Noah. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I didn't actually think I'd make this. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This is one bucket list item that I'm ecstatic to tick off. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I got to walk my little boy to school and chuffing hell was i proud! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And so, the lamb. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Noah had started school that week and Sunday was Taits 3rd birthday. Keith had taken them to 'comic con' in Bristol while I prepared the boys favourite meal of lamb with a shit tonne of mint sauce. I was '<i>thinking</i>' because I'd had an actual full nights sleep and the house was empty so I guess my head was too. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This is dangerous territory for me. This is when <i>the</i> <i>thoughts</i> start to creep in. I knew that with Taits birthday followed a milestone of diagnosis. It would be two 2 years the following day that I was diagnosed with Inflammatory Breast Cancer and was staring at a life span of 2-5 years. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As I delicately massaged lemon juice into the decaying carcass of a sheep, that fucking tractor song came onto 'Spotify'. You know the one....'I'm rumbling in my JCBeeeee. I'm five years old and my dads a giant sitting beside of me' ( even as I'm typing this I'm welling up ) well it's something to do with struggling to fit in at school and the boys dad works his bollocks off on the farm all day but no matter how tired he is he's always got time for his son. They're rolling up </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">the bypass, him and his dad having a top laugh. And I started thinking about my funeral!!!!! POP! Straight into my head, just like that. I thought what a lovely song this would be for the boys to listen to to capture how fantastic their relationship is with their dad, Keith. And because it would have been chosen by me it would become even more poignant. And this would be the song they would remember me by and although they'd be sad they'd also have these little smiles on their faces too! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">AND.......well of course then the tears and snot came flooding down onto the fucking lamb. The lamb that had been enjoying a deep tissue massage for the last 10 minutes.</span></div>
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Then I cried because that lamb also had a family once and maybe it to had longed to drop its kid off at sheep school or something. </div>
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Oh it was awful.</div>
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And then I had to kick myself right in the ass! </div>
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Because actually this was an amazing milestone (not the leg of lamb, I'd cooked it before like). Noah had started school! I'd been there! Tait had turned 3! I'd been there. I wasn't dead! I was alive! And I'll be there for Tait to start school too because just you try and stop me! </div>
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And the lamb, even when marinated in snot, still tasted good.</div>
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I'm up for an award ladies and gents, others. I've been shortlisted as 'Inspirational Mother of the Year' by the Butterfly Awards. I'd love it if you would take a few seconds to follow <a href="https://babylossstar.co.uk/2017/09/04/inspirational-mother-heidi-loughlin-storm-in-a-tit-cup-profile-page/">this link</a> and vote for me by simply clicking the red heart I would be so greatful. But equally you don't have to either. I'll still like you all the same. But you'll be top of the haunting list if you don't!!!!</div>
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It's a very special event that recognises mums, dads and support networks around parents who have lost their babies. We will all be attending an award ceremony on October 14th and it goes without saying it will be a very emotional event. All these mums and dads are inspirational and talking about our babies to others is so important so I'd urge you to vote for someone whether it's me or not. Thank you xxx</div>
Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-61239070509727776802017-06-29T11:01:00.000-07:002017-06-29T11:01:38.402-07:00People really fuck me off sometimes.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">People really fuck me off sometimes. </span></div>
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For many different reasons. For instance, people that don't say thank you when you hold the door open for them... I find myself muttering 'you're welcome' or 'my pleasure' or 'fuck you you ignorant fucking ass wipe' (I wouldn't actually say that).<br />
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The same applies when you let someone in during traffic and they just breeze through without even lifting a hand in acknowledgement! Then I'm driving going 'bloody regret letting him in now....look at his arrogant hair-cut and he's in a Range Rover and blatantly doesn't live on a farm.'</div>
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Then there's the people that think they can say what they like about anyone because it's from their phone. Like the screen acts as some kind of shit-shield. Then when you question the 'Warrior Screen' they go all quiet as they realise they are a complete haemorrhoid. Let's take Klaus for instance. </div>
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Case study 1: Klaus</div>
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Klaus is a cunt.</div>
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Last week the NHS and NICE (National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence) announced that Kadcyla (TDM1) would continue to be readily available to women with secondary breast cancer. This may not mean much to you as a) you can't pronounce Kadcyla b) you don't know what secondary breast cancer is and c) you want to get to the story about Klaus quicker. Well Kadcyla is the drug that is keeping me alive. It is currently stopping my cancer from spreading any further within my body. It gives me a relatively conventional life. It buys the average patient an extra 9 months of life. </div>
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Secondary breast cancer is cancer that has spread beyond the breast through the lymphatic or blood system to other parts of the body. This makes you incurable. Never free from cancer. Always in Cancer land. Touching cloth every time you get an ache or pain somewhere. Always having appointments, forever. Infinity. Continuously. A Life time. Full stop. </div>
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Anyway, there was basically some beef over whether Kadcyla would be dropped from the drugs menu because it has a hefty price tag. After all, it only buys 9 months on average. That's not much is it?</div>
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In 9 months my eldest son has learned how to dress himself, to recognise numbers, to recognise his name in written form, to brush his teeth without protest, he's gained a place at primary school, knows how to apply sarcasm in the correct fashion, has learned to ride a bike, he's travelled America, been to Finland, to Disneyland Paris, he's punched his brother in the face, managed to not poo himself, to tell me he loves me, to swim unaided etc etc etc. </div>
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Yeah 9 months is bugger all eh?</div>
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So Kadcyla. Well, as I was already on it, it was never to be taken away from me but it would no longer be available to ladies newly diagnosed with secondary breast cancer.</div>
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This was not a case of 'I'm alright jack' this was a case of 'we are not alright Jackie'. </div>
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These fellow breast cancer ladies deserve to know that they <i>too</i> will have the opportunity to access Kadcyla should they need it. </div>
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When I read that it could be axed from the list I was gutted for these ladies. I was gutted for my past self who in September was given the conclusive proof that I will always have cancer. That I am now incurable. What if Kadcyla wasn't available to me then? I'd already gone though several drugs that had failed to tackle my cancer. I'm not sure I'd be sat here typing <i>this</i> if Kadcyla wasn't given to me.</div>
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So the charity Breast Cancer Now and a lovely lady named Bonnie Fox (she lives up to her name by the way) fronted a campaign to raise awareness of Kadcyla and to fight to keep it. They set up a petition and I know that a lot of you that read my crap signed it. Thank you my lovers. </div>
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We received the awesome news last week that Kadcyla will remain available on the NHS and the petition had a large part to play in that!!!! You helped!!! This may not mean much in your world, but it means the world in mine. Thank you.</div>
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So, this leads me to Klaus. </div>
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My local paper 'The Bristol Post' have been a huge supporter of Storm In A Tit Cup since it began and so they posted an article about the wonderful news regarding Kadcyla. They did make it sound a bit like I'd singlehandely saved the world...all I did was share the petition and explained why it was important to me. It was Breast Cancer Now and 'The Bonniest Fox' that did themselves proud. </div>
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But they (Brizzle Post) were celebrating with us in what is a great achievement <i>and</i> helping us to raise awareness. </div>
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So this is how it went down.....</div>
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And then this.....</div>
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So I replied this......</div>
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It really fucked me off because it's so nobby and basically thick. 50 percent of the population will get cancer at some point in their life. 50 percent!!!! He might not have any friends but I'm sure he's got family right? We all fell out of <i>someone's</i> fanny. He must have someone he loves.</div>
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Then his comments were deleted as he'd obviously realised what a complete asshat he was. </div>
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And then this was shared (thanks go out to Saranne and Trudi)....</div>
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Which cracked me up...</div>
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And then people commented about Klaus with words such as: </div>
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Cretin</div>
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Dick</div>
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Bellend (a storm in a tit cup favourite) </div>
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Klaus Dick Weed </div>
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Cock monkey - about 7 times</div>
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Cockwomble (in word form this time)</div>
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Tosse - all the way from Denmark</div>
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(You lot love a phallus) </div>
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And Mingeknuckle!!</div>
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MINGEKNUCKLE...I love it!!!!</div>
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What an outpouring of support for me and my fellow Cancer-Landers!!!! </div>
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And it reminded me that for every Klunt (see what I did there) there are 99 legends. </div>
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Then I thought that Klaus is just some silly Mingeknuckle with a packet of Wootsits next to his PC, cock in one hand (gradually turning yellow from cheese dust) with his pile of un-researched opinions piling up next to him like a stack of crusty porn mags. </div>
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He didn't think about the consequences of what he wrote. He didn't realise that we are real people with real lives and that actually we might read what he's written and we may actually reply. And that we didn't ask for cancer. We just want to live. </div>
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Can you imagine <i>that</i> being the dominating thing that flies around in your head?</div>
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'I just want to be alive for as long as I can.'</div>
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And then I felt sorry for him, only a little like. </div>
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It must suck to be that much of a shortsighted bellend. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpgQXRTk8U7U_SmcEJCigp8Zz47FNaR61qjWZkLXaX4KHO_urAWcql4vwghwxXaH9idtfUY3ngwa_vd8UrE0Xtj1vt6QY75mvggp4gG59SR6czo0xTnTor_cWx0Ja3Vq5waXgqZkVHmA/s1600/IMG_9849.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpgQXRTk8U7U_SmcEJCigp8Zz47FNaR61qjWZkLXaX4KHO_urAWcql4vwghwxXaH9idtfUY3ngwa_vd8UrE0Xtj1vt6QY75mvggp4gG59SR6czo0xTnTor_cWx0Ja3Vq5waXgqZkVHmA/s320/IMG_9849.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For Klaus xxx</td></tr>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-81024690342567061422017-06-13T07:36:00.001-07:002017-06-13T07:38:59.075-07:00Chasing A Bubble<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Before we left for America on the 1st May I'd updated The Storm In A Tit Cup Facebook page to tell you that I'd be posting loads of stuff while we were away. We then had a traumatic start to the trip which I shall tell you about shortly, then I wrote a bit and fell asleep. Then time flew bye and then Manchester happened and i just didn't feel like talking about myself. It's so trivial compared to what others are enduring. And now London has happened and the atmosphere is so tangible. There is some kind of energy. Something in the air. I can't label it but I feel I could grab it from the sky, which I appreciate makes no sense or sounds strange. I'm not saying we are all running scared because we are British and that's just not how we roll, but there is a real sense of 'something' that is hard to pin point. Is it fear? Rage? Hatred? Or is it defiance? Strength? And the strongest of our emotions, love? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I'm not writing this today to talk about the abhorrent murders that have taken place this year by a group of blood thirsty narcissists. (And yes, I purposely do not use the words 'Muslim Extremists.' They may </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">think</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"> they are Muslims...they are not.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I'm writing this because it's business as usual right? I feel sick for all the people that are hurting from what has happened....including myself. I don't </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">know</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"> any of these people personally but these are </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">my</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"> people. These are </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">our</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"> people. These are British people. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">So FUCK YOU!! (Not 'you', you but YOU!) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Lets crack on...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I'm going to tell you about the first day of our trip through 10 American States. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">This is the big one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">In terms of 'bucket list' items this is the one that means the most to me. A road trip across America. Keith and I are huge fans of America. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I always thought 'when I've got 8 year olds I'm definitely taking them on an American road trip' but then Cancer came to town and pissed on my 'future-living' chips. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I'm not saying I'll have snuffed it before Noah and Tait turn 8 but just in case we thought it best to stop living in the future and maybe live now?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">We are all guilty of 'future-living'....'when I'm 40 I'll go to Vegas', 'I'll fly a plane next year' 'I'll join the WI once the grand kids have started school' etc etc</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">What if my 'future-living' had been nipple tassels on my right boob'? I'd be screwed now. It's just a big flat floodplain where once a mountain stood. (A saggy mountain to be fair, but a mountain all the same). Hanging a nipple tassel on that now would be more like pin-the-tale-on-the-donkey. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Now wouldn't that make a great hen party game? (I once got two of my friends to drink a shot of my breast milk at their hen parties so this would be borderline normal). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">(FYI Apparently I use a lot of brackets when I write stuff)((that's what happens when you know nothing about grammar))</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Anyway, my point is, if it's something you want to do, do it now!!!!!!!!! No one slides into the grave congratulating themselves on how repetitive their life was and how they always applied caution to making plans. I think maybe they regret the things they didn't get to do? I guess that's the point of 'the bucket list?' Although the word 'bucket' just makes me think of a big baggy fanny to be honest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">'Bucket list' comes from 'kicking the bucket' which I also don't understand? What's that got to do with death or dying? And now I'm imaging someone with their foot stuck in aforementioned big baggy fanny. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Bloody hell....How my mind wonders. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">So, USA. We arrived on 1st May for a month of 'Funishment.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">The journey wasn't as horrendous as I was expecting with a 2.5 year old in tow. He did hurl all over the photo blanket my mates had bought me last year before the tit chop so when we arrived at the Gatwick 'meet n greet' I had to stand in front of cars full of people scraping curdled milk and strawberry laces out of a fleece blanket covered with pictures of my face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">(FYI Gatwick, that horrendous stench in car park 4 was the aroma of a blanket gently marinated in sick slowly simmering in the boot of a black Toyota Prius. Soz.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">So Disney with a 2 and a 4 year old? Yes it's mental. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">May is a reasonable time to go as it's not rammed but the weather is great. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">As I'm a cancerous chemo muncher I qualified for fast pass tickets for me and the clan which did help a lot. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">You present yourselves at guest services and you're able to ask for a fast pass ticket due to a disability. Now folks this has me in conflict a little. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I am apparently 'disabled'. I qualify for a blue badge and for free cinema tickets for my carer and shit, but it's something I have yet to apply for. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Why? