* CROSSING THE FINISH LINE

Dear Fellowship,

And so, exactly 7 months and 22 days after we began this crazy tale, we finally draw it to a close. Gulp! 

and we are done… :)

Today was the last day (I might have mentioned it once or twice along the way) of my cancer treatment plan that will hopefully mean we have seen the last of Lumpy, Lymphy and their merry band of cancery thieves for good. 

Apparently it was Oprah who once said 'Lots of people want to ride with you in the limo but what you want is someone who will take the bus with you when the limo breaks down'. 

To be honest, this analogy doesn't really work that well for me because everyone who even vaguely knows me should be aware that I would totally get a cab if my limo broke down but let's roll with this hypothetical scenario for now. Let's imagine a world where there are no cabs, no Uber app and no man-slaves to drive me around. Horrifying. But if that world existed, THEN I would probably be forced to get a bus. If I couldn't cancel the meeting or appointment at the other end obviously. 

I digress. 

What I'm trying to say in simple terms is that I'm so, so glad that each and every one of you is on my metaphorical bus. Even if it is a bus so big it wouldn't actually be able to take a corner at speed without tipping over. 

The video I watched this morning coordinated by my amazing baby sis so beautifully and that so many of you contributed to warmed the cockles of my ginger heart. Once I'd stopped ugly crying (deleeeeete those pics), it reminded me once again how lucky I have been and still am to have my own bigger and better band of merry thieves behind me. 

The Fellowship of the Ringlets was really just an admittedly tremendous title for a Facebook group back in January but over the last 7 months and 22 days, it has become absolutely the finest sort of Fellowship. I'm grateful to every one of you for agreeing to get on the bus, without you really knowing how bumpy the ride, how far the destination or whether there were even toilets on board. (This analogy is getting out of hand.)

I have also been wondering / overthinking over the last few weeks about whether or not I should gracefully bring this Fellowship group and these musings to a close now that treatment is complete or continue to write. 

Today I proudly join an illustrious and impressive group of people who have emerged victorious from their own cancery tales and as I said in my last post, the road ahead now becomes about getting back to 'normal' when my previous normal may realistically no longer exist. 

That, in itself, feels like a pretty rich subject for me to tackle and address over the coming months or maybe it's just an excuse for me to post endless photos of me having a lovely, recuperative time in Ibiza. Ho hum...I shall work through this and let you know smile emoticon

But for now, I shall crack on with the post-cancer part of my life, which today involved clearing out my kitchen drawers in preparation for a myriad of Airbnb'ers over the next 2 months. No time for champagne in Sydney today! 

I wanted to end this post with a simple thank you to all of you for the last 8 months and I found this quote from a trusted source regarding what a fellowship truly means:

"You can trust us to stick to you through thick and thin - to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours - closer than you yourself can keep it. 

But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends. 

Anyway, there it is. We are horribly afraid but we are coming with you. Or following you like hounds."

J.R.R Tolkein, The Fellowship of the Rings 

Thank you all for following me like hounds.

Love, 

VC x

P.s link to the vid below - waaaaaaaaaaaah!!! xxx

https://vimeo.com/137044647
Password : cancerbye

Pre-radio coffee with the man-slaves

Waaaaaaaah

Breakfast Team

Sunburn Sue

Add caption

* AND A BIG HELLO TO HYSTERIA WEEK

Dear Fellowship,

28 radiation blasts down, 2 to go! The finishing line is finally within touching distance...yikes. 

As these last few days have crept ever nearer, I've noticed that I've been increasingly pinballing between a sense of massive euphoria that I'm nearly done followed by a heart-stopping little panic at the thought of having to re-introduce myself back into normal society. 

The merry-go-round of treatment and specialists and dramas and drugs over the last 8 months, whilst overwhelming at times, has also unwittingly provided me with a little protective cancery cocoon. It's strange and even a little sad to think that from Tuesday, I won't have to traipse up to the hospital, skinny latte in hand, for my daily dose of radiation from Sunburn Steve.

I've got quite used to sitting in the radiotherapy waiting-room, reading my book or watching eye-wateringly bad infomercials for life insurance on TV. I've also met some good people over the last 6 weeks, some of whom are dealing with far more dire situations than mine - if you want to get some perspective on the important things in life, then a radiotherapy waiting-room is the place to hang out, kids. 

