*A MAMMOGRAM, AN ULTRASOUND, A HAPPY VC

Dear Fellowship, 

Let me be very clear - there is generally no excuse for posting a smug-faced picture of oneself wafting about on a boat at an age when one should really know better. No one likes a show-off, even a ex-cancery-faced one. 

But today is an important day and so the normal rules do not apply. And to be fair, I do love a boat-related photo. Today was my 12 month mammogram and ultrasound, the first actual scan I've had since treatment started that has officially confirmed the ongoing absence of Lumpy, Lymphy and their merry gang of thieves. 

I didn't realise quite how anxious I was about these scans till I started properly hyperventilating like a freak this morning and almost threw up into a bin outside Darlinghurst XRay. All class. 

I haven't wanted to previously and still don't want to shout 'woohoo, cancer-free!' from the rooftops because that kind of chat makes the fate-tempter in me a bit nervous but I'm not sure Dr Dave was quite ready for the bear hug I sprang upon him when he nonchalantly told me everything was fine an hour ago.

So yes, everything is fine. Phew. Dr Dave is happy. My boobs are delighted and loving their own work. And I have stopped holding my breath and no longer want to throw up into a bin. Which is good. And this photo is the best one I can find right now that accurately portrays my current happy face and relieved mind. 

So the first of hopefully many annual scans is done and I'm officially a massive ex-cancer-faced show-off with two working arms and a ginger tan, wafting about on any boat that'll take me at an age when I should know better. 

And I'm ok with that. :)

Love,

VC x

P.s I also feel like an actor who keeps coming out from the wings for another encore. Will totally understand if you've all now left the Fellowship, pushed off home and there's just a bloke in overalls sweeping up at the back...

* BACK IN SYDNEY & THE BOUFF'S FIRST TRIM!

Dear Fellowship, 

So welcome to National Hypochondriac Day. Where I mostly wander around Sydney complaining to anyone (who’s paid to listen to me) about my various ailments.

Back in Sydney. Hideous view. 

As far as I know there isn’t actually a day in the calendar dedicated to imaginary aches and pains but if there was one, it would be today and if there was an award involved, then I would almost certainly win some sort of Grand Wizardy Whingeing Pom Lifetime Achievement type accolade.

My long-suffering GP Jacqui, after a 3 month respite from listening to my arm, foot, hair and boob-related woes, reluctantly booked a whole hour in her diary with me this morning to ostensibly sign some forms and write some referrals. 48 minutes later, I suspected that behind the sympathetic head tilt, she was mentally banging her head against her desk whilst I regaled her with yet more symptoms to have a crack at.

The good news is that the nerve pain in my foot that has had me muttering about neuropathy and gulping down old man levels of nerve drugs since July isn’t actually anything to do with chemo, cancer or neuropathy.

The bad news is that it’s probably something called ‘Morton’s Neuroma’ which is basically a delightful-sounding thickening of nerve tissue and is commonly found in women who wear heels a lot. Anyone who’s ever seen my Imelda Marcos-size shoe collection will not be remotely surprised by this new twist in the tale.

The good news is that it can be treated by either injecting steroids into it (gulp) or via surgery to remove it (gulp), resulting in a few days on crutches.

The bad news is that the last time I had to use crutches for more than 10 minutes back in 2004, I accidentally flung a whole pint of Lucozade onto a brand new cream carpet, resulting in our whole flat having to be re-carpeted. The lesson is never balance a pint of Lucozade on a book whilst moving from one room to another on crutches. Seems obvious, I know...

Anyway, I digress. X-Ray and ultrasound locked in for later this week but it’s looking like there is at least a better outcome for the old right foot than ‘it’s just down to the chemo, innit?’ explanation I’ve been offering up for months. Well done to Cath Walters for listening to me whinge for half an hour about it last week before getting on Google and texting me ten minutes later “I reckon the pain in your toe could be a Morton’s Neuroma…”. She’s so smug right now.

 Meanwhile, I now have good old Morton to add to Lumpy, Lymphy and Limpy - together, they sound like the ugliest Scandinavian boy band ever.