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Well I'm not ashamed or anything like that. It's just I've never been more </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">able</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"> in my life! I've never been more </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">capable</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">. I've never achieved so much as I have over the last 2 years. So I feel a bit weird having those privileges when I don't feel any different. I absolutely don't feel like I need them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">The blue badge thing has drifted through my mind a few times when I've return to my car to pay for parking after chemo and it's another £7 as you can NEVER get a parking spot at the Bristol Oncology Hospital!!! I have chemo every 3 weeks, a pre assessment every 3 weeks, a heart scan every 3 months, an MRI every 3 months, a blood test every 3 weeks....that's a lot of parking money!!!! It adds up. Not to mention the amount of time I have to spend getting to and from appointments just so I can get parked. If I had a blue badge I could just roll up and dump my ride on the double yellows like a boss. But something stops me from filling out the forms. For now anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">But this time I thought fuck it!!! I'm getting me a fast pass. Because my mental health is at risk if we get to the front of a 1.5hr queue with a two year old that's just potty trained that needs a piss just before the Buzz Lightyear Ride!!! I can't be dealing with that shittery schizzle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Anyway, I got the passes and we headed into DisneyWorld. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">We decided to spend our first day at the mother ship....The Magic Kingdom. And as you're about to discover, for me, it was anything </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">but</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"> Magical.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">We entered the land where dreams come true and stepped straight into a nightmare....our son went missing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">After exiting the first ride of the day where Peter Pan had declared 'no one ever grows up here', which basically made me think of Steven Kings IT, we were standing outside in what was a reasonably low crowd and wondering where to go next. Everyone was yabbering away about 'Peter pan' and why the crocodile had swallowed a clock (I explained that she'd probably been up all night with the baby and the last thing she needed was her husbands alarm going off at 6am for the bloody boxing....so she silenced it) and we stood to the side to examine our map and someone asks "where's Noah?". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">It wasn't an instant feeling of Vom because we'd been doing this a 100 times all morning...where's Noah...I've got him...where's Tait...in the pushchair you're pushing....where's Noah....oh he's on my shoulders. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">But this time I look up and he's just not there. All I see is a swarm of humans exiting 'the princess experience' (not as dodgy as it sounds) flying passed us. I looked behind me and see a shop and think he's probably just gone on the rob so off I go. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">He's not in there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">That's when it hits me.....the feeling of dread. And as a police officer my immediate thought is 'TIME PACE DISTANCE'. Now this will sound extreme to you but this is exactly how my mind worked over the next few minutes... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">...how much TIME will it take for a peadophile/murderer to walk at a PACE that doesn't attract attention, the DISTANCE to the exit of Disney? I'm just north of the castle which leads back to Main Street and the exit. I would estimate in these crowds that it is no more than 8 minutes. Would Noah be convinced by a 'your mum's waiting in the car park' story...yes probably he's only 4 and very trusting. Will he be scared right now? Don't be silly he's going to be fine. A nice mummy or daddy will bring him to the staff. But what if it's the wrong kind of person that finds him? Oh god I'm going to be sick. What was the last thing I said to him? Shit what was he wearing? Where the fuck is he? I'm going to be the mother to two dead children. I can't have another one taken from me. This is all my fault. I'm a terrible terrible mother....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Now we are all running in different directions around the not-so-Magic Kingdom and every time we see each other we lock eyes in hope that there will be a smile. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">There isn't. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">We are running around telling all the staff who to be fair are so calm. I've remembered he's wearing a yellow t.shirt and all the yellow I see I start chasing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">It's not him. It's not him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Now it felt like an hour had passed but in reality it was about 3 minutes. I told the staff it was longer because I know that gets shit moving quicker and it did. The radios start blasting off albeit calmly. Then a staff member tells me to wait where I am as my sister in law is coming over and I look up and see Noah sat on Keith's shoulders looking like nothings happened. Well that's when I go full leak mode. Crying, snot, swearing, I want to vomit again. The Disney lady hugs me and says "oh you poor thing, this happens about a million times a day and we always find them' and I wanted to say 'you don't know the half of it but I will give you my house and the clothes on my back if you don't mind the sweat'. I go over to Noah and I can't let go of him. I almost squash him. "You're squeezing me mummy. Ouch" And I asked "where did you go?" and he simply replies "I was chasing a bubble".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">It turns out that when he was stood with us a kid with a Mickey Bubble machine trotted by and Noah ran after her. He was never more than 10 metres away from us but in that crowd....it could have been 10 miles. It was awful. I think we all just assumed that someone else had their eye on him. He evaporated into thin air.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">After I'd stopped snotting we got straight on the 'it's a small world after all' boat ride. We travelled around the world listening to the song on repeat and staring at these smiling happy faces and observed the world living in complete harmony alongside each other. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">The the irony was not lost on me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I couldn't calm down. I was crying quietly and staring at all these smug/oblivious plastic expressions. Like nothing had happened. Everything was just fucking wonderful and there was peace everywhere. Life is a song and dance. Yippee. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">This was day 1 at Disney and things go massively up hill from here but wow, that first day I felt like a complete failure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I'd planned this huge trip across America. I'd been planning it since before I'd had cancer, before we lost our little girl, before Tait was born and even before Noah was born. It just took on a shit load more meaning over the last 2 years. I guess in some ways a lot was riding on it and that day I thought about the immense pressure I was putting on everyone to have the best time of their lives because I might be dead next year and we needed more memories. I felt selfish, scared and basically like a let down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Was I too just chasing a bubble? </span></div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-84576705311433048022017-04-04T09:30:00.000-07:002017-04-04T09:30:42.983-07:00How to cure Cancer - The Diary <div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
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When entering Cancer Land you become aware that actually it's nothing to worry about as everyone around you has 'The Cure'. Isn't that brilliant!!! It's an easy problem to fix!! You just phone work and say 'I can't come in today as I'm coming down with some cancer but you know, a little veg and some magic and I'll be back in. Sorry for the inconvenience. Can you ask Bob in marketing to run the tea club in my absence? Ta'</div>
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Then you implement all the cures you've been given and you'll be right as rain. A little duvet day and bobs your uncle! </div>
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Here's how I do it:</div>
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6am - Wake up. Stretch arms above head and drop them down my chest. First thought is 'oh my god one of my tits has fallen off!!! Oh hang on. No it's ok. I remember. I've got Cancer. Phew'</div>
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615am - 4 year old Noah - "mummy can I have the iPad?"</div>
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630am - I pray. Please don't let it get me.</div>
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645am - Drink. Hot water with a slice of lemon. No caffeine. Caffeine causes Cancer. </div>
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7am - 2 year old Tait (from his bed) - "mummy GET ME OUT!!!" </div>
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In I walk...</div>
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Tait - no i wanted daddy</div>
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Me - Daddy's at work</div>
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Him - Nanny then</div>
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Me - She's at home</div>
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Him - Ok YOU get me out.</div>
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Me - Do you need a wee or a poo?</div>
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Him - No</div>
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Me - Sit on potty for mummy </div>
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Him- NO</div>
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Noah - mummy can I have a million iPad? Can I have it tonight? Oh no mummy look. He's pooh'd on the carpet! </div>
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Tait - Look mummy I pooh'd. Can I have a sweetie? </div>
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Me - Yes in a minute but next time can please you do Mr Pooh on the potty.</div>
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Tait - Ok</div>
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730 - Coffee time... but you can't drink it. Well you can, it's a bit unclear according to the people with the cures (The curators / Curists?) <i>Drinking</i> caffeine is bad but coffee enemas cure cancer. </div>
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745 - Hit the toilet to expel coffee enema. A morning pooh that smells of Kenco is satisfying and horrifying in equal measure. </div>
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8am - The dairy dance </div>
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Kids - Mum can we have some milk? </div>
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Me - Yes here it is. It looks lovely. </div>
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Kids - You have some mummy? </div>
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Me - I'd love to. I can't have dairy. Dairy is bad. Dairy causes Cancer or can make you more cancery if you already have cancer. </div>
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830am Put the washing on</div>
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845am Breakfast. I could murder a bacon sandwich. Bacon causes cancer for fucks sake. But if I've already got it does it bloody matter if I unload 8 rashers into my face? Maybe I'll just burn myself some toast... oh hang on. You can't eat burnt toast. It causes cancer. </div>
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Let's have kale instead </div>
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9am - Mum comes over to look after kids.</div>
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Noah - Alright nanny poo poo head. Tait pooh'd on the carpet.</div>
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Tait mutters in the background "bloody kids" and I'm thinking...shit! where's he heard that from?</div>
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Me - Bye mum. Thanks mum.</div>
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10am - Exercise. Exercise is good. </div>
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<span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-align: start; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">12pm - Return horse to field and eat lunch. Plant based only mind! Dandelion root is exceptionally good for curing cancer </span></div>
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1215 - Get home and have shower. Wash armpits extra well as you can't where deodorant, deodorant is bad. Deodorant causes cancer. </div>
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Hang left tit in non underwired bra. </div>
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Bra already contains worlds largest dinosaur filet to sort of match the gargantuan boob I have left.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A whole new meaning to the words Tit-Head</td></tr>
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1230 - Eat a carrot dusted with turmeric.</div>
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1300 - Get chemo. Although this may be bad? Could chemo kill me? Some of "The Curators" believe that it's chemo that kills you and also that the extreme diets etc only work if I sack off medical intervention. So am I wrong to have chemo?</div>
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Ooooo this is stressful (stress can cause Cancer) so I'll just beat myself up about this while I chew on an apricot Kernel (whatever the fuck that is).</div>
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God I could murder some chocolate.... I can't chocolate is bad. It's got sugar in it.</div>
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1345 - Pray again </div>
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1400 - Drink green tea. When chemo makes everything you eat and drink taste like soil this is almost bearable. Nothing more satisfying then a cup full of allotment water-butt run-off. </div>
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1430 - Drive home. Think positive thoughts and maybe get in touch with nature.</div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">1500: Cast a spell. I shit you not. Cast a spell </span></div>
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(Dame Maggie Smith received Chemotherapy for Breast Cancer whilst filming Harry Potter and the deathly hallows. She used drugs. They kicked her ass but she kept going.)</div>
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<span style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">1530: Play trains with the boys. Even if you want to throw up your ring. </span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Noah - mummy were you at hospital for your poorly booby again? Can I see your plaster? Smell my feet.</span></div>
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1607 - Stick the kids dinner on....salivating at the thought of eating anything that hasn't been plucked from hedge or soil.</div>
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It's ok. Eat some more kale. With grated lemon peel on it to zest it right up. </div>
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Consider wine....forget it. Wine is bad. Alcohol causes Cancer.</div>
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1630 - TV distraction time.</div>
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Noah - mummy Tait's just drawn on the wall</div>
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Me - bloody kids! (Ah right....I see where that came from then)</div>
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Would you like to watch something on the TV?</div>
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Noah and Tait - Peter rabbit Peter Rabbit!!!!!! You watch it with us mummy</div>
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Me - Of course </div>
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(On strolls Tommy Brock the angry badger, dragging a brown bag. He shouts at Peter and his friends "nobody touches my sack without my say so" ...quite right badger!!!! And I start laughing.)</div>
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Kids - why are you laughing mummy.</div>
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Me - he's a funny badger</div>
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1700 - The witching hour(s) begin. Food is hurled, whinges are whinged. Protests are held about the chilli I've made and tactics have to be used to get to Tait to eat...</div>
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1800 - Juicing time again. Kale, lemon, coconut oil, turmeric. By this time I may as well drink it whilst sat on the toilet...</div>
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1830 - Carry both kids up the stairs on my back to the cheer of 'horsey ride'</div>
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1900 - Bedtime. Running between two kids bedrooms reading stories and singing nursery rhymes way out of tune. Clean wee off the toilet seat and floor. Remind Noah to practice his aim. </div>
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Kiss them goodnight over and over and over again, aware of how grateful I am to still be here with them. Look over at the big black dragon that Noah has in his room that belongs to my daughter Ally. Aware of the pain that never leaves me because I miss her so much and there is nothing I can do to heal that pain. </div>
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1930 - Relax. Slob down in the lounge. Put the bacon on, burn the toast, break out the wine and line up the chocolate telling myself I'll start afresh tomorrow. </div>
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Smile....because I am alive. </div>
Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com262tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-36034459928103148732017-03-05T09:36:00.001-08:002017-03-05T09:37:19.574-08:00No longer a Loughlin <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Note: some pictures by Tara Statton photography and some by my mate Matt. </div>
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Please <a href="http://storminatitcup.blogspot.co.uk/2017/03/wedding-suppliers-thank-you-list.html?m=1">Click here</a> for the list of lovely suppliers and contributors.) </div>
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So I'm really sorry to have to tell you all but I'm officially off the market....</div>
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I married Scouse Keith on 28th Jan. Yes it was on my bucket list with a big question mark next to it but in the end I gave in as I thought it would be nice to have the same surname as my three children. </div>
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When I get to heaven (70 years from now) and I go to collect Ally from nursery I don't want them turning me away as my ID says ‘Loughlin’ on it and not the same as my daughters.</div>
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So there we are.</div>
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I kept it quiet as I didn't want the wedding to appear in the paper with the headline ‘Cancer mums dying wish comes true to marry long-time love in wedding bliss’ because not only is it not true it also makes me feel a bit sick.</div>
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Not because I don't love Keith, of course I do. He's been my skeleton through all this, the structure that has kept me moving, he has literally animated me. </div>
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No. It’s because although statistically I might die in two years, IM NOT FUCKING DYING anymore than you are!!! ANNNDDDD I'm also so much more than ‘Cancer Mum!’ (Although I'd like this made into a cape if any of you are a bit crafty - I'll wear it and post pictures – du da du da It's Cancer Mum… fighting Cancer with humour and positivity and a shit load of drugs to ensure her kids grow up with their mum….look at that Lycra and epic camel toe. She's a hero.) </div>