I've become so used to being monitored and checked and prodded and MRI'd and asked how I am that I feel almost institutionalised by the non-stop care I've received this year. Imagine, if you will, Morgan Freeman in Shawshank Redemption, finally being released from prison after 25 years and standing on the street, wondering what to do next. I'm a bit like that, but with less bouff. And younger. And more importantly, not a murderer. 

Rubbish analogies aside, I'm definitely hitting what I like to call the Hysteria chapter of this cancery tale. This is the part where rationale goes out of the window and batshit crazy VC turns up, shouts a lot and then sulks in the corner, rolling her eyes like a pre-pubescent teenager.

This week I had to go for my final visit with Dr Dear to chat about the lovely hormone drug I have to take for the next 5 years. Unlike the radiotherapy waiting room where there's no phone signal so I am forced to read a book or watch adverts for life and funeral insurance, there is more phone signal than you can shake a stick at over at Dr Dear's place. As it turns out, phone reception, access to the internet and a 30 minute wait during Hysteria Week are not a good combo. 

To give you some context, this week I have largely (and wholly irrationally) been stressing and obsessing over the rate at which my hair is growing back. It's been 7 weeks since my last chemo sesh and my hair is definitely growing back. Bless the Bouff. It's been through a lot this year. It's coming back very blonde (or grey, depending on my optimism levels) but it's coming back. These are the facts. However, I relay this information to you from the cosy Armchair of Common Sense that I'm now thankfully relaxing in. 

Earlier in the week however, while languishing in the Rollercoaster of Negativity at the peak of Hysteria Week and sitting in Dr Dear's chemo waiting room surrounded by people wearing beanies, I became convinced that actually it wasn't growing back at all. And as a result of it not growing back properly, I would clearly be forced to spend the rest of my days wrestling with a transparent and thinning strawberry blonde combover, looking like a horrifying cross between Donald Trump and Benjamin Button. I would never enjoy absent-minded ringlet-twirling again, I'd be forced to wig up forever and I would definitely never find a willing father for my frozen octuplets. 

So, faced with this hideous prospect, I'm ashamed to say I broke my own golden rule and frantically googled 'how long till hair grows back post-chemo?'. Oh dear. 30 minutes and multiple forums later with the unwanted advice from the likes of Janice in Colorado and Helen in Northumberland ringing in my ears, I was resigned to my inevitable fate as a 42 year old woman with permanent male pattern baldness. Blimey.

5 minutes later and I was slumped in a chair in Dr Dear's office with my arms folded, sulking about my male pattern baldness while she told me all about the side effects of the hormone drug I have to start following the end of radiation. Normally, I tend to zone out during side effect chat but this time I was listening intently and waiting for her to mention 'hair thinning' - Janice in Colorado on the Forum of Doom had informed me that this hormone drug also causes hair-thinning, just to add to my Hysteria Week woes, so even if the Bouff comes back it will drop off instantly.

Finally Dr Dear finished the side effect chat, at which point I triumphantly brandished my 'a-ha! you missed out hair thinning!' card. She looked at me like I was quite mad, at which point I confessed I'd spent 30 minutes Googling like a madwoman in her waiting room. There is nothing a medical professional hates more than a Googler but good old Dr Dear hid it well. Even when I whipped old Wiggy off and forced her to give me her honest opinion on my hair growth, she gently reassured me that all was well and that the Bouff is clearly and slowly but surely on its way back to the Connerty head. 

Hysteria Week has now thankfully drawn to a close but it's made me very aware that as the final day of treatment approaches, the real test will begin. Navigating the treatment itself and keeping a calm head over the last 8 months has been challenging but holding a steady course and staying mentally on top of my game now I'm 'fixed' will,I think, be the true test. 

My acupuncturist (yes I have one of those now too) asked me this week, while he stabbed my numb foot repeatedly with needles, if I thought this year had changed me at all. Initially I said no. I told him that I felt the same, this year hadbeen utterly surreal, my perspective on certain things had definitely changed but fundamentally I was the same person. Then I went away and thought about it some more and now I'm not so sure. 

