* ANYONE KNOW WHAT 'NORMAL' LOOKS LIKE?

Me, my niece Lottie, Peppa Pig and my dad's tree. :)

Dear Fellowship,

So with 8 weeks down and just a fortnight to go until I head back to Aussie shores, I thought a post might be a reasonable plan!

There have been plenty of moments over the last couple of months when I’ve considered relaying to the Fellowship the details of this recuperative period but for some reason - time, inclination, the dreaded ‘fatigue’, fear of not appearing withery enough versus fear of looking too smug - I haven’t quite managed to get pen to paper or numb thumb to keyboard. 

The big news is of course that we have officially bid an emotional farewell to Wiggy after 6 months of loyal service, much to my dismay. As soon as I posted that picture of the re-sprouting bouff, I knew her days were numbered. As a result, this trip has largely been what I lovingly refer to as the 'Jean-Paul Gaultier' chapter. 

Because of course what every girl recovering from cancer treatment wants is to look like a small grey-haired gay Frenchman in a stripy T-shirt. It also does not help that every T-shirt I own is stripy. Plus I have a French degree. It turns out I virtually AM Jean-Paul Gaultier. 

It was therefore with some trepidation that I headed to Sitges in Spain for Tom & Becky’s beautiful wedding. Who knew that Sitges is in fact the gay capital of Europe and thus where better to debut the new ‘Jesus Christ, there’s just so much FACE’ Connerty / Gaultier haircut? 

Big love to the patron saint of patience Jez Clark for tolerating 3 days of me badgering and boring him with "Wig on? Wig off? Do I look aggressive? I look aggressive, don’t I? Aggressive and bald. You look scared. Right, that’s it - I’m wigging up. I can’t go to a wedding looking aggressive and bald. Where’s the wig? Oh my god, it’s so hot I might faint.” etc etc ad infinitum. 

Wig-free wedding!

So poor old Wiggy remained confined to the wardrobe for the entire trip and once I’d got through the most glamorous of Spanish weddings without anyone running screaming for the hills at the sight of the aggressive little baldy on table 6, I realised that my girls meeting me in Ibiza a few days later would sadly never get to truly experience the power of the Wiggage. 

As I write, Wiggy is sitting forlornly on a little polystyrene head, staring at me. I must say that regardless of how grateful I am to finally have a relatively decent head of hair again, I genuinely miss her straight-haired swishy disguise more than anyone will ever quite know.

What with a Spanish wedding, a week in Ibiza, a 10 day jaunt around the Scottish Highlands, an upcoming few days in NYC and of course precious downtime with friends and fam in beautiful Henley, this, without doubt, will have been a trip of epic proportions which was of course entirely my intention when I sat planning it during chemo and radiation house arrest back in Sydney. 

Ibiza with my gals (and niece)

Chasing the sunset with my Gemini twin

Beautiful sunrise on the Isle of Skye in Scotland

Seaplane-ing over Loch Lomond with the boy Trout 

Having enough time to see my favourite people when I want to, rest when I need to and get my arse into gear when I have to has made it pretty much the perfect recuperation strategy. Well done, me.

That said, it’s been interesting to come out the other side of cancer treatment and experience what I suspect I've been subconsciously preparing myself for all year. You see, the trouble with cancer, as I always saw it, was never the actual treatment itself. For me, getting through treatment surrounded by love, care and kind words was a bit like being cocooned in a snug duvet on a cold day. By contrast, I feared that the post-treatment experience would be more like getting booted out into the snow without a coat or socks. To be fair, it's not been quite as bad or dramatic as catching hypothermia but the real challenge certainly lies in the 'getting back to normal'. 

Because to be honest, ’normal’ for me nowadays is having a grey-haired/ice-blonde crop, a wonky arm and a numb hand and foot. 

’Normal’ is voluntarily taking a drug for the next 5 years that, if you believe all the potential side effects, will possibly make me one of the least eligible bachelorettes in town, if not the world.

‘Normal’ is chatting with my girlfriends about babies while my 8 eggs chill out in a North Sydney freezer. 