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And ‘wedding bliss’ was more like wedding piss….there were some seriously hammered guests at our do which made it even more amazing and just hilarious. A highlight which springs to mind was when my friend Adam split his trousers twerking.</div>
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So basically this wasn't some huge sad Cancer Love story. </div>
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In truth I'm just a woman who married a man because she loves him and wants to share a name with her kids. That's it. </div>
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We have been so touched (not in a sexual way) by all the amazing people involved in our wedding day. </div>
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It all started with a knock on my friend Emma's door from an incredible lady called Tara from the Hilton at Aztec West (for non locals this is in Bristol NOT South America) offering to give us a free wedding. And a huge one at that. We had 250 people by the end of the night. (They plied us with so much wine and delicious food that someone had already barfed by 5pm.)</div>
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Then my mates stepped in and said they'd organise whatever I wanted so I didn't have to do a thing. A bit like don't tell the bride but with the bridesmaids sorting it. Then an amazing lady who lives down the road from me offered to make me a wedding cake and I'm telling you, you won't believe your eyes when you scroll down.</div>
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And then some of you lovely people had contacted a charity called The Wedding Wishing Well Foundation who then said they'd take care of all the rest!!!! I was then in a position where I couldn't say no and the date was booked!!!! Oh shiiiiiitttttttt!!!!</div>
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I met with Naomi from the WWF and she asked what kind of stuff I liked and of course I said Harry Potter!!!! </div>
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So everyone got together and waved their wands around (oi oi) and whooosh we had an amazing wedding.</div>
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I had 11 bridesmaids because I just couldn't choose and I thought balls to it. </div>
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I had a owl called Henry fly down with the rings! He looked a lot like Hedwig and he didn't shit on anyone which is always a bonus. </div>
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Then, we had a flash mob choir that completely took us by surprise and busted out Ed Sheerans Lego House. (Please see my Facebook page ‘storm in a tit cup by Heidi’ to watch it.)</div>
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There were far too many awesome things that appeared in our wedding to mention. I hope the pictures cover a lot of it. The infamous String Quartet ‘Allegrezza’ that serenaded the M5 played Harry Potter to us, a photo booth captured Harry Potter themed guest pics (great aunt fanny made an awesome Hagrid), a magician brought the real magic to life, a stunning handmade hair wreath was given to me by an incredible lady from Bristol who keeps her daughters memory alive with the love she has for her and the beautiful jewellery she makes in her name. The Wedding Wishing Well sourced so many beautiful decorations for the room, decorated the rooms, ran the day like a well oiled machine and brought the Potter magic to life with so many trinkets and Potter themed surprises. No one will ever forget the Owl or the Flash Mob choir. My Dress!!! Which was a surprise to even me!</div>
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Another mention must be made of THAT CAKE!!!!</div>
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The Potter themed name places for all 150 day guests were so beautiful and are now displayed in so many of the homes of my friends and fam. </div>
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The amazing flowers made for our mums, Tara and Naomi were provided by Sarah Tynan flowers in my town. </div>
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The two lots of flowers at the church were stunning, the Harry Potter themed ones and the ones made with so much love by the congregation of St. Nicholas Church. Our beautiful personalised wedding hangers. Our handmade wedding rings. And our absolutely amazing photographer who really captured the essence of the day. </div>
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The magic makers which polished 13 turds that morning by doing our hair and makeup.</div>
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The band we had in the evening were so flipping fantastic that everyone was talking about them for days after the do. The energy was amazing!!!!!</div>
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The DJ busted out loads of classics (not come on Eileen by the way…Nirvana I mean). And our fabulous wedding videographer!!! </div>
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<br />
After the wedding we had a week to gather our thoughts and get our stuff ready for the honeymoon.<br />
So I dug out my passport…. still a Loughlin on there, but I noticed something a little more alarming….the expiry date.<br />
It said April 2021.<br />
That's 4 years from now.<br />
It struck me that my passport might be valid for longer than me. What if this is the last passport I ever own? Will I be here long enough to renew it? Who will expire first?<br />
And there was that fear……rising up again like last nights cocktails.<br />
So I whacked it square in the face with my left hand as, although I'm right handed, this is now the one with the most force behind it as it carries my wedding ring.<br />
<br />Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-55812900108479017582017-03-05T09:25:00.000-08:002017-03-05T09:33:16.574-08:00Wedding suppliers thank you list I've had to add this as a separate page as I know I need to edit it and I can't work out how to edit this blog from an iPad without deleting it and reposting it. A ball ache.<br />
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Suppliers thank you list :<br />
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•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Tara Sylvanus Mattson and all the team from the Hilton at Aztec West. Facebook: Double Tree by Hilton Bristol North<br />
Www: doubletree3.hilton.com<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Naomi Thomas – The Wedding Wishing Well Foundation<br />
Facebook: The Wedding Wishing Well Foundation<br />
Twitter: @Wedwishingwell<br />
Web: weddingwishingwell.org.uk<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The amazing Harry Potter Wedding cake from Celia at Cemlyn Cakes.<br />
Facebook: Cemlyn Cakes<br />
Twitter @cemlyncakes<br />
Web: Cemlyncakes.co.uk<br />
Tel: 07939 071840<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Lu Jeffrey – Allegrezza String Quartet<br />
Facebook: The Allegrezza String Quartet<br />
Web: allegrezza.co.uk<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Christine - Vicar of St. Nicholas Church, Portishead<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Beauty treatments (nails, eyebrows) Sonia - Creative Beauty<br />
Facebook: Creative Beauty Portishead<br />
Tel: 07872 040837<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Flash mob Choir - Amplify Choir<br />
Facebook: Amplify Choir<br />
Twitter: @Amplifychoir<br />
Www: amplifychoir.co.uk<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Owl - TBC<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Band - Bring Down The House<br />
Facebook: Bring Down The House<br />
Twitter: @BDTH_Bristol<br />
Web: bringdownthehouse.org<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>DJ - TBC<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Tech guy – TBC<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>MC - TBC<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Magician - Adam Richards<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Facebook: Adam Richards Magic<br />
Twitter: @arichardsmagic<br />
Web: adamrichardsmagic.com<br />
Tel: 07729590705<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Suits - Men's Hire Nailsea<br />
Facebook: Mens Hire Nailsea<br />
Twitter: @NailseaMensHire<br />
Web: menshire.co.uk<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jewellery and head wreath - Bridezillas<br />
Facebook: Bridezillas Ltd<br />
Twitter: @BridezillasLtd<br />
Web: bridezillas.biz<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Rings - TBC<br />
Gift bouquets - Sarah Tynan Flowers<br />
Facebook: Sarah Tynan Flowers<br />
Tel: 01275 817178<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Stationers - TBC<br />
Room dressers – TBC<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Videographer - A perfect memory<br />
Facebook: A Perfect Memory<br />
Twitter: @a_perfectmemory<br />
Web: aperfectmemory.co.uk<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Photographer - Tara Statton photography<br />
Facebook: Tara Statton Photography<br />
Web: Tarastattonphotography.com<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Harry Potter Photo Booth - South west photo booths<br />
Facebook: South West Photo booths<br />
Twitter: @SW_PhotoBooths<br />
Web: southwestphotobooths.co.uk<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hair and makeup - Tracy Pallari hair and make up<br />
Facebook: Tracy Pallari Hair and Make-Up Artist<br />
Twitter: @TracyPallariMUA<br />
Web: tracypallari.com<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Church flowers – TBC<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Laser names - TBC<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hangers – TBC<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com130tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-16698919456077387092017-01-17T12:04:00.000-08:002017-01-17T12:04:35.560-08:00Harry Potter and My Philosophers Stone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Those of you that have read all of my blog posts and happen to be Harry Potter fans will notice my nods towards the magical Pottersphere from time to time.</div>
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The most obvious link being the name of my rotten skanky-ass Cancer, 'VolderTit.'</div>
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There were a few reasons for this name. </div>
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At Hogwarts (the wizard school) they call the Nemesis Voldemort and 'he-who-must-not-be-named.' But It is wisely pointed out by Albus Dumbledore that 'fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself'. So I named my rotten mammary glands after <i>him</i> but then wondered if it was a complete contradiction? Why don't I just call it Cancer? </div>
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I'm not scared of the word Cancer, I just don't like it. It's too vague. My cancer is <i>my</i> cancer and I can speak for most people in Cancerland when I say that being blanketed by muggles is one of the most frustrating parts of explaining cancer....</div>
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"Oh you'll be fine. Great Aunt Maud had cancer and she's fine." (Some Nob circa 2015)</div>
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But there are so many cancers, and then there are aggreviatung factors to cancers such as hormones, or lack of hormones. Then different metastasis (spread of cancer) and therefore you'll find it difficult to actually match two people with identical cancers, life expectancies etc. </div>
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Oh and yeah we call you muggles. We do!!! Non Cancer folk. You don't live in Cancerland...that is not to say that you don't have your own shit going on though. It's just how we refer to you. </div>
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For example:</div>
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<b>Resident of Cancerland</b>: my port is getting right on my tit. It's itchy as hell.</div>
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<b>Muggle</b>: what's a port?</div>
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<b>Resident of Cancerland</b>: it's a little dome under your skin that they stick the chemo needles in.</div>
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<b>Muggle</b>: oh right. I thought it was a boat car park like.</div>
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<b>Resident of Cancerland</b>: (under breath) fucking muggle.</div>
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See? </div>
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It's not meant in a nasty way. We love you. And love that you ask questions. We just also like to make fun and laugh because let's face it... Cancerland is a pretty shit place to be and a little humour goes a long way. </div>
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I also want to point out before someone calls me a muggle-ist that I happen to know lots of muggles, I'm even friends with some, and live with them, so there!! </div>
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I grew up reading the Potter books...that's to say I was about 18 when I got hooked but I believe you spend your whole life growing up. Changing, evolving. I don't know many people that just stay the same when they hit 21. Do you? </div>
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I used to go to ASDA at Cribbs Causeway at midnight when the books were due out. I would stand hip to shoulder with all the little wizards and witches of Bristol, waiting for the spotty night shift kid to wheel out the trolley of books. Then I'd grab mine, fly home and read it until I fell asleep. I'd get lost in the world of spells, magic and fart flavoured jelly beans and it really made me feel excited, like anything was possible. It probably sounds nobby and sad but screw you, I loved that world. </div>
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And that love never went away. </div>
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The films started coming out and the wizarding world was brought to life. Incredible. The train to Hogwarts alone was fantastic. I spent actual time working out where Hogwarts was.......'If the pupils boarded the Hogwarts Express at 11am in London and arrived in the dark in September which I worked out was around 8pm then it must be Scotland somewhere. But then The Hogwarts Express is a steam train right? So it must travel slower than a First Great Western train? But then again it's got magic on its side and has less piss-stinking toilets. </div>
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As I've continued to grow up I've never seemed to lose the love for Harry and Co. I found myself announcing to the room one day when i needed a poo that I was off to 'conjure a Patronus.' This sat nicely alongside some of my favourite poo announcements... 'drop the kids off at the pool,' 'lay a cable,' 'curl one out,' 'drop anchor in poo bay' and now since the addition of kids I like 'Dumplestiltskin.'</div>
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One of my friends was telling me the other day that when you do a poo and you look down afterwards and it's gone and then you wipe and there's no proof that it actually happened and wiping becomes unnecessary then it's called a 'Ghost poo' or a 'ghostie.' She said her young daughter had gone to the toilet and when she shouted up to offer paperwork assistance she replied "nah don't worry, it was just a Ghostie". I love kids.</div>
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Now that I have terrible bum manoeuvres (can't stand the term bowel movements) when I feel the warning rumble of an imminent poo-Nado it is not uncommon to hear the running of my feet to the bathroom and my mouth declaring 'expecto patronum'. </div>
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It really takes the edge off the awkwardness of pebble dashing someone's toilet. </div>
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Anyway, I digress.</div>
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Over the last few months my cancer, VolderTit, has spread again so I've changed drugs to Kadcyla which is now currently my 'Elixir of life', my 'Philosopher's Stone' and this drug can add an average of 9 months to the life of someone with secondary breast cancer. Those 9 months are crucial. </div>
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Can you imagine being told you will die? I know we all die, but when a <i>Dr</i> tells you it'll be sooner then you think, you do shit yourself a bit. And 9 months......it doesn't sound like a lot does it? But to someone to whom every minute counts, it is. 9 months gives someone the chance to set their affairs in order. To write letters to their children, to say those goodbyes in all the ways they'd like and to show their other half where the mop is kept. </div>
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This is a very important drug that has had amazing effects. I can physically see on my skin where the Cancer used to be, has now cleared. Imagine being able to watch Cancer growing up your body like Creeper Vines up a house? See it traveling across your skin, spreading over you? It's scary. I conjured an enormous patronus when I saw this happening. Then, when given Kadcyla I saw it in reverse. I saw it slowly reduce and fade. It will return, we know this but at the moment it's at bay. I have been bought time. There is no more precious a gift then time. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creeper Vines Aug 2016</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">Now they are on about taking Kadcyla away from some women with secondary breast cancer because it's too expensive. If this happens these women will likely die quicker. If Kadcyla wasn't given to me in September then I could be so much closer to death than I am now. I'm not sugar coating it, this is fucking serious. Please sign the petition on my Facebook page 'storm in a tit cup by Heidi' or go to the Breast Cancer Now website. </span></div>
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Now, as if by magic Keith and I attended the London Premiere of the new JK Rowling film 'Fantastic Beasts and where to find them.' We arrived at Leicester Square and saw hundreds of fans dressed up ready to see JK and hot Eddie with the red mane. (This man is representing us Gingers impeccably) </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Us with our tickets. I finally have more hair than Keith! </td></tr>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">Whilst in the lift at our hotel a posh American lady asked me what all the homeless people were queuing for outside in Leicester Square. I explained that this was in fact a large collection of Hagrid's and Dobby the House Elf's which is just, you know, standard British behaviour. She looked at me like I was 'Fluffy.' (The three headed dog that guards the Philosophers Stone) </span></div>
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We walked down the red (well it was blue) carpet and there was JK!!!!! Just next to me. So close I could have poked her with my wand but I didn't. I was too shy. I wanted to go over and tell her how amazing she is but she hears that constantly. I wouldn't have time to tell her all the stuff I've told you...about VolderTit and also how poignant her writing is. How wise. </div>
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I wanted to tell her how much i want to stay alive long enough to read the books to the boys. About how I'm thinking of recording my voice reading the books just in case I'm not. </div>
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I wanted to tell her that Albus Dumbledore says one of the wisest things I've heard or read. </div>
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In fact this mantra is something that Ive carried in my head constantly since VolderTit landed in my life and even more so since the death of my daughter Ally. </div>
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"happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light" </div>
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To lose my daughter, my darkness. To live for my sons, my light.</div>
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Amen Albus. You cape wearing genius. </div>