You can't submerge yourself entirely in this cancery world for months on end, look behind the curtain, see all there is to see, experience all there is to experience and then walk away, unchanged and unaffected. 

That doesn't mean I have to or want to spend the rest of my days talking about cancer or thinking about cancer or writing about cancer but it does mean that, thanks to this mad year, I don't sweat the small stuff as much as I used to. It does mean that I value family and friendship even more than I did and it does make me nauseatingly grateful for the smallest things, such as being able to hold a pen and write my own name again!! Wahay! 

On Monday, after my last radiation, a few of us will have a little celebratory breakfast and wave goodbye to the last 8 months. There will most certainly be tears as I'm welling up even thinking about it (!) and we will draw this ‪#‎radiohead‬ chapter to a close. 

Special thanks to all those tremendous friends and family who got me through Hysteria Week, and shout out to my buddy Lou whose wise words (and gorgeous daughter shouting 'I wuv you Vicki' in the background of our call) got me back on the straight and narrow. 

See you at the finish line, my friends. Phew. :)

Love,

VC x

P.S As you can see from the pic, I'm so nailing this floristry shizzle...

* RADIATION UPDATE & SOME BODY LOVE

Dear Fellowship,

So today we have officially reached radiation halfway house - 15 rounds down, 15 rounds to go and as Sunburn Sue said this morning, the countdown can now commence! 

Not wanting to tempt fate but I'm faring pretty well with the radiation, despite my sunburn-prone, factor 30-loving Celtic complexion. Had my Monday morning check-in with Sunburn Sue this morning which went well - I shall miss my weekly catch-ups with Sunburn Sue.
She once described me to an MRI colleague on the phone while I was sat in her office as "Connerty, 42, right breast, dead arm, sharp as a tack" and, having basked in the warmth of her high praise, I have wanted to continue to impress her with my feigned sharpness ever since. I also want that entire description added to my business cards but I'm not sure work will go for it...

For the last couple of weeks I've had no physical indications whatsoever that I'm even having radiation, to the the point where I've started wondering whether Sunburn Steve has actually switched the machine on or not or whether this is all just an elaborate wind-up. However, the fact that he ducks out of the room quicker than a rat up a drainpipe once I'm all set up makes me think that he probably knows where the ON button is. I do find myself lying there for 6 long minutes slightly unnerved by the thought that this treatment I'm willingly exposing myself to every day has people literally leaving the room, slamming the doors and running for cover. Yikes. 

This morning, in my efforts to further gain approval from Sunburn Sue and avoid her slightly disappointed face when I tell her each week that I'm still fine, I proudly showed her a bit of redness on my chest which I, being British, of course blamed myself for:

"Look at this Sue, it's all my fault, sorry, I had radiation the other morning, then I applied some moisturiser and now I'm so sorry but it's gone a bit red. Sorry".

Sue was unashamedly delighted and proceeded to wave my apologies aside, saying that in fact it was she who really should apologise for giving me radiation in the first place. So I then graciously accepted her apology for giving me radiation. Meanwhile, the intern who was witnessing this bizarre apologetic exchange just sat there, looking confused about why everyone in the room was so sorry. 

Sue was so openly thrilled to finally see physical evidence that her precious radiation was hitting exactly where it was designed to hit that I wondered if she'd actually had a discreet word with Sunburn Steve about whether he was indeed switching the machine on properly or not. And with that, she gleefully typed 'Level 1 skin damage' into my records and off I went in search of some super-strength Aloe Vera lotion...

As this cancery chapter draws to a close in exactly 3 weeks and as I literally limp towards the finish line (thankyou, numb foot), I've started to become more aware of the overall physical toll this year has taken on the Connerty body. Currently, I feel a bit like Rocky Balboa after ten rounds - battered, bruised and knackered but ultimately pretty happy to be emerging from the ring relatively unscathed.

Until this year, I'd successfully managed to evade any real illness dramas or broken bones throughout childhood and adulthood. I tore some knee cartilage about ten years ago, defending myself from a tiny, angry teenage kickboxer - long story but he was clearly in need of some parental discipline and a good roundhouse kick...

Then I tore some ligaments in my ankle falling down some stairs just a few weeks later - who switches ALL the lights off during a pub lock-in for goodness sake? But other than that, I've simply looked on sympathetically and somewhat smugly as my siblings and friends fell out of trees, tripped over tennis nets, landed awkwardly going up for that easy ball etc...