‘Normal’ is getting my mum to teach me how to knit as it might be good for my right hand’s reduced motor function, or in layman’s terms, my numb thumb. 

'Normal' is wearing a compression sleeve on a plane and worrying more about the risk of blood clots than which films and choc ices are on offer.

‘Normal’ is being more desperate for my physio, a hot bath and a kip than a Sav Blanc. 

‘Normal’ is breaking into a cold sweat every time I have an ache or pain because my addled and over-thinking brain says it might be cancer back again. 

My new normal is officially as mad as a bag of frogs and more importantly, it doesn't remotely resemble my old normal which makes it tricky to merge the two. 

Today, my sister tagged me in a photo from my brother-in-law’s 40th last Saturday where I’m drinking a beer. In a terribly ladylike way of course. The photo looks like a lot of other photos taken of me before this cancery tale began (hairstyle aside, obvs) and is very much, in many ways, a glimpse of the old normal. 

Yet I looked at it and thought "you shouldn’t be drinking a beer, you mug. You’ve had cancer. You should definitely be drinking nettle tea or something with turmeric in it. You shouldn’t even be out. You should be indoors, reading something about mindfulness and doing those boring arm exercises the physio gave you”…Welcome to my new normal, what a massive killjoy. 

So this new definition of normal in a post-treatment world is what I’m currently trying to clumsily navigate. Admittedly, it’s a tricky beast and so it might take a while for me to eradicate the madder bits of this new perspective on life. Sit back, relax and continue to enjoy my ever-dignified, none-too-silent ongoing struggle with that.

Till then, rest assured that while i might have taken up knitting, I am also pretty sure that I’m smashing the definition of cancer recuperation out of the park. I think there may well be actual books being written right now about how to get over cancer that feature this particular trip’s tremendous itinerary! If not, then I shall write one! 

But first I must finish knitting this tiny scarf fit for a Borrower, plan my Halloween costume for this weekend’s NYC Parade and make a little 'C’mon Lou!' banner ahead of the New York Marathon on Sunday. So goddamn BUSY right now!

Love,

VC x

My welcome home cake with scary Half-Face me...

* VC'S ALTERNATIVE GUIDE TO RECUPERATION

Dear Fellowship,

So I've been back in the bosom of my homeland for 5 days and what a tremendous 120 hours they've been.

So amazing in fact that I am currently lying under my duvet fully clothed writing this with one eye closed, in a futile attempt to rest...

The holy trinity of jetlag, cancer-related fatigue and multiple emotional reunions has ensured that, since Thursday, I have been running largely on a winning combo of adrenalin and PG Tips, neither of which, I'm guessing, feature that heavily on the agreed 'how to take things easy post-treatment' guide. So I thought I'd share my own alternative tips for taking it easy below:

1. Fly Business Class back to UK

See? I was all over the 'taking it easy' thing initially! Wrote a nice blog from the comfort of the business lounge, ordered a celebratory glass of champagne, threw it all over myself within 8 seconds, ordered another one while a flustered waiter attempted to mop up first glass without making eye contact. Wolfed down a random plate of food (because it was FREE) which included pasta twirls, a new potato, some grated carrot, a beetroot and a bowl of soup. Got on plane. Found massage button on seat. So far so good.

2. Avoid wig-related stress.

Wafted about in swishy wig being all business class fabulous for first 20 mins of flight before going to loo and casually re-emerging without hair. As you do. I avoided the temptation to run out, screaming hysterically about the G-force power of the flush having whipped my hair clean off my head because I am in fact way more mature than people give me credit for.

Instead, I strolled casually back up the aisle, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to go into the loo one minute and pop out the next, sans barnet. Flipped Wiggy up into her own private overhead locker where she lay happily for the next gazillion hours.

3. Arrive home to textbook welcome

After a 24 hour flight and approx 20 hours sleep (gotta love a flatbed), I pushed my over-laden trolley through Arrivals with a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye to be enveloped by my gorgeous welcoming committee. My niece Molly came running from one direction, my nephew Otis from another (although to be fair, he stopped short of flinging himself at me when he remembered that he was in fact a 7 year old #lad) and my remaining niece, 18 month old Lottie, was nowhere to be seen. Turns out she was having her own toilet dramas on the M4, much to my sister's horror.