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Keith and I went to the after party. There was a book shelf full of doughnuts, a wall of sandwiches and an entire bar full of sweets!!! It was amazing. Grown adults stuffing sweets in at a hundred miles an hour. Pure bliss. </div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">We spied the VIP section<span style="text-align: center;">and wondered how we could maybe gain entry. Keith suggested that if the bouncers had a sense of humour it could pan out like this: </span></span></div>
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<b>Me</b>: hello I'm one of the main characters 'magical Maureen' step aside so I can fly in on my broom</div>
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<b>Bouncers</b>: no you're not, bugger off</div>
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<b>Me</b>: OBLIVIATE !!</div>
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And in we stroll </div>
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Obliviate is the spell used to make you forget. A spell many of us wish we could use sometimes. But really even though something is so painful, so sad and all consuming, would we really want to erase it from our minds? </div>
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The night came and went and I was left wondering if it had really happened or was I back on the diamorphine? </div>
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I regretted not saying hi to JK Rowling as that was the closest I'll get. But we can't live in regret can we?</div>
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I'll always be grateful for those books. For the magic. It makes you feel like anything is possible. </div>
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Anyway, I'm off at the double!!!! Expecto Patronuuuummmm and if that makes you feel sick.... obliviate!!!! </div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-40586425213011784502016-12-27T12:31:00.000-08:002016-12-27T12:31:33.992-08:00Fred<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
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Email for man forum: pete@mummysstar.org<br />
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Dangly balls. Wangs. Testosterone. Smelly shoes. Hairy arses. Hairy chests. Hairy feet. Love of boobies. Love of football. Love of rugby. Enjoyment of beer or wine. Eats curry. Punches walls. Smells own farts. Has an inability to wipe own arse properly. Talks about feelings.......hang on......my fingers felt those lies as they crept out. </div>
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That's not right is it? Men talk about their feelings? Do they really? I'm not convinced.</div>
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Now I'm well aware of the sweeping generalisations I made in that last paragraph, it's kind of the point to this slightly different post.</div>
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When Neanderthal man walked out the cave scratching his nuts do you think his first activity of the day was a group therapy session around an animal carcass, discussing his feelings? </div>
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No.</div>
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While Wilma was out the back dragging her rags down a bumpy stone to achieve perfect whites whilst chatting to Betty about BamBams use of the 'F' word, Fred was pissing on flintstones showing his prehistoric nob to his mates.</div>
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Men don't talk!!!! (In the stereotypical sense anyway) </div>
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When I was diagnosed with Inflammatory Breast Cancer last September while pregnant, the ass end fell out of our world. </div>
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Along with 10,000 trees worth of leaflets, I left the breast clinic with a list of online support groups that would carry me through everything from chemo induced ass wing-nuts (or haemorrhoids) to the fear of imminent death. </div>
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I logged on that night and had every questioned answered that I needed, immediately! I was given tips, advice and weird suggestions but by and large a feeling of support. I wasn't the only one in the world facing this. I was able to blurt out anything and have an answer immediately....</div>
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Does your growler hair fall out?</div>
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Will I lose my teeth?</div>
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What do you think happens when you die?</div>
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I have been through diagnosis of a very rare and extremely aggressive cancer, chemo in pregnancy, premature birth, the heart exploding loss of our daughter, a secondary diagnosis to my lungs, radiotherapy, mastectomy and a further secondary spread to my skin. I can honestly say all these things have support groups but where oh where is Neanderthal man in all this? Is he out the back waxing his arse with fermented berries not giving a shit? </div>
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No he's not. He's sitting on his feelings, quietly dealing with his shituation alone. He's in the cave. And the cave is a very lonely place.</div>
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You see he has spent all his time supporting Wilma. Wilmas mental health is quite astounding considering the horrors she has faced. She has Betty to talk to. She also has all the other women surrounding her. It's ok for Wilma to talk over a bone, with anyone. </div>
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But Fred? Well he's screwed. You see some stupid twat thought it was a great idea to start a rumour that men don't share their fears and feelings. Instead they created a role for themselves as protector but gave themselves no room to be a human being. </div>
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Fred doesn't talk.</div>
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Fred didn't get any leaflets. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; text-align: start; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Jamie, whose wife Kellyanne has incurable Cancer recounts the following: </span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";">"They passed me a bag of her possessions, including her wedding ring, and told me she would need major bowel surgery and they would call me when it was over.</span></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>That was the first of 3 occasions I’ve had to watch Kel disappear through a door for major surgery not knowing if she would come back out again.</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Kel and I are just 31 years old. Reading this I imagine everyone is thinking the same thing – this is absolutely shit. </b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Over the last few years I’ve met and read about so many women who have gone through what Kel is going through and witnessed incredible courage and endurance in even the most terrible of situations . However very little is written from the perspective of the partner.</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Specifically what i wanted to touch on is the stereotype that men are too macho to talk about their feelings. Most people who know me will probably say the same thing which is along the lines of ‘he deals with it all really well but he doesn’t really talk about it’.</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";"><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";"><b>Is that because i’m ‘too manly’ to talk or show emotion. Nope! Of course I get upset about it – i cry regularly about it but just because i don’t show it in front of people doesn’t mean i bottle it up</b></span><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";"><b>."</b> Jamie from MummysStarMen </span> </span> </span><a href="http://www.mummysstar.org/mummysstarmen-jamie/" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">(Click here for the full article)</a></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";">Jamie clearly identifies the importance of avoiding being Fred. </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";">As does Pete Wallroth who created the charity Mummy's Star in honour of the memory of his beautiful wife Mair.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>"Now bear in mind, as a person I have sought support when required in the past. I have never hidden my emotions. I have never been afraid to cry, I have never seen counselling or any other form or support as a sign of weakness. In fact I think each and every one of us could benefit from a few hours counselling even if we don’t think we need it.</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>So, the idea of seeking support when I most needed it should have been a given for me…..but yet I didn’t. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to worry family, I didn’t want to seem weak to friends and I most certainly didn’t want to show it to Mair. Surely it was the last thing she needed?</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Wrong!</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>It was a relief to her. One night while I had Merlin propped up on my knees with Mair sat beside me on the couch, I stared as his little face sleeping and tears started running down my face. How could I begrudge this little guy, Our baby sunshine my love and attention. Tears turned to sobbing and before long I was crying my eyes out in Mair’s arms. I broke down.</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>“How are you supposed to look after them and me, if you don’t look after yourself?” she asked.</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>I remember uttering something along the lines of “I can’t, I’ve not got time” to which I think she responded with something along the lines of “Bloody hell I’m not that sick that I can’t have them for 2 hours!” with a smile on her face then gave me another massive hug.</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>And that was it. The next day I rang a local day hospice that Mair had also been going to and I made an appointment with Jacqui and at that appointment I balled by eyes out again.</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";">And you know what. It didn’t take the situation away. It didn’t remove the cancer from our lives, It didn’t magically create some home help…..but it got it out of me that yes I struggled and it felt good. It was like opening a valve and letting some air out. The difference between a slow puncture or a complete blow out on the motorway doing 80!"</span></span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></b><a href="http://www.mummysstar.org/mummysstarmen-bonding-baby-belligerance/" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">(Click here for the full article) </a><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";">My Keith has propped me up, our kids up, my mum and himself since this all started and I will honestly admit that I've neglected him. I was far too wrapped up in what was happening to me to really consider</span><span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";"> </span><i style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">my</i><span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";"> </span><span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";">Fred. </span><br />
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I like to think that nowadays I'm a little bit more aware of Keith's feelings. He is in this with me but he is also carrying me (not an easy task when I weigh 40 stone and have a meatball subway hanging out my mouth). </div>
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BUT I am worried about all the men out there that are stuck in the cave with only their smelly shoes, hairy arses and skid marked pants for company. There will be men across the UK punching holes in their caves, quietly sitting on the pain of supporting a loved one who is critically ill.</div>
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Pete, Jamie, myself and a whole lot of others want to give men a place to chat and get themselves out of the cave.</div>
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Please, if you know any man that has a loved one who is ill, share this post with them. They just need to email Pete directly at pete@mummsstar.org and he will invite them to the 'man forum'. </div>
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When you tell The Fred's about the group they may tell you to piss off and that they don't need support but they may secretly sneak on there and just not tell you, Fred stylie. They can retain the image of Fred without being Fred. </div>
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No one should feel they can't talk to anyone.</div>
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Get Fred out of the Cave xx</div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-79573251859578214052016-12-11T01:11:00.001-08:002016-12-11T01:11:26.830-08:00Ally's Birthday <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstyletallbody";"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><b><u>An empty bed.</u></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstyletallbody";"><span style="font-size: 17px;">A year ago today you came </span></span><span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstyletallbody"; font-size: 17px;"></span><br />
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A beam of sunshine in the rain</div>
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My bursting heart could just withstand </div>
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The rush of love as you held my hand</div>
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You did so well, the Drs said</div>
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But then you left. An empty bed</div>
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We love you more then words can say</div>
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Forever beside me. Happy 1st Birthday </div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-23286090192582053652016-10-27T06:16:00.002-07:002016-10-27T06:21:06.649-07:00Confessions of Buffalo Bill<span style="color: #454545; font-family: uictfonttextstylebody; font-size: 17px;">So, I like to think that when you read my wafflings and rude stories your experience is heightened by knowing who is typing them. You know what I'm going through. I have incurable Inflammatory Breast Cancer and my little girl is in heaven. </span><br />
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I think you think 'wow she's tough. She's so in control. She's so brave.' I'll let you in on a little secret....I'm manipulating you. </div>
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You may have read my posts over the last 12 months and believed that my face doesn't change. That it is was fixed firm when the wind changed. You believe that every day I'm 100% positive. I'm sorry to break it to you. It's not true!!! I'm a fake. I'm wearing someone else's skin...I, my friends, am Buffalo Bill. </div>
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I take ages to update you, some of the things you read happened bloody ages ago. Then I tell you stuff that isn't in chronological order. Then I skirt over things like they aren't important. Then I mask everything with humour. </div>
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But why am I doing this? </div>
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Because it works. </div>
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Plain and simple. Writing helps me. Humour helps me. Positivity really helps me. It works. I feel bloody fantastic!!! Not only that, I'm convinced that I will outlive my statistics by a country mile. That's not my skin suit talking...that's the truth. </div>
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But when things go bent I do cry and get hysterical and feel sorry for myself. I then blame myself and then I'm angry with myself for blaming myself. I've got enough to deal with without being mad at me! It's not fair to me! </div>
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So, who can I be angry at? Whose fault is it that I'm here? </div>
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It's no ones fault is it. There is no blame. Therefore, there can't be any anger. </div>
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Hysteria does appear from time to time...its about how you bounce back. I tend to follow this pattern: positivity - bad news - hysteria - humour - positivity. </div>
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I had my boob off in July. A few days later, a rash appeared below my scar. I thought it was just a reaction to surgery, someone may have left their tool on my chest whilst operating (wahey). So I watched the rash for a few weeks and then I went to Camp Bestival with Noah (I didn't take Tait as I thought he'd end up licking a portaloo). I had some quality time with the threenager, we went on the official biggest bouncy castle in the world. I got whacked in the face by some hero dad doing a flying karate kid reenactment for his uninterested 4 year old. </div>
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I came back room the festival and announced to Scouse that I had a new rash. He was instantly on it, pushing me onto the phone to get an appointment. I think he sharted a bit too, he hid it well though. </div>
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We got in the car to the Breast Clinic and I blurted out the following without coming up for air....</div>
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"I don't wanna die. I'm too young. If it's back then I'm definitely and officially dying the boys will grow up without me and they won't remember me and Tait is only two he won't have a fucking clue who I am and what if you meet someone else and they move into my house and the boys start calling her mum and they introduce her as their mum at parents evening and the only memories they have of me are false ones enforced on them by you and my mates and what if she's mean to them and what if they love her and what if they think I've abandoned them one day when I don't come home and what if this woman lives in my house and you get married and then divorced and she takes all our money. What if she wants to move away and then my mum can't drive and won't see the boys everyday and what if my friends all like her and what if they think she's a cunt and what if I can't come back and haunt her and what if I can and what would I say and what would my code word be so that people knew it was me coming through from the other side it would have to be something rude like 'pull my finger' or I had threatened gemma with putting sanitary towels on her bathroom mirror instead of REDRUM. Which is funny isn't it and what if I have a long drawn out death in a hospice and have to keep saying goodbye and what if I get hit by a bus tomorrow and I've spent all day wondering how I'll haunt someone"</div>
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And breathe........</div>
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For fucks sake people, I can tell you it wasn't pleasant!!!!</div>
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I then looked up into the sun visor mirror and squashed my forehead fat together 'whoa what the fuck was that?' I thought.</div>
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I looked over at Scouse and he'd gone grey. He reached out a hand to me and instead of 'don't worry you're not gong to die' he said 'I know you're scared and I understand'. That's exactly what I needed to hear. No one really wants to be told they're acting irrational when in fact I believe it was one of my most rational moments I'd had.</div>
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I'm not referring to Scouse getting a new woman, I'm referring to the fear of death. </div>
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I'm not overly concerned about a new girlfriend because you can't improve on perfection (yeah alright, other than my cancerous body) So I'm aware I'm a hard act to follow. </div>
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We all die!!!! I hate to break it to you, but we all die. </div>
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I am not scared of death. I am scared of my heart breaking when I say goodbye. I've done it before with Ally. It's a pain that rips through every part of you. A pain so crippling that you believe you will die from it.</div>