As a result, having been genuinely shocked in January to discover I wasn't in fact invincible, immortal or superhuman after all, I've spent most of this year being initially aggravated, then amazed and ultimately humbled by the sheer resilience of my own little body in the face of surgery, dead arms, numb feet, ringlet loss, hormone injections, egg-freezing, icy gloves, chemotherapy and now radiation. Every step has at times seemed insurmountable but every time, whilst I've been grumbling away about needing a rest and a cup of tea, my body has just ignored me, rolled with the punches and got on with the job. 

So I might well come limping through Heathrow Arrivals doors in exactly a month's time, all wigged up with a wonky arm but I guarantee that, despite being squashed into Economy for 24 hours, I'll still be the happiest compression sleeve-wearing, sleep-deprived fool on that plane...

Special thanks this week to my favourite lads for an awesome weekend away in the beautiful Aussie spa town of Daylesford - not much beats great chat, log fires, pub lunches, long walks, ceramic chickens, cheeky reds, winning the 3rd Ashes Test and sitting in a hot mineral spring with a bald girl…. :)

Love,
VCx

* LIMPY TAKES UP FLORISTRY

Dear Fellowship,

Below is my 'smug / loving my own work' face. Some of you may recognise it. Today I started my 5 week floristry course. Please stop laughing.

No one finds the idea of me doing a floristry course more hilarious than me but this is the sort of thing I do nowadays. 

I don't drink anymore, I get more annoyed with inanimate objects than people, I haven't sat behind a desk for more than 6 months (and I'm not even sure I could find it since the office move), I have no idea what my password is and now I'm doing a floristry course. I'm not sure I could actually pick the 2014 VC out of a line-up right now.

Today, as I watched Limpy hold these flowers together, perfect the 'spiralling' technique and hand tie a beautiful posy with a flourish, I got a bit emotional. And not just because I knew I didn't have the right bloody vase for it back at the gaff, although that did bring a tear to my bouquet-loving eye…. 

Six months ago, I woke up post-surgery to discover that I'd lost the whole use of my right arm, thanks to the pressure of an extra rib no one knew I had on all the nerves that supply the arm. 

Six months ago, I couldn't brush my teeth, open a door or even pick up a pen with my right hand, and not a single one of the numerous specialists I badgered and threw money at could give me a straight answer as to when or, more ominously, if it would return. 

I've said to lots of people since that day that if I'd known my surgery would result in no right arm for over 20 long weeks, I'd have probably headed straight to chemo without passing Go. 

I look back on those 5 months now and find it bizarre that I didn't feel more panicked at my arm's uncertain future. Certainly, I had my moments - kicking off in Jervis Bay when I couldn't tie my bikini, crying silent tears of frustration at dinner in the Hunter Valley when I had to wait for Matt or Jez to cut my food up for me and the embarrassment of my awkward one-armed hugs all stick in the mind. But on the whole, I largely just seemed to accept it was gone for a while and would re-appear when it was ready. Very Zen Master of me, I know…

In May, after weeks and months of Groundhog Day-type mornings when I'd wake up and see if I could lift my right arm off the bed without help from the left, Limpy finally started to stutter back to life, completely without warning. 

Every day since then has brought with it more and more progress and every day I still revel in wins as tiny as holding coffee or turning my house key in the lock. I have many theories as to why it re-appeared and I'm sure my neurologist, naturopath and physio would all take some credit, but the truth is, we will never really know and to be honest, I don't really care. 

The arm is still a bit weak and feeble - holding and pouring stuff needs a lot of work so my tea-making skills aren't what they were (some people will argue they never existed in the first place), my hand is still numb and I think chemo and radiation have slowed progress a bit but every time I hold a coffee or hand-tie a posy (one happens more frequently than the other), I'm beyond grateful. A sentiment I didn't expect to feel much at the beginning of this year but which has actually turned up more times in the last 7 months than I care to remember. 

Radiation is going well - 9 down, 21 to go and feeling good, with no major fatigue or signs of sunburn as yet although I'm told the first two weeks are fine and then it starts to take a toll. We shall see. Either way, I've got just 4 weeks to go till we're done and as always my eye is firmly on the final prize. 