There's an ongoing complaint in my family (by me) that no one ever gets to Heathrow arrivals in time to physically greet anyone - less 'Love, Actually', more 'love, do you mind meeting me out the front to save on parking?' - so we knew how guilty Marg would feel, having failed to make my arrival on time despite it being through no fault of her own.

Thus ensued some panicked chat where it was genuinely discussed at one point whether I could possibly go back through the arrival doors with a view to re-emerging 5 minutes later like some dazed and confused Stars in Your Eyes contestant. Madness. Instead I just hid behind a post, chucked out a lame 'surpriiiiiise' at my sis, Lottie burst into tears, everyone hugged and off we went. Phew. Special thanks to Mizz and Charl for embracing the predictable chaos so valiantly.

4. Laugh in the face of chronic jetlag

Or, as I like to call it, 'pop upstairs for a quick nap' at 11am and wake up at 7pm. Excellent 'laughing in face of jetlag' technique. I believe we went out for dinner that first night. No memory of it. I may well have been slumped face first in my burger all evening. I do remember being awake that night until 6am though. Good times.

5 days later, I'm really smashing through it and waking up as late as 4am. Sigh. That said, as a result of having been up most days with the lark, I have been able to already achieve my twin goals of dropping my niece at school and walking the dog down by the river of a morning. Nothing tests the mental strength of a cancer survivor like having to fill multiple doggie bin bags before 9am...

5. Hang out with 75,000 people in a stadium

Took my bro to see the England v Ireland game at Twickenham on Saturday - big thanks to my pal Tim for both sorting out the tickets in response to my blatant emotional blackmail from overseas and for shouting us a posh lunch too! We're of English and Irish descent but if I'm honest, Jon and I were less confused about who to support than we were about the rules of rugby in general. Football is in our Scouse blood, rugby is far too posh for us and Jon spent most of the match looking confused and asking what the score was and why. Nonetheless England won and I ditched Jon and the pub for a night in Teddington watching telly on the sofa with my buddy Lou. All about balance, innit?

6. Hang out with 200 people on a hill in London

Now then, regular readers of my ramblings will already be aware of one Greig Trout, the fabulous founder of 101 Things To Do When You Survive (www.whenyousurvive.com) but importantly, the Mr Miyage to my Karate Kid, the Lacey to my Cagney as I've navigated this cancery world with wide-eyes for the last 9 months. His friendship, advice and two-time experience himself with the old C-Bomb has been utterly invaluable to a cancer novice like me this year and I'm sure I'll be continuing to pick his brain (whilst turning a blind eye to his continual Whatsapp-based typos and grammatical errors) for years to come.

September is the month when Greig passes the 5 year mark since his last duel with the cancery troll which puts him officially and brilliantly into long-awaited remission. To mark this awesome occasion, his family, friends and followers of his 2 year blog headed to Richmond Hill on Sunday to celebrate.

What a truly tremendous day it was - the sun came out, old friends turned up, new friends were made and I got to finally put some faces to the names of people and friends of Greig who have been so generous in their support this year without even knowing me! I shall wait to see if the Fellowship numbers start to dwindle now they have finally met me in the flesh....

For me, Sunday marked the beginning of the next chapter of my life and firmly closed the door on the last several months. There were so many awesome people, young and old, who have faced and continue to face far tougher challenges than me that just chatting to them on the day reminded me once more how delighted I was to be simply sitting on the grass with my good pals taking it easy and soaking up the afternoon sun. Plus I won a raffle prize which helped....

An awesome day organised by an awesome man for an awesome cause. Nice work, Troutster - you absolutely rock. :)

Blimey - so much for scaling these posts back!! And this only covers the first 120 hours of my UK trip! This is what happens when I put 'rest' instead of 'lunch' in my diary - those who keep telling me to rest have been warned....

Right, off out to pick the niece up from school and shout 'Pair Device, for crying out loud!!!' at my deaf hire car for the 79th time.

Thanks for reading this far, Mum! :)

Love,
VC x

* 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… 

* 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