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I'm scared that the boys will think I've just left them one day. That I didn't bother to come home. I'm scared they won't have real memories of me. </div>
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Are these fears irrational? No. No they are not. They are <i>irregular</i> not <i>irrational</i>. </div>
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Not many people have to face their death. It's irregular to be constantly facing the thought that you may die soon. But let me tell you, it's a completely rational fear. And one that has taught me a lot. That classic lesson of trying to live in the now just in case you get hit by the X3 to Cribbs Causeway. You need to bridle that fear and ride it like a fucking master!!!</div>
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I go for the appointment about the rash. There are a few back and fourths around what they think this rash is as they are all convinced it's not Cancer. Just a normal everyday rash. So simple. </div>
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But they were wrong. </div>
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Not unlike fake butter...its spread. </div>
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This bastard cancer has now spread into my skin. </div>
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Did you know you could have breast cancer in your skin? I have breast cancer in my lungs AND my skin.....no I don't have little tits growing on my skin or bazookas in my lungs...its the live cancer cells from my Inflammtory breast cancer in those places. They have spread. </div>
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What does this mean? Well it's not good news. It means my drugs are no longer working so for a second time we move to new ones. </div>
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I'm gradually working my way down the menu and what started off as Ribeye steak is gradually becoming yesterday's leftovers. </div>
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You start with the best thing in the market and work your way down. </div>
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I'm now on a drug called Kadcyla. My oncologist has assured me though that this can be thought of as just as good as the last drugs, just different. Maybe a better fit.</div>
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Kadcya....A weird name. When I went for the first treatment of this drug 3 weeks ago my mum said "ere, you avin that Cadfael today?" Yes. Yes I am. I will spend all day riding a Benedictine monk who solves crimes over my shoulder. Phowaor. </div>
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Now those of you that pray, please, I'd appreciate a little nod in my direction and those that don't can you cross your fingers with the intensity of taking a dump after three weeks of carbs.</div>
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I need these drugs to work miracles. </div>
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I asked about 'numbers' again....people who start this drug live an average on 2.5 years if they work, if they don't, we are talking months. </div>
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Well this is not acceptable!!! Noah starts school in September next year, Tait has just turned two, I have a new nephew arriving in January who has the best name ever and Scouse is still refusing to eat fruit!!!!! I need to hit these mile stones. It's non negotiable. </div>
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Now I appreciate this is awful news and you are now maybe a little sad. For different reasons...some will be sad as they are parents and are scared for me, some are sad because it might mean I can't write this blog when I'm dead (quija board?) and some are sad because they won't have me in their lives anymore. </div>
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Can I just say that despite this latest news I'm not telling myself I have a short time left. Absolutely not!!! I'm not having it and quite frankly this cancer can go blow itself</div>
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I see myself in my 40s you fucking cunt!!! Kiss my crinkly brown star!!!! FUCK YOU!!!!!!!! FUCKKKKK YYYOOUUUUU!!!!!! </div>
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And as much as I will enjoy haunting everyone, in a humorous manner, I'm not getting there just yet!!! I'm alive!!! I've never <i>been</i> more alive in my life! </div>
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And I'm not going anywhere. Bears Grylls is right! Drink your own piss to survive and POSITIVITY POSITIVITY POSITIVITY</div>
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It's so much better then giving up.</div>
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Keep your skin suit for when you need it (mine has been made from the skin of my friends and family) and FYI if I do haunt you, my code word is Dib Dab in honour of Scouse, whose called Keith by the way xxx </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last weekend in Cyprus with some of the Skin Suit. </td></tr>
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<br />Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-32712446861106139462016-09-19T04:23:00.002-07:002016-09-19T04:23:42.491-07:00Falling off the stage.<div style="color: #454545; font-family: uictfonttextstylebody; font-size: 17px;">
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<span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">So I'm going to talk about two things. One that </span><i style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">has</i><span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> happened and one that is about to happen. </span><br />
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Sorry, hello by the way. Oh and this is a long one, you may want to get a brew.</div>
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So, around March time this year, some butt head , or maybe a few butt heads , put me foreword for a Parenting Blog Award. The Mum and Dad (MAD) blog awards to be exact. I didn't even know there was such a thing and was raising the flesh above my eye (note I couldn't raise a eyebrow, I had non) and wondering what this would all be about. I'll be honest, other than <a href="http://www.theunmumsymum.blogspot.co.uk/">The Unmumsy Mum</a> and <a href="http://www.thesunwillcomeup.blogspot.co.uk/">The Sun Will Come Up</a> I've never really read any blogs. I was completely unaware that there are bloody millions of them flying around in cyber space covering everything from life with an ingrown toenail to different ways to style your dog.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody";">The only other blogs I had experienced were a quick glance at Cancer ones, and let me tell you, us Cancer Folk can be a depressing little bunch at times. So</span> I was chuffed. And I thought I'd give a couple of the people who 'follow' me a chance to vote. I'll be honest, I've actually got no idea how many people read my blog.</div>
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How do you know? </div>
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I know how many 'hits' I've had (cannot get the vision of me sucking on a bong when i say this) but regular followers? No idea. </div>
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So yeah I asked you to vote if you felt like I deserved it. Not because I've got cancer and you feel sorry for me, but if you actually thought my writing was 'best.' </div>
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Anyway, that was March / April time and they kept us hanging on until the 16th September to find out the results. </div>
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We were asked to turn up at a hotel in Laaannnddaannn Taannn (or London) and eat some food and chuck a load of wine down our necks so of course I said yes.</div>
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My friend Lizzie and I went halves on a hotel room (it was still like 10 million pounds) and off we went. </div>
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So, it all started really well. I dumped the boys on my mum, had radiotherapy at 945am, tucked my crispy non-tit into a shitty old granny bra with my fake foam dome boob, and hauled ass to Bristol Temple Meads train station. I queued up for my ticket and the man behind the desk said "I Love your haircut by the way" My automatic response was "what?" He replied "Your hair cut. It's nice" and I looked at him and he wasn't laughing!!!!! He was actually being serious!!! Then I remembered.....I'm not bloody bald anymore am I! My hair has actually gone from Cancer hair to hair hair. Awesome. I realise its the first compliment I've had about my appearance that has come from someone who isn't just being nice to the woman with Cancer. It's a real compliment!!!!! So Thank you Temple Meads Man, and may I say I liked the skin you were wearing on your head too. It was lush! </div>
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So, I get to London and I meet some of my favourite people...my old work mates (I better not name them as I think they may have been scivving) and I tell them about how posh my hotel is - The Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington don't you know. When I checked in the lady asked "can I give your bags to this gentlemen" and gesticulated towards some kind of Beefeater and I blurted "why where's he taking them?" and of course she replied "um, to your room." Well Posh!!</div>
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I go to the room to get ready and I think 'wow. A shower without children opening the door and asking me what I'm doing or bowling in and taking a toddler-wee next to the cubicle which inevitably goes down the wall and across their feet.' Peace at last.</div>
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I dump all my clothes on the floor and step into the shower slamming the door firmly behind me....or so I thought. </div>
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I'm blissfully shaving my legs, a chore that has only recently re-entered my life, checking out my radiation burns and noting how I seem to have got off lightly so far. I'm carefully washing off my eyebrows, oblivious to the Tsunami that was washing across the posh bathroom floor. </div>
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Shower is turned off and I go to step out of the cubicle, I notice how shiny the floor tiles are as I can literally see my reflection. I stamp my giant hobbit foot onto the tiles and my reflection starts to 'ripple,' not unusual given the state of my body at the moment, but then my face wobbles away!!!! Oh shit!!!! Has radiation caused my face to fall off? NOOOO then it dawns on me I've flooded the pissing bathroom haven't I! Not only that but that granny bra and fake foam dome tit are they only ones I have with me and one is fully submerged under 3inches of posh water and 'Soap and Glory' suds and the other is floating towards the heated towel rail. Bollocks!!!! I scoop up the sodden mess and dump it on the shelf behind the bog while I rush around naked in the bathroom, mopping up water with the bath mat, one tit swinging freely in the air.</div>
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I finally get all the floor water down the sink and go to retrieved the bra, foam dome and other clothes off the shelf and I shit you not, I dropped them in the bastard toilet!!! </div>
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Well, I don't have a spare!! It's 45 mins until launch and I have no spare tit and nothing to put it in. I can see visions of myself sitting in my dress talking to a real blogger and suddenly a wet bra shape emerges through my dress. </div>
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My buggery bollocks!!! I try stuffing all my clothes on the heated towel rail. Slipping the boob down the back. Too slow.....Where's the free hairdryer????</div>
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So that's what I did. I dried my shower/toilet water sodden tit and bra with the complimentary hair dryer. Then off I went. Oh actually I put clothes on first you understand. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">So it was a drinks reception first and I met some other bloggers who were lovely. I quickly learnt that 'hi I'm Heidi' is as pointless as wrapping presents for a 3 month old. People would raise their lovely hairy eyebrows at me and I quickly learned to introduced myself as 'STORM IN A TIT CUP'....it was....different. Kinda cool. I couldn't wait to meet someone who might say 'hi I'm HAIRY BALLS - PRIVATE SCHOOLS' or 'nice to meet you I'm OH SO HAPPY CRAPPY NAPPY' or even 'alright my dear I'm MY TODDLER THE SHITHEAD' but alas people are equally as sensible as me. </span></td></tr>
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We had dinner and just before they began to announce the winners I rushed off to the traps for my millionth wee of the night and the smallest most delicate of lady-poo's ...nerves, alcohol and the lasting effects of 10 months of chemotherapy. And bless, there was another blogger throwing out much more than words....my god the poor lady. After Friday her Twitter name is probably @chundercatsarego, @vomitcomet or @leastihadabucket. Awful. I provided a jug of water and back I went. </div>
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So the awards began and there were many category's and I really enjoyed hearing about all the blogs and made notes to follow these amazing people. But by far the best part for me was when the entertainment started...and by that I mean when another blogger fell off the stage. This gorgeous blonde in a black dress went ass over tit down the back of the stage and I had a front row seat!!!! </div>
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There was a rumble and I looked over to see two sculpted legs go flying into the air, they were akimbo and I saw a flash of black material or very dark beaver hair followed by feet and then gasps from the audience. I did what any good person would do and cheered!!!! Well someone needed to break the silence!!! I then sat down and I'm ashamed to say I howled for at least 12 minutes, to the point of tears. I'm so sorry lady with lovely legs, but your fall made my night! I salute you!! You styled it out too by waving your arms in the air, awesome. </div>
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It then got to the Best Writer category and I listened as they described this blog that showed humour despite the subject matter, bravery in the face of adversity and sheer courage. And I must say I was proud when I heard them say that was my blog. But I was also sad because I cannot believe this is my life. I often think my life is like the elaborate plot on a soap and GoogleBox lounges would scream 'oh that's crap, as if that would ever happen to one person' , but it's real and it's all true. And it's fucking awful. </div>
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But I will say again, I cannot let my little boys lives be swallowed up by darkness. I cannot let my little girls memory be clouded by what is happening to me. </div>
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So when I won the award, I cried. And not because I was greatful, although I was extremely greatful, I cried because this means I've done something positive. It will make my three children proud, and Scouse (who is already extremely proud) prouder and really all my friends, family and the virtual friends I've made who have supported me the whole way along and into the future. </div>
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I dedicated my award to my boys, my little girl in heaven and to the lady being sick in the toilet. I wish I had added stage fall lady too because she got up, dusted off her fabulous self and kept on going. I feel I can relate to that stage fall. In all manner of ways.</div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-size: 17px;">The other thing I need to tell you is that GoogleBox may well get a chance to question my plot. When I was pregnant with Ally I allowed a documentary crew into my life in the hope of raising awareness of Inflammatory Breast Cancer and Cancer in pregnancy. I wanted to do my bit. They filmed everything and most beautifully, the moment my daughter Ally was born. </span></td></tr>
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Ally's 8 days with us, short but electrified by love. </div>
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I decided to carry on with the documentary as Ally had a lot more to say and I could facilitate that. See, she is her mothers daughter and we never give up.</div>
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Ally is with me, always. </div>
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She was with me as I accepted my award. She was with me when I watched the documentary and I cried very hard. And she is with me all the nights I lie awake thinking of her. <i>She</i> gives me courage in the darkest of times and bravery in the face of adversity. </div>
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I would love it if you could watch it. It goes out in the UK and Ireland on 26th September on TLC. It's under the title 'Extraordinary Pregnancies.'</div>
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There are further dates below. These can change and I'll let you know if they do. It will also go out in USA at some point, again I'll let you know. I will also post updates on Facebook: Storm In a Tit Cup by Heidi and Twitter: @storminatitcup<br />
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So, I sign off tonight whilst watching Poldark, looking at my award glinting from the table. 'Storm In A Tit Cup' has now been active for 10 months and I know that despite what prognosis-paperwork-crap says about me, I'll still be writing it in 10 years. Who knows if anyone will still read it and what the hell I'll be waffling about but to all you butt heads who voted and to those of you that didn't, thank you. Thank you for your continued support which never fails to choke me up. Please know I read every single comment that you write even though I don't always reply, they are all so gratefully received. </div>
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I never did see toilet spew lady again that night but she will have gone home and woken up with no memory, a mouth like a Tramps pants and the abs of a god from all the heaving but I won't forget her. A stark reminder that even in the poshest of hotels life isn't always picture perfect. </div>
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And to stage fall lady, high fucking five. Keep your pants black, or your growler hairy.... You never know when you might fall off the stage but it's getting back up that matters X</div>
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<u>Extraordinary Pregnancy Dates </u></div>
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Poland - TLC - 19th Septmber </div>
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Africa - TLC Entertainment - 21st September </div>
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Europe Pan Region - TLC - 24th September </div>
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Hungary - TLC - 24th September </div>
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UK - TLC - 26th September </div>
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Ireland - TLC - 26th September </div>
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Arabia - TLC - 4th October </div>
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Italy - Real Time - 6th October </div>
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Denmark - TLC - 6th October </div>
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Norway - TLC - 6th October </div>
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Sweden - TLC - 6th Ocotber </div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com58tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-43672573698532723852016-08-29T23:45:00.000-07:002016-08-29T23:45:20.600-07:00The Toothless Trails. Trail 2: Ceebeebies world. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Seizing the day.</div>
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Let me tell you this....you cannot seize every day. It's too bloody tiring. Some days, you should flop out of bed, face down onto the sofa, wear the same pants you had on yesterday, pick the crust off your Primark joggers and catch up with celebrity big brother. </div>