The Bouff is definitely growing back albeit entirely upwards like a tray of out-of-control but enthusiastic watercress so it's still not ready for human interaction, unless you Skype me at 7am (gotta love a UK time difference) when I can't be bothered to sit up, let alone hat up. I'm not lazy, people, it's fatigue…

Right, gotta go get these ridiculously well-presented flowers in water and pick the wig up from the dry cleaners…

Love,
VC x

p.s The wig's not really at the dry cleaners. It's at the hairdressers. Life is good when you can literally drop your hair off for a wash and blow dry… 

* KICKING OFF RADIATION - 6 WEEKS TO GO!

Dear Fellowship, 

So after a delightful weekend in NZ with the team and a false start yesterday, Radiation #1 kicked off this arvo instead. 1 down, 29 to go. Yikes.

Got a call late Friday to say they'd be postponing Monday's kick-off sesh by a day because they "weren't ready" - now I don't know much about this old radiation process but I do know that it's probably better that the folk hitting me with daily bursts of radiation are completely ready as opposed to all standing around looking a bit confused, daring each other to hit the red button...

So this morning was locked in. At least till yesterday evening when I got another phone call that started with 'Hello, it's St Vincent's Radiation unit here....Um, now why am I ringing?'. I suggested with a tiny amount of sarcasm that it might be because I was due to have radiation in 12 hours which seemed to jolt her memory, at which point she asked me to come in in the afternoon as opposed to the morning. A lie-in - lovely.

Had a quick chat with Sunburn Sue pre-radio about the results of an MRI she sent me for a week or so ago. At the time, she told me she wanted to look at Limpy's progress since January which seemed fairly sensible in light of them wanting to smash the lazy limb with a load of nerve-jangling radiation for the next 6 weeks. Today I asked what the MRI showed up and she confirmed that Limpy was definitely looking much improved but the good news was that "there was no signs of any tumour".

 I'm sorry, what?! When did we start checking for tumours under the pretext of just giving Limpy a cheeky MRI?! Gaaaah!

"Yep, we injected you with dye that would show up any tumours and it didn't show up anything, so happy days, let's crack on." Blimey.

She didn't actually say 'happy days, let's crack on' but that was the overriding sentiment. And I suppose it obviously is good news, even though I didn't actually know they were secretly looking for tumours, whilst claiming to be checking out poor old, much-maligned Limpy. That's the last time I say 'yeah go on then' when someone offers to stick me in a giant metal tube for 100 minutes...

The radiation itself was all fine and literally took 6 short minutes. My radiation techie for the next 6 weeks is a nice bloke called Richard. So he's now Radiation Rich, obviously. They're making these nicknames too easy for my bored little #chemobrain really. When it was finished, Rich then came back in and at my request, spent 5 mins explaining how it all worked, where the radiation came from, how apparently it's easiest and less invasive to apply radiation to things that stick out like boobs etc. All very interesting but  you know you're living in a parallel universe when you're having a lively discussion about radiation whilst lying on a table with your wig off and boobs out. Dear oh dear. Where did my British sense of decorum and dignity go?! Sigh. :)

Special thanks today to my amazing pal and Gemini twin Charl who has secretly spent the best part of 6 long months searching, cutting out and glueing the best inspirational and kick-ass quotes she could find into an enormous book for me ahead of these 30 days of radiation.

Like a radiation-loving Ron Weasley, I have been instructed to open this beautiful Book of Spells every day at a random point and take inspiration and strength from whatever I find on the pages. Below was today's! Love this so much and thank you Charl for neglecting your beautiful first-born daughter to create this mighty tome just for me - I will treasure it forever!

So in short, all is well back at Casa Victoire, I'm currently making a cottage pie and am glad to have kicked off the final part of this puzzle!

Gotta go chop some onions and peel some potatoes - til the next time...

Love,

VC #radiohead x

* OFF TO NZ FOR SOME RADIATION PREP

Dear Fellowship, 

So this particular post is coming to you from about 39,000 feet up, as I push off to sunny but freezing Auckland for a weekend of fun, friends and fine wine. The fun and friends better be bringing their A-game because sadly, the fine wines of Waiheke Island will have little to offer this chemofaced teetotaller. I know. Me. Teetotal. Madness. It's the vineyards of the world I feel sorry for.