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You don't have to wake up each morning and announce that 'today you shall learn Spanish', 'walk up Scaffell Pike' (personally I prefer Fan-Y-Big for obvious reasons - Google it.. It's real) or 'flit to Paris for a spot of snail munching'. No! It's too hard. </div>
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But what I would recommend is filling any 'empty space' with something. </div>
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If you have a weekend looming but no other plans then to deworm Fido or take Great Aunt Gravy-Chin out to buy some new marquee pants; why not go glamping? Or go on a forest combing walk? You could take Great Aunt Gravy-Chin with you. </div>
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Have you heard of 'geo caching'? That's something we are starting. It's a treasure hunt and I was surprised to learn they are all over my town. </div>
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Anyway, since I opened the one way door to Cancer-land, people rarely say 'no' to me so I've been doing a lot lately!</div>
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My Uni friends and I went to the Peak District with our kids. We can't call it a 'holiday' as the kids were there. It was an adventure. </div>
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We quickly referred to the day trips we took as 'Funishment'. </div>
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Adults: "Come on everyone. Let's head to Monkey-Land for some Funishment."</div>
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Kids: "Tait just bit me / I want the car seat with the sick on / Milo's Poohed his pants / I hate Monkeys / I wanted to open my own crisp packet / why are there trees here, I hate trees / why is that monkey touching his Winky? / I'm bored." And on and on and on</div>
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Adults: "everybody just shut up and enjoy yourselves OK. Mummy and Daddy have paid £5.30 to get in here, plus parking. You will enjoy yourself!"</div>
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FUNISHMENT. FUNISHMENT. La la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaa.</div>
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It was a huge 'team' effort. All working together to enjoy a group adventure. And then laughing when things most certainly didn't resemble 'The Walton's.' Like when Tait crapped in the communal bath. </div>
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It was all going so well. The two youngest boys in the bath together. No one had bitten anyone, the bath resembled an Ibiza foam party, the tunes were banging (the babies in the bath go splish splash splosh etc) and the boats were being 'shared nicely.' </div>
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Then suddenly, just as the older kids were about to get in the recycled water, a shriek of 'oh my god what's that in the water?' Booms across the bathroom. My blood runs cold as I immediately think 'SHARK!!!!!', then I remember we are in a farmhouse in Bradnop and Jaws was filmed in America.....'fucking hell it must be a floater' and sure enough a fleet of brown submarines had been deployed towards various coordinates across the bath. Cue my friend Cathy and I, frantically scooping our children out of the bath and wiping theirs butts with white towels to established who was responsible. (Good Night John Boy) </div>
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We spent a day at Alton Towers. One of the items on <a href="http://storminatitcup.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/the-bucket-and-spade-list-aka-toothless_23.html">the bucket and spade list </a>. Toothless stayed at the house for this one. I bet she was pleased!!</div>
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It was very different to the AT trips of yesteryear. Gone were the days of coach trips that left Bristol at 6am to deliver a large group of pubescent teens reeking of BO to spend the whole day drinking coke, not eating anything that isn't 90% sugar and re-riding Nemisis or Corkscrew until we barfed everywhere. No no no! </div>
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We now walked passed Rita Queen of Speed with our heads hanging low, to enter the world of CBeebies. </div>
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It's like someone chucked the bedtime hour, some neon paints and a can of red bull into a cocktail shaker, gave it a vigorous shake and then opened it in your face. </div>
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It was insane!!!!</div>
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The 'in the night garden' boating adventure was Taits favourite. True to form, all the animation was powered by the sound of farts. Upsy Daisy's mechanical skirt had got slightly stuck up and she was basically showing her Foof to all and sundry whilst shouting 'whoopsie daisy do'....It was just like Geordie Shore.</div>
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The Pontipines were hardly there at all and the Wattingers had completely fucked off. We were waved off the ride by Iggle Piggle and that stiff red blanket which you just know has been used as a jiz rag. </div>
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The 'pirate ship' was Noah's favourite. Scouse almost lost his shit when I told him it was my turn to go on something with Noah as Tait was too small and had to stay behind. Luckily my dear friend Lou stepped in to look after Tait before Scouse had a melt down.</div>
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I came into my own here as if you've ever been to Bristol before, you'll know that we sound an awful lot like pirates. I was oooooing and aaarrrrring up a storm. </div>
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Basically you get in these boats that have water guns on and you can shoot the public and they you. We launched the boat and were 'jolly rogering' our asses off until we rounded the corner....Josh, who is also 3, was promptly shot in the face by some over zealous dad and began to scream his head off, an extremely violent 8 year old used my bald head as a target and completely destroyed my drawn on eyebrows. Scouse was shooting everyone he could see (including the little two year old girl in the pink coat) while Noah was shouting "help me daddy" to which Scouse replied "Sorry I can't son, I've got pirate jobs".</div>
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Needless to say it was carnage. </div>
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We then spent 30 minutes queuing to go in one of those stand up hair dryer things. We were reunited with Tait who wanted to join in the hairdryer fun and promptly shat his nappy on a colossal scale. We only realised he'd 'Conjured a Patronus' when the hairdryer began to honk of onions as his nappy was being cooked by the dryer and the fumes blown around us and subsequently the unsuspecting queue of soggy pirates. </div>
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Ahhh good memories. Tait really sized his day there. </div>
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The holiday was fantastic. Scouse and I worked well as a team. I think I can only recall one passive aggressive parent moment when Tait had chucked his curry everywhere and Scouse asked me to clean him up as I had not sat down yet to eat my tea. I replied that really as he was already half way through his meal, he could maybe do it. He promptly replied "there's no 'I' in team Heidi" and gave me his best shit-eating grin. As I turned back to the kitchen to get wipes I'm sure he didn't hear me mutter under my breath 'no but there's a 'U' in Cunt" </div>
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I love spending time with my Uni friends and their families. I don't get to see them that much as they live far away but they've been there for me so much throughout all this crap, and will continue to be there for me even when they are going through their own crap. </div>
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I sometimes forget that my friend Lou nearly died from Menigistis while we were at Uni. She has also had skin Cancer. She is my age. I don't forget because I'm so wrapped up in myself. I forget because she is one of the toughest people I know and she chalks these situations up to experience. She doesn't let them dominate. She doesn't wear the experience on her face. Yes, she wears a lot of sun cream, but she's really ginger and practically see through, so you'd never suspect Cancer was the reason.</div>
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And my friend Cathy. Well, she was the one who shaved her head when my hair fell out. She is extremely tough and strong in other ways, ways she wouldn't thank me for typing but I know you trust me when I tell you, she is nails.</div>
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I take my strength from my friends and family and the support of people I've never met. People like you.</div>
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When faced with this terrible illness that has taken so much from me and may take more in the future, all the bullshit around the edges falls away. I don't care much about my car, about a promotion or about nice handbags; I care about experiences. I care about making the best of everything with the people that mean the most to me.</div>
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Seizing the day is about making it count. Not because I think I'm dying...no no no! It's because I'm living. </div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mf7nszCdJuE/V8SfSFrvxRI/AAAAAAAAAnM/k1ZwUZwx8tg3noFI21m10Ml2ulNmif0mACPcB/s1600/37344B77-A712-4136-9675-4215E245AF1E.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mf7nszCdJuE/V8SfSFrvxRI/AAAAAAAAAnM/k1ZwUZwx8tg3noFI21m10Ml2ulNmif0mACPcB/s1600/37344B77-A712-4136-9675-4215E245AF1E.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mf7nszCdJuE/V8SfSFrvxRI/AAAAAAAAAnM/k1ZwUZwx8tg3noFI21m10Ml2ulNmif0mACPcB/s320/37344B77-A712-4136-9675-4215E245AF1E.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-30554832199260743372016-08-04T08:20:00.000-07:002016-08-04T08:20:12.008-07:00Numbers<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">So I'm sat having Non-chemo chemo (keeps you alive but doesn't make your hair fall out) and I really need a wee. But I don't want to go because then I've got to drag 'Old Man Wheely Legs' with me. It's not that I don't like him or I'm ashamed of him...its just that we look like we are kind of dancing down the corridor together. Also the urge to hunch over whilst dragging his skinny ass, is just too tempting. I did it last time at Oncology and not one person laughed, except the nurse. What's with this crowd? </span><br />
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Whenever I have succumbed to the 30 litres of 'post toddler night-riot rocket fuel (coffee)' I've chucked down my throat, I have had to unplug 'Old Man Wheely Legs' and we do some kind of crazy drug-machine-human tango to the bog. Dragging my bag of fluids, to empty my fluids to be replaced with more fluids, to the fluid despenser, fluidly.</div>
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It's one of the only times I feel I actually look like an ill person. </div>
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So as I sit here crossing and uncrossing my legs, I've concluded I shall just piss myself. Because that's less uncomfortable.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UifOOGUgmtE/V6NXsV-4DUI/AAAAAAAAAl0/_esXYfH-aUITQVH4r2LpvvzEkFSAWoiygCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UifOOGUgmtE/V6NXsV-4DUI/AAAAAAAAAl0/_esXYfH-aUITQVH4r2LpvvzEkFSAWoiygCPcB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
Me and 'Old Man Wheely Legs'<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ydyRxoWrPJg/V6NXsUBFDoI/AAAAAAAAAl0/peIDzGFUwXEG6QJUS1UuiO57EJg9wPQ9QCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ydyRxoWrPJg/V6NXsUBFDoI/AAAAAAAAAl0/peIDzGFUwXEG6QJUS1UuiO57EJg9wPQ9QCPcB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a>Here we are demonstrating the Tango</div>
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So, what's happening with me? </div>
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The boob got cut up and then thrown into the 'body-part bonfire' underneath the hospital. Or plonked into a jar of vinegar. Whatever it is they do with chopped off bits.</div>
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When it was dissected, some Cancer was found. </div>
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This may not sound like a surprise to the muggles (I had cancer of the bap after all) but the hope is that chemo gets rid of everything in the boob which puts you in the 'complete pathological response' bracket. I didn't quite make that but it's almost clear. This is medium news. </div>
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The NHS deem me as Non-Curable due to a belief that the Cancer has spread to my lungs. </div>
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This is called Secondary Breast Cancer - it has left its primary residence and travelled to a second home. </div>
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Once this has happened the 'door for cure' slams firmly shut. </div>
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There is no going back. </div>
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I am now on palliative care. Palliative is a term that I would associate with people very close to the drop off zone. Obviously this is not always the case because have you seen me lately??? </div>
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5 of my chins have gone, leaving me with just 3. I've jumped out of a plane, my ass can again be contained within a 4-man tent as opposed to a marquee, my hair is growing back at about 2 millimetres a month and my scalp is the texture of a Kiwi fruit. I've been camping 3 weeks post mastectomy, body slammed my 2 sons regularly AND I haven't shat myself for at least 4 weeks. I FEEL GREAT! </div>
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Numbers and labels eh? Puh!!!!</div>
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Let me tell you, I <i>have</i> asked the million dollar question...how long have I got? What is my <i>number</i>? </div>
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And let me be clear on this....no one <i>really</i> knows. Of course I did push for this to be answered but maybe not for the obvious reasons. </div>
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If you chuck my current info post mastectomy into a date generator then it spits out 4-5 years. I've already had Inflammatory Breast Cancer for 1.5 years so my 'C' in GCSE maths leads me to calculate (with a calculator) that computer says NOOOO hope for you living more than 3.5 years. </div>
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Now I'm not being naive nor am I in denial when I tell you that that info is Grade A, 24 carat bullshit. And honestly, a few of my medical team would agree. </div>
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Although that <i>is</i> a number. It is <i>just</i> a number. There is so little research on IBC that really nobody knows. There are people that will be given 10 years and then be gone in 10 days, there are people that will be given 1 year and out live us all. And there is of course no immunity to other deaths when you have Cancer....I could still be eaten by a shark or choke on a chicken foot at Nandos. No one really knows. </div>
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A prognosis does make you get your admin together....we (Scouse and I) now have wills. We also have medical and financial power of attorney over each other....every time Scouse and I argue over the remote he says 'don't wind me up...I have legal powers to switch you off remember' and then I remind him that in fact I have the same power over him. That shuts him up.</div>
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One thing 'the number' generated was an impromptu midnight convo two days ago...</div>
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<b>Me</b>: Scouse?</div>
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<b>Him</b>: Yeah?</div>
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<b>Me</b>: Oh good. You're awake. Listen. We need to talk about something that's really bothering me since they gave me my number. I've been lying here stressing about it. I've played out in my mind.... the horrors of the end. And beyond all the really obvious emotional stuff that we talk about, there's another thing that's really stressing me out. I need to ask you do to something for me. It's so important that you must promise me you'll do it. </div>
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When I die...</div>
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<b>Him</b>: Yeah?</div>
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<b>Me</b>: I'm worried I'll not really be dead and they'll bury me alive and I'll wake up in a coffin. Can you please promise me you'll double check that I'm dead?</div>
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<b>Him</b>: Of course Hun. I'll come back and stake you like a vampire. Night Night.</div>
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What a guy. ❤️</div>
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The prognosis gives me a number.</div>
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I imagine it like this....</div>
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That number is lying by the side of the road. I see myself in an open top car with my 3 boys around me travelling down that road, Ally is smiling down from the sky, and we go zooming passed that number. </div>
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I stretch my fist firmly towards that number and confidently erect my middle finger.</div>
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The car keeps on driving, right off into the distance and disappears. </div>
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I'm not kidding myself, but really, fearing something and fixating on it will not change the outcome. </div>
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Exist in fear and sadness or live in strength and happiness. </div>
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Either way, you end up the same. </div>
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But <i>you</i> control your car. </div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-76319290558651673752016-07-20T09:00:00.001-07:002016-07-20T16:07:49.918-07:00Drain gain. What's Pain?<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
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<span style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Well fuck me it's hot! The amount of sweaty crotches circumnavigating the UK right now aren't the only thing on the rise. As the temperature hits 33 (my age) and our eyes are awarded a Buffett of naked flesh ranging from rare to extremely over cooked, I have become aware that I can now say 'flipping heck my tit is sweaty'. Along with 'you are getting right on my tit'. </span><br />
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Scouse and I were shopping a while back and we saw some 'Hooters' t.shirts and he remarked I should buy one and cross off the 's'. I think this is brilliant so if any of you make t.shirts....send me a 'Hooter' top.<br />
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Anyway, I now have one boob. I'm not guna lie, it's a bit weird. Especially when its a 36H. Can you imagine what that looks like in a top? I feel like I'm walking around leading with the boob, trying to even myself out a bit. </div>
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The foam dome (fake stuffed booby thing) I've got isn't the same size as my real boob. This is because you'd need the entire contents of a sofa to stuff that bad boy. </div>
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It kind of does the job for now, It's just my chest looks on the piss, squwhiff like. </div>
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So how did this all happen then?</div>
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Well I've hoped the big slice and dice was coming for a long time... It's a positive to reach surgery my friends.</div>
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At Christmas it was looking like it wasn't going to happen. Voldertit was fiercely unbridled at that point. </div>
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When you have a mastectomy for IBC (Inflammtory breast cancer) you need to be sure you won't leave anything behind on the chest. So there needs to be a gap (margin) between the good and the Badlands. </div>
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At Christmas, there was no gap. </div>
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The chemo and other drugs I have had this year, created that gap, allowing for the boob to be removed. </div>
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So, I was given a date for surgery and then got myself prepared.</div>
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How did I do this? </div>
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Well I wrote and rehearsed a speech for my cousins wedding (<a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=0CLLjqtaWEw&feature=youtu.be">click here for the Bristolian version of Warren G Regulate</a>) and delivered it 3 days before the chop. </div>
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I also jumped out of a plane, took the kids on a tractor ride and attended a <a href="http://storminatitcup.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/dear-boob.html?m=1">Fair-well party</a> for the hunk of flesh that had been trying to kill me for a year.</div>
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How did I prepare mentally? Well I didn't need to. I'm all good with it. Do you know why? Because physical pain is just physical pain. It can be managed with a pill. There is no pill to deal with the pain I feel every day at the loss of Ally. If there was, I'd be gobbling them by the handful. </div>
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I feel pretty equipped to deal with pain, losing a boob, looking different, because I don't care. Mentally, it's nothing comparatively for me.</div>
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I was emotional about my friends and family though. I cried about how brilliant they've been. I know they are going through hell with me, not just alongside me. </div>
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That kind of shit really overwhelms me. </div>
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Every time someone writes a message on my blog, i get a feeling of kindness and love. Those feelings are being sent from people I'm close with to people I will never know. Remarkable and hugely appreciated. </div>
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Anyway, I'm waffling on....'get to the juicy bits' I hear you cry.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I rocked up at 7am and was shipped into my little pre-op room. A lovely nurse went through the forms with me. I basically signed to say I'm all good with complete removal of my right breast, the tissue, the nipple, the skin and the lymph-nodes. The operation would take 2 hours and then I'd be 'out of it' for a while afterwards. The nurse then gave me a bag with these minging socks in that I needed to wear to prevent DVT. (Deep vein thrombosis) They were pre-sealed. I opened the pack to try them on and then became confused 'excuse me but I've got a problem....(as I waved Nora Battys footwear in the air).... Two legs, one sock'.... </div>
<div>
There was only one sock. </div>
<div>
Oh shit!!!! </div>
<div>
Have I just signed a form that said 'removal of right leg' not breast??? Oh no!!!</div>
<div>
'Oh that's unusual. I'll go get another pack' says the nurse. I think 'welcome to Heidi land. Nothing <i>usual</i> happens around me.' Thankfully one becomes two and I'm able to live out my dream of becoming fashion forward.... </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HFS-1xox56k/V4-WaRjQ9uI/AAAAAAAAAlI/y9IRTZQXZFU6U8KTG2PzfiYBoH4iGLNTACKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HFS-1xox56k/V4-WaRjQ9uI/AAAAAAAAAlI/y9IRTZQXZFU6U8KTG2PzfiYBoH4iGLNTACKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It takes effort to look this good.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's time to go. </div>
<div>
Scouse announces he's off for a bacon sandwich at Costa (looser, I'd have gone with Tiffin, yes even in the morning, don't you judge me) and I walk down to the theatre. </div>
<div>
I've always thought theatre was an odd name for a room of surgical shenanigans. I start picturing the nurses dressed as jesters and Elizabethan town folk, and the surgeon dressed up as a King shouting 'off with her breast' whilst weilding a sword above his head. Someone is playing a flute in the corner while others are drinking mead and eating chicken legs. </div>
<div>
But this was no Shakespearian tragedy. </div>
<div>
This was little old me. </div>
<div>
This was my drama. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I lie on the bed and look up at the big silver circle thing that looks like a spaceship (I think it's a light). The anaesthetist is trying to get a Cannula into my ever-decreasing veins. Chemo has knackered them so they are flat. I stare up at the spaceship and think about the last time I was in a very similar position ....Ally's birth.</div>
<div>
I was very scared then. I didn't know what would happen when she was born, I hoped she would cry, she did, I hoped she would know me, she did, I hoped for her to have an amazing long life, she didn't. Things don't always go how they should. </div>
<div>
Was I scared now? No. Of course I hoped to wake up. I thought of my boys and I <i>hoped</i> to wake up. But I wasn't scared for the boob. It's just a boob. I said goodbye in my mind and i drifted off to sleep. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not unlike apparating in at Hogwarts, I went from one room with one set of people, to another room with another set of people. It's kind of cool. </div>
<div>
As I came around I used my left hand to feel across my chest, my eyes were firmly closed, and sure enough, where Mt Snowdon used to be, was now that famous square on the ordinance survey map of north Lincolsnshire....a whole lot of nothing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My right hand then reached out and found Scouse's. I knew it was his because all the fingernails had been bitten off. Not unlike a 13 year old dumped by her first boyfriend; Scouse eats his feelings. We've had a lot happen in the last 10 months ergo what were once fingers are now a palm surrounded by five stumps. </div>
</div>
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I wake up fully and am instantly introduced to my two boob-juice collectors who I quickly name Drain and Drainetta Slob. Their jobs are to collect all the fluid around the surgery site. They are stitched into my side. I have a bag to carry them in when I'm mobile. What if shop security asks to look in the bag? They'd get a right shock! Actually that would be brilliant!!! (Must look dodgy at next trip to Primark.)</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IYx_7g_TeQ4/V4-WWjRgZmI/AAAAAAAAAlI/n8U7bGbGeRUawCAhlZH4mRnoppNo_15nwCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IYx_7g_TeQ4/V4-WWjRgZmI/AAAAAAAAAlI/n8U7bGbGeRUawCAhlZH4mRnoppNo_15nwCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lincolnshire </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SN-scvsNDZ4/V4-WYoNlxdI/AAAAAAAAAlI/ApkanHFPok4sHUps8oqodibCRAK6CBF0gCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SN-scvsNDZ4/V4-WYoNlxdI/AAAAAAAAAlI/ApkanHFPok4sHUps8oqodibCRAK6CBF0gCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Drain and Drainetta Slob.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-71ViU4ofXas/V4-Wgv_VM8I/AAAAAAAAAlI/x93b7EG2ThQ9jU8QtHKViKON973qC5LVwCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-71ViU4ofXas/V4-Wgv_VM8I/AAAAAAAAAlI/x93b7EG2ThQ9jU8QtHKViKON973qC5LVwCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rocking my drains. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">I'm out of hospital the next day after a night of playing cards and eating pizza. When I get home the first thing Noah asks is to see my poorly boob. I show him and he says 'wow' and then goes back to picking his nose. (And wiping it in my mums couch) </span></div>
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Tait comes up for a cuddle and then actually head butts me right in the shark bite. You couldn't make it up right. </div>
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I spend the next few days chilling out and emptying Drainetta. (Drain was taken out before I left hospital) I notice that the contents goes from Strawberry Daiquiri to medium white wine. I'm sure it doesn't taste as good but I did enjoy looking at it though...I'm gross like that.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8jzNALNtsxY/V4-WemMY-gI/AAAAAAAAAlI/DvW970txIKAsSS-f2412ls2Q8t4Qm1ulACKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8jzNALNtsxY/V4-WemMY-gI/AAAAAAAAAlI/DvW970txIKAsSS-f2412ls2Q8t4Qm1ulACKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drains poking out, me breathing in. Showing off my lovely drain bag.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It's the first time I've really stopped since all this started and I can confirm that time in my own head isn't the best. I'm defiantly a person that needs to be kept busy. I've felt petty sad over the last two weeks. I miss her. I'm angry she's not here. She would be 7 months old now. I can see how she would be, what she'd be wearing, what she'd be doing. Now <i>that</i> hurts. </div>
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With the weather being the way it is, I have the window open at night and I can see the stars. I wonder, can they see me? </div>
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The weather is cold. Then it is hot. Then it rains. Then there's a storm. Then there's a rainbow. How primitive. How raw. How symbolic.</div>
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Covet your heart...a tit is just a tit. </div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-6132195000603537242016-07-04T02:41:00.001-07:002016-07-04T02:41:45.062-07:00Dear Boob<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
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<span style="text-align: start;">Dear Boob,</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In a time of uncertainty with this EU referendum Schizzle where we are now considering the possibility of CIF returning to JIF, bananas going bendy again and wondering if we will now have to call 'Magic Stars' 'Supernatural Pentagrams', our future is somewhat unclear....what a shocker! An 'unclear future' is something we all face, everyday and will always face because no one has a crystal Ball. (Or Cubic zirconia sphere)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tell you one thing that <i>is</i> certain Boob, tomorrow you are leaving me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've known you since I was about 12. I remember being an 11 year old. I had a lot of puppy fat (my brother called it Great Dane fat as there was so much). I had a ginger Bob and shoulders about a hundred metres wide....I was pretty tall and yeah I basically looked like a prop on the English rugby team. </div>
<div>
So I remember asking for you. I wanted you to be large, you and your twin. I had great hopes for how you would turn things around for me in the looks department. </div>
<div>
Then you arrived and you were everything I hoped for. I went from butch school girl to Heidi with the big boobs. </div>
<div>
As the years progressed you got me into nightclubs, underage. You got me free drinks, 5th place in a wet t.shirt competition (I think there were 6 of us in the event) and basically gave me some well needed confidence. </div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yTfRFMqN7eU/V3omQMDgkoI/AAAAAAAAAkM/Bs3nysm7VyUI_iNhj8mGrznTduGrnfWTACKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yTfRFMqN7eU/V3omQMDgkoI/AAAAAAAAAkM/Bs3nysm7VyUI_iNhj8mGrznTduGrnfWTACKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="268" /></a></div>
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<div>
Later on down the line, you nourished my children, grew longer and sustained 5 months of being bitten repeatedly by Tait until I could only feed him from the other side. I somethings wonder if Taits biting was telling me something.... Was he warning me that all was not well with you? That you were ill? That something was attacking you from the inside. That Cancer was ravishing you. </div>
<div>
You began to change. </div>
<div>
You weren't that happy go lucky boob you'd been up until this point. You became red and angry. You grew and grew. You weren't lumpy which is why I never suspected anything sinister was happening. The Drs said you were fine when I took you to see them. So we carried on. Towards the end your nip started to retreat and your surface looked like an orange. I took your back to the Drs for the 3rd time and we discovered that in fact your were very poorly. I was told from the beginning that you would have to leave at some point. </div>
<div>
And that point is tomorrow.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I'm left wondering what I should do on my last day with you. Let's be honest you haven't aged well so I'll not be showing you off to people. If a builder shouted to me "show me your tits" I'd literally just have to lift up the hem of my trousers. </div>
<div>
You are covered in stretch marks to the point that if I found myself lost in London I could consult you for a central line train to Walthamstow.</div>
<div>
When I lie down, you gracefully slide under my armpit. </div>
<div>
So really today is just another day. I will take my children out to play and spend time with them. As always. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm just wondering if I'll miss you? I think I'll miss the memories we made together but actually you serve no purpose anymore. I know that Scouse loves me with or without you. I know that my children won't even notice that you've gone and I know that you simply can't stay because you're killing me. </div>
<div>
I know it's not your fault. You didn't want this, but it's happened. </div>
<div>
There are many things in life that happen that we don't want, that we fear. Then they happen. </div>
<div>
What do you do? </div>
<div>
You have to deal with it because quite frankly what other option do you have? </div>
<div>
So I'm sorry but you have to go. </div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">My friends from school who have known you your whole life, threw you a going away party last night. We met at the curry house ( if you watch sons of anarchy this is akin to that table where they make all their important team decisions and discuss important issues) and they bought me this amazing blanket with loads of our pictures on it. </span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1RtbWkeYtqA/V3omSK2jRgI/AAAAAAAAAkU/hdRjdYCyzgk3I7MaoNpjVZupqcMRm3P8ACKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1RtbWkeYtqA/V3omSK2jRgI/AAAAAAAAAkU/hdRjdYCyzgk3I7MaoNpjVZupqcMRm3P8ACKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xIUf_htvREY/V3omR5xAxlI/AAAAAAAAAkU/92GHICg4hWMXGHnsojMrOFpmm8lwx7xMwCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xIUf_htvREY/V3omR5xAxlI/AAAAAAAAAkU/92GHICg4hWMXGHnsojMrOFpmm8lwx7xMwCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">I cried.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">Then at the end of the meal, out comes one of the chaps singing happy birthday!!! </span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aS45bonQFdM/V3omSJk_0qI/AAAAAAAAAkU/6B0AT9S0eKQKpJHwATbosysY7G6LrvVNwCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aS45bonQFdM/V3omSJk_0qI/AAAAAAAAAkU/6B0AT9S0eKQKpJHwATbosysY7G6LrvVNwCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Anna is shouting "no no it's not her birthday....it's for something else....um it's a cake for ummm she's ill and ummm it's not her birthday". </div>
<div>
I'm cracking up at this point as I'm thinking how do you sing 'goodbye right tit la la la you're being chopped off la la la' . </div>
<div>
The chap starts mumbling something about 'keeping it in the box as not to upset the other customers.' I'm wondering why on earth it would offend anyone, when two huge tits with candles in are plonked in front of me. </div>
<div>
The nipples are massive!!!! Gemma says 'oh look they're just like my nipples', to me they look like witches hats. It was brilliant! The girls are all laughing and so am I. We discuss what people might think about what we are celebrating and whether people would consider them terrible friends. On the contrary, they are incredible. </div>
<div>
This is exactly what I would want, and exactly how we all are. </div>
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This is why they are my friends.</div>
<div>
I then proceeded to cut up the right boob and dish it out to everyone. We all eat it, together, as a team. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I've never felt alone at a point of this shit-uation and that is largely down to the friends and family I have. </div>
<div>
What a perfect way to say goodbye to you boob. </div>
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And I actually think you appreciated it too. </div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O87oRFklmZw/V3omREDM8WI/AAAAAAAAAkM/KScd-J2fkmw6qbIGcV7z_ptx1fDDLXO0ACKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O87oRFklmZw/V3omREDM8WI/AAAAAAAAAkM/KScd-J2fkmw6qbIGcV7z_ptx1fDDLXO0ACKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Tomorrow I will lie down and look to my right armpit and see you for the last time. Then I will go to sleep and when I wake up you'll be gone. Every part of you. And what will be left is a scar that is curved. The scar will look just like a smile, they said. </div>
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Oh the irony. </div>
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But when I look in the mirror and see that place you used to be, I will think of all the great things you did for me and I'll smile right back. </div>
Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-46993130885298365132016-05-26T11:50:00.000-07:002016-05-26T11:50:48.787-07:00The GuffaloFor my boys Noah and Tait for when they are older. And for Scouse.....don't you just love reading the same story over and over again until, in your warped adult mind, it can become something quite different......<br />
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Oh and if you would please come back at the end if you enjoyed it and vote for me to win best writer at the MAD Blog awards I'd be so greatful xx <a href="http://www.tots100.co.uk/vote-in-the-2016-mad-blog-awards/">Vote here </a><br />
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<b><u>The Guffalo</u></b><br />
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A girl took a stroll through Chemo Wood</div>
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Before all this bullshit she looked rather good<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZCSbEY_Ypj8/V0cBLrPbhdI/AAAAAAAAAhs/D3kdw2UZH8gVIoFrb96gUabmhgC6g3nTQCKgB/s1600/image.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZCSbEY_Ypj8/V0cBLrPbhdI/AAAAAAAAAhs/D3kdw2UZH8gVIoFrb96gUabmhgC6g3nTQCKgB/s320/image.png" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pZFkJirYdg8/V0cBHhkXoOI/AAAAAAAAAhs/xXfp2cMmMbU_7JbjP-1Y168zsIYnb61tQCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pZFkJirYdg8/V0cBHhkXoOI/AAAAAAAAAhs/xXfp2cMmMbU_7JbjP-1Y168zsIYnb61tQCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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She said to her hair<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-22LdRapn7qg/V0cBHvVFSJI/AAAAAAAAAhs/L9jjnZJXhWAjxAFd0CkWilw76a5B_uNXwCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-22LdRapn7qg/V0cBHvVFSJI/AAAAAAAAAhs/L9jjnZJXhWAjxAFd0CkWilw76a5B_uNXwCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="263" /></a></div>
<b><u><br /></u></b>