Aussie passport debut!

Seemed only fitting that I get in a trip to New Zealand just before radiation with Sunburn Sue kicks off on Monday. The last time I got on a plane was to my beloved Queenstown just before things got all egg-freezing, ringlet-chopping, chemo-serious, and that seemed to set me in pretty good stead for the coming months, so I'm thinking a quick recharge of the Connerty batteries in NZ and some quality time with good people is perhaps the perfect way to prep for the final 6 weeks of this cancery tale.

Low key Kiwi weekend pad 

Jez's 30th in NZ

Hard to believe chemo is now done and dusted - this final round was pretty good with no major dramas. I now have about 4 stubborn eyelashes valiantly hanging on for dear life and trying to do the job of several times their number, namely to protect my delicate eyes from the elements, bless 'em. In all honesty, they should just give up - my eyes are watering constantly which is very confusing for everyone. Is she crying? Why are her eyes so puffy? Has she been punched in the face? Why is she wearing shades indoors?

On that note, I took Jez to see Les Miserables the other day as part of my ongoing mission to inject some culture into his life - entirely his own fault for recently admitting much to my horror that he'd never heard of Fagin and thought The Artful Dodger was a rapper - and I essentially cried all the way through it, thanks to my 'sorry, we cannot cope with any level of light or darkness so we must send a tsunami of water down your face immediately' eyes. The downside was that after 3 long hours, I looked like I'd gone ten rounds with Tyson, however the upside was that lots of Les Mis superfans nodded at me indulgently on the way out, clearly mistaking my chemo face for 'I've seen this fifty times, am in love with Jean Valjean and still cry like a loon every time' face.

Apart from the ongoing puffy crying face and a weird numb toe ('ah yes that'll be the neuropathy, side effect of the chemo, can last aaaaaaages" said my oncologist helpfully when I mentioned it), I'm in pretty good nick, I think. Am giving the Bouff a little reassuring "this is now a place of safety, feel free to come back anytime you like" pep talk every morning to encourage its speedy return and I think it's working. That said, really must stop visiting my friends' newborn babies and getting competitive over who has more hair...

Had my radiation simulation day last week where you essentially pop in and they measure you up so that they make sure they hit the right place. What I didn't know (probably because I didn't read the leaflet beforehand) is that they also tattoo you by sticking ink in a syringe to mark 4 points in the skin, presumably so they can line the machine up accurately to laser me while they pop out for a cup of tea. So now I have 4 tattoos which in my mind means I'm virtually a Hells Angel, which is nice. Anyway Sunburn Sue and the team are all very pleasant - I plan to inject their daily lives with 20 minutes of quality radiation banter, they will be begging me to leave by August 21st...

So yes, August 21st is my final day of radiation and the day when nearly 8 months of cancery madness will draw to a close, save some badass hormone drug that I'll worry about at a later date. I've been told numerous times in the last few weeks that aside from a bit of sunburn, this daily radiation will bring the fatigue that I've been warned about from the beginning, so I've downloaded Season 4 of Suits and got my loungewear and Uggs on standby.

With that in mind, along with my raging cabin fever and plummeting Qantas points, I'm heading back to the UK for a couple of months from early September to hang with the fam, enjoy the delights of my sister's spare room, walk my niece to school, take some strolls along the river and ideally see the end of the Great British summer.

Hoping I'll also get to see many of the UK members of this merry Fellowship who, despite being so far away, have been so predictably tremendous in their support this year. Apparently I hear the Rugby World Cup is also on - what good timing!

So we bid a fond farewell to #chemoface, give a big Kia Ora to #radiohead and brace ourselves for 6 weeks of sunburn... :)

Love,
VC x

* DITCH TODAY'S COFFEE & HELP EDMUND

Dear Fellowship, 

If you want to do one great thing today to make your heart a little fuller and your pocket a little lighter (but in a good way) ,then read this post by my favourite cancer arse-kicker Greig Trout and make a donation to help this gorgeous and most-deserving little boy, Edmund..

Love, 
VCx 

https://www.facebook.com/101thingstodowhenyousurvive/posts/785714964860489:0

Edmund & Greig