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;"> "That's terribly kind of you Hair but.... oh</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gpgJOuTAwhs/V0cBHpWaHhI/AAAAAAAAAhs/5cwvGzznm8I2dQizIKHWFCXgRIl1k1-ewCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gpgJOuTAwhs/V0cBHpWaHhI/AAAAAAAAAhs/5cwvGzznm8I2dQizIKHWFCXgRIl1k1-ewCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="262" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"A Guaffalo, what's a Guaffalo?"</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"A Guffalo why didn't you know?"</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mqygq6cRjE8/V0cBIFwu16I/AAAAAAAAAhs/xdrb7ZV85C4eNHh1htN8m9F4MbG2lypsgCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mqygq6cRjE8/V0cBIFwu16I/AAAAAAAAAhs/xdrb7ZV85C4eNHh1htN8m9F4MbG2lypsgCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="262" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"Where are you sitting now?"</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"Here by these drugs with my favourite cocktail from the Pharmacy thugs" </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9PdmRyBBeh0/V0cBITnTPLI/AAAAAAAAAhs/246LqES0oJwmcqKWm5EyvmuzhbYiSrXlgCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9PdmRyBBeh0/V0cBITnTPLI/AAAAAAAAAhs/246LqES0oJwmcqKWm5EyvmuzhbYiSrXlgCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
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"Pharmacy thugs? I'm off" Hair said.</div>
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"Goodbye Guffalo" and away Hair sped.</div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"Silly old Hair, doesn't he know?</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
There's much tougher things when you have chemo"</div>
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On went the Guffalo through the deep dark wood</div>
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Some Tits saw the Guffalo, and she didn't look good</div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"What are you doing here you fat stinking hog?</div>
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I heard you've got ass-wee? Go sit on the bog!"</div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"A Guffalo, what's a Guffalo?"</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"A Guffalo why didn't you know?"</div>
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<br /></div>
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Her thrush is a killer,</div>
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her skin just a fright </div>
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and the steroids keep her up all bloody night<br />
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"Why are you sitting here?"</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"The drugs are my boss and the 5th of July sees my tits get ripped off!" </div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-90m22A8GXNM/V0cBI_x7JGI/AAAAAAAAAhs/KDr-hSFv4rMo3gyAwN57TkI7DF7lpDk2gCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-90m22A8GXNM/V0cBI_x7JGI/AAAAAAAAAhs/KDr-hSFv4rMo3gyAwN57TkI7DF7lpDk2gCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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"Tits get ripped off? It's time I hid!</div>
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Goodbye Guffalo and away Tits slid"</div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"Silly old Tits, don't they know? There's much tougher things then ops and chemo"</div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
On went the Guffalo through the deep dark wood</div>
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A bum-hole saw the Guffalo, she didn't look good </div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ybDXe4aShIg/V0cBJVPQQEI/AAAAAAAAAhs/zRX7Ck__D4Qj_P9yKh5FVJD8rGf6tSiFwCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ybDXe4aShIg/V0cBJVPQQEI/AAAAAAAAAhs/zRX7Ck__D4Qj_P9yKh5FVJD8rGf6tSiFwCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="262" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"That's precisely it bumhole, I can't trust my hole </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
and this dam constipations like birthing a foal"<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vv-JxxqI3so/V0cBJNIbn4I/AAAAAAAAAhs/mXdomVqu1oAeohDIiNf8gLpr6AIETrTrwCKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vv-JxxqI3so/V0cBJNIbn4I/AAAAAAAAAhs/mXdomVqu1oAeohDIiNf8gLpr6AIETrTrwCKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="262" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"Birthing a foal? Not part of my plan!</div>
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Goodbye Guffalo" and off bumhole ran</div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"Silly old bumhole, doesn't he know, there's much tougher things then bum probs and chemoooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
But who is this creature with the worlds biggest pile </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
and less teeth then a panel on Jeremy Kyle? </div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
Her face is so puffy, her eyebrows did drop and her mouth is much dryer then Ghandi's flip flop</div>
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Her farts are so powerful you don't whaft, you whack it and if you look closely she's spewed down her jacket...."<br />
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Oh help! Oh no! It's a Guffalo!!!!!</div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
"Rank said the Guffalo. I'm just rank</div>
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I've shit myself so much there's nowt in the tank.</div>
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Just walk behind me and soon you'll see</div>
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Everyone is afraid of me.</div>
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And now my bowels are starting to rumble </div>
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I shouldnt have eaten that dam apple crumble"</div>
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No hair, no tits, her skin just a fright</div>
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And the roids made her figure a lads mag delight<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NIx0qAzFVfE/V0cBJx_GrPI/AAAAAAAAAhs/eF9SE8T-_HkFqzyymu605bPgISV4zLpHACKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NIx0qAzFVfE/V0cBJx_GrPI/AAAAAAAAAhs/eF9SE8T-_HkFqzyymu605bPgISV4zLpHACKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="262" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
And she did all this bullshit with no moan or fuss</div>
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Because you know what? She is dam fabulous </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-st-vYB6WCpM/V0cByJBeyCI/AAAAAAAAAho/RydYHQLnkjIYygv5NbUCZO5bMJI0X71NACKgB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-st-vYB6WCpM/V0cByJBeyCI/AAAAAAAAAho/RydYHQLnkjIYygv5NbUCZO5bMJI0X71NACKgB/s320/image.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
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All was quiet in the deep dark wood</div>
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Guffalo farted.........and the fart was good. </div>
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<b><u><br /></u></b>Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-28227672055200390192016-05-26T08:41:00.001-07:002016-05-26T08:42:26.215-07:00Roller coaster of love.<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
<span style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">It's </span><span style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">6am</span><span style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> and I'm wide awake and the kids are fast asleep. I've nothing but the curry farts from last night to keep me company as I sit here on a 'milestone day' thinking about what the hell has happened to me in the last 9 months. </span><div style="text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<br /><div>
On Friday 11th September, a day we all remember the horrible atrocities that unfolded in New York in 2001, I got the news that I was carrying around a disease that could well kill me as quickly as a years time and my best shot at treatment was to terminate my unborn baby. </div>
<div>
I then went on to forgo the treatment so I could give my baby the best shot I could. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Why did I do this? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because I loved that baby as much as my two boys. I couldn't separate the feelings I had for the boys from the feelings I had for Chocolate Mousse ( you'll maybe remember this is the nick name Noah gave my bump ) so I couldn't do it. I then entered my 'Roller-coaster life'. So within the time that followed....</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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I had a type of chemo safe for baby -up</div>
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the news we were expecting a girl -up</div>
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a realisation that chemo wasn't working - down </div>
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an incredible prognosis of 95% for Chocolate Mousse at 28 weeks - up</div>
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a prognosis of death for me if I went on any longer - down</div>
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a decision to have baby at 28+1 with an assumption that with the balance of nature she would definitely be fine - half way up</div>
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the fear on the day she was born if I was doing the right thing - down</div>
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the elation that it was the right choice when she was born so strong and the immense love we have for her just pouring all over everything - up really high</div>
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the phone call we received to say she was not well - crashing down</div>
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the fear of what would happen to her - so down </div>
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the news she would not recover - through the floor</div>
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the knowledge I had done the wrong thing - hell</div>
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the pain of watching her passing - beyond labels</div>
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the saying goodbye - </div>
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the feeling I wanted to die and the guilt for feeling that way when I had my boys who needed me - down </div>
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the absolute open-mouthed ''''''why????''''' that I asked myself every second - round the bend</div>
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the soul searching - flat</div>
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the being dragged out of bed to start the treatment Ally had been born early for me to have and the guilt I felt having that drug - down</div>
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the news that it would seem my cancer had spread to my lungs - down</div>
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the renewed feeling of needing to be here for Noah, Tait and Scouse - up</div>
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Ally's funeral and watching the man I love carry a coffin the size of a shoe box into Church - floor, core of the earth, Australia, then space</div>
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the start of a new year and watching everyone else move on around you - down</div>
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the treatment appearing to work - up</div>
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the news I could have a mastectomy - up </div>
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a bucket list to compete with my kids - up</div>
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two prestigious award nominations for my blog - up (last day to vote here: <a href="http://www.tots100.co.uk/vote-in-the-2016-mad-blog-awards/">WillyWeeHole</a>) </div>
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an increasing feeling that I will see Ally again one day - up</div>
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the immense kindness of strangers and the absolute love for my friends and family who have given me so much that I can't put into words how it makes me feel - up </div>
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and today my last chemotherapy - up</div>
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What a fucking 9 months I've had. </div>
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Today, Thursday's 26th May, I have my last chemotherapy. It's my last chemotherapy for now and hopefully forever. It's a milestone. One last time of crapping our everything I eat and yet not loosing weight. One last time of everything I eat tasting like soil and metal, one last time of having days where I feel I've been sat on by a bear. One last time. </div>
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On Tuesday the 5th July I am having my boobs bambozzled. Their days are numbered or at least one of their days are numbered. </div>
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How do I feel about this? Quite frankly I couldn't give a shit. Bye bye boobs!!! </div>
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So I'm just about to head up to be hooked up to 'Calvin the Chemo Machine' and I might do one of those 'last chemo pictures' for you but can I just point out that no fucker has made me a poster!!!! So if anyone wants to make one for me feel free to post on the Facebook page and I'll tweet it. </div>
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I'm also going to try and write another post today with a slightly more uplifting tone so you're not all crying into your morning coffee. Actually it's now afternoon because I was typing two posts at the same time and I'm sending them both to you today. So hopefully it's evening beer you're drinking. </div>
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Thanks for sticking with me X </div>
Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-969006776299729041.post-84407784534491319062016-05-12T15:17:00.000-07:002016-05-12T15:17:32.561-07:00Reality Tits and Tumour Humour (the intro)<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
<span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">What is it like to have Cancer? </span><br />
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We see all these adverts on the telly with people running across fields like warriors, 'kicking cancers ass', rolling in the mud and screaming in rages. People sitting in chairs having chemo and how sad it is. Testimonials from all sorts of patients and their families about how Cancer has come along and 'opened-bowel' all over their lives. </div>
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These days these adverts are actually showing us real people. Bravo. This is how it should be. </div>
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In reality though, these adverts are what we Cancer-Land dwellers like to call 'pink and fluffy'. They are real and they are very sad and they are emotional BUT they don't go the whole hog. They are more like half hog. </div>
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FYI Cancer-Land....like DisneyLand.....only more deaths. </div>
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Have you noticed that our social acceptance of childbirth 'labour-offs' has blossomed 10 fold in the last few years. </div>
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Once upon a time Arthur would stay downstairs while Dylis delivered the baby on an Eiderdown upstairs and once the child arrived and the scene from Kill Bill had been removed from the bedroom, tales would suggest that a stalk glided gently by and placed the bundle of joy lightly on the window ledge. Arthur would smoke a cigar and give his wife a firm handshake.</div>
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No mention would ever be given that Dylis shat herself inside out, was begging anyone that would listen to shoot her in the head and not only would she spend the next 4 weeks breaking into a cold sweat every time she needed a dump, she also had a fanny like a broken coconut. </div>
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Nowadays we are more than happy to overshare..... we tune into One Born Every Minute and watch baby Addidas crown away, while a river of blood, shit and amniotic fluid runs passed his head. We are good with this. Afterall, it's beautiful. It's so natural. It's so positive.</div>
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50% Of the population are women....women give birth. It's something that so many of us have in common. Is this why we feel we can openly share these things in groups and on social media?</div>
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Mum: welcome to the world Troy. 10lb2oz and just gas and air. #windtunnel</div>
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Friend: sounds painful. What was it like?</div>
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Mum: like shitting a watermelon ☹ #fanhole (when your fancy rips into your bum and you end up with one hole - you heard it here first)</div>
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I read somewhere recently that due to our lifestyle choices, 50% of the population will develop cancer at some point in their lives. </div>
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So why don't we see more stuff on Facebook about the reality of Cancer? Pictures of operation scars, hair loss, weird piss, wonky finger nails with #choppeduptits sitting proudly next to it?</div>
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I wonder if maybe it's <i>too </i>sad, <i>too </i>shocking, <i> too </i>negative<i>? </i></div>
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Maybe no one is ready to see it. </div>
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I can't decide if this bothers me. It's been niggling at me a bit since I was on a social media group recently that supported women with breast cancer but it stated that no mastectomy scars could be shown even via links on the page for fear of upsetting someone. Now I completely respect this as 'new joiners' may shit themselves when they see 'Frankenboobs' for the first time but it really highlighted to me that there must be so many of us that actually have no clue what lumpectomies and mastectomies look like. I didn't until I got Cancer. In fact I'd never thought about what hair loss really looked like, or all the other side effects of chemo, radiotherapy and surgery. And what do the emotional side effects look like? What is it really like to have Cancer?</div>
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You could well be reading this thinking why the hell do I need to see pictures of this? Well, you don't. You have free will. It's up to you.</div>
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Seeing pictures of the reality of cancer won't stop you getting cancer. </div>
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But the reality is Cancer is very much a reality.</div>
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Maybe by seeing things you'll get checked earlier, keep that appointment, investigate that rash!!! </div>
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Maybe it won't do shit all for you, maybe it'll do everything for you. Who knows....what have you go to Lose? </div>
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I'm going to show you some real women who are currently living amongst you now. They are your sisters, friends, neighbours, that bitch from down the road, your teacher, the woman who does your accounts. </div>
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Let me tell you before you run for the hills that it's not all doom and gloom. These women will show you that through all the heart ache and pain (emotional and physical) there is also room for some laughs. This is because Humans are tougher then they appear and Cancer doesn't define you if you don't let it. </div>
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So I said 'send me some pictures that tell me what chemo side effects are really like'</div>
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Readers.....I give you (and please click the next bit) ...... <a href="http://storminatitcup.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/reality-tits-and-tumour-humour-pictures.html">the reality of Cancer </a> (did you click?) </div>
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Welcome to Cancer-Land.....I am Mickey Fucking Mouse </div>
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Heidi Loughlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11491894592477452411noreply@blogger.com2