Next up and a trip to Sunburn Sue. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I bloody love Sue. We had a nice chat about my holidays, how much we both love the Scottish Highlands, isn’t Skye amazing and wasn’t the Harry Potter train over the Viaduct fun etc - if I hadn’t been sat there chatting away with top off and boobs out, it would have been a bit like going to the hairdressers. As it was, she’s very happy with everything and reassured me that yes, I am now definitely, most assuredly 'well' and no, I did not need to take up precious space in her room anymore. Then she booted me out. Sad face. I miss Sue already.

Then I popped upstairs to see Dr Dave to book in my annual mammogram for January, which as a breast cancer survivor, I am now entitled to. Sadly, Dave wasn’t in - probably off saving women everywhere like the legend he is - so I had a chat with his PA, Kate.

“When do you want to do it?" she said “You choose.”
“Next week?”
“Nope”
“December?”
“December’s terrible. Don’t say December.”
“Ok then, how about mid-Jan?”
“Locked in. Want an ultrasound with that? You might as well.”

I’m not even joking. It was like being at a McDonalds Drive-Thru for boobs. Which I know would be a dream come true in many ways for several of you lads.

Then I spent 5 minutes explaining to Kate and her colleague on reception exactly how a mammogram worked while they both pulled faces only 22 year olds can pull when confronted with the words ‘boobs’, ’squashed’ and ‘like an ice cold sandwich press’.

I’ve been back nearly a fortnight and am starting to settle back in after ten tremendously recuperative and gorgeous weeks back in the Motherland. The ridiculous 30+ degree temperatures are certainly helping with this re-adjustment back into Sydney life but if it makes my English pals feel better, I did cry for pretty much the whole day when I landed. Cried driving to a massage, cried during the massage (not recommended), cried unpacking my bag, cried on my friend and her baby. Literally, all day. Then I took a sleeping pill, had 12 hours solid sleep, the sun came out and I felt much better. I still miss you all very much though. :)

In other exciting news, the Bouff has had its first official haircut! Yes! The Return of the Ringlets is all systems go! Both my mum and my sister both remarked in the UK how much like Dad’s hair it looked which, though I loved my Dad and his hair very much, is not exactly the look that I was quite aiming for. Another friend who shall remain nameless suggested it looked a bit like a wet tennis ball. He is still apologising, 2 weeks later. So the first thing I did post-crying massage was push off and see my hairdresser Roger.

“Too soon?” I said, anxiously as he strode towards me in the salon. “Never too soon!” he replied, whipping out his tiny nail scissors. Had a lovely time, a little ‘fro trimmage and Rog pretended there was a long-term strategy in place for Bouff-growth and maintenance which made me happy.

Before - wet tennis ball...

After - tennis ball. hmm. 

 I have to say as an aside that wrestling with the new Bouff has become my least favourite pastime. How much wax is too much wax? Why, o why does it insist on curling out at the sides like Count Duckula’s tail? I mostly just look like I’m auditioning for a role in Bugsy Malone. As a lad. And now they’re telling me I’ve got to go easy on the heels. Man alive. No online dating for me for a while...

But for now, sensible shoes and hair wax aside, we shall simply press on with getting back to normal. Whatever the devil that might be. :)

Love,
VC x

* WELCOME TO THE CANCER CLUB. BUGGER.

Cat in a wig. The light in the dark that every cancer diagnosis deserves. 

Dear Fellowship, 

So today I got my laminated membership card to the most exclusive but least sought-after club in town. The Cancer Club. Now normally I'm a sucker for a private member's club but I'm still not sure if I want to keep this one. Annoyingly, the first rule of Cancer Club is that you don't get to choose apparently. Typical.

On the second day of 2015, I was told that the results of a cheeky biopsy on Christmas Eve (excellent timing) showed that cancer was apparently lurking in my right boob and had also turned up in my lymph nodes.

I don’t even really know what a lymph node is or what it actually does but I'm pretty sure that a cancery one is not a good thing. I would Google it but I've banned myself from Googling anything related to boobs, lymphs or cancer. The only things I'm allowed to Google for the foreseeable future are pictures of cats in wigs. Try Googling 'cats in wigs' and not crying with laughter. It is physically impossible. Fact.

The last few weeks have been a bit of a blur and by that I don’t mean I’ve been worrying myself senseless, I mean I've been really busy with work / media lunches, Christmas planning, panic buying absolute crap for people online, having a mini-nervous breakdown in town the day before Christmas Eve over whether to buy my gay friend a bow-tie or a pair of tailored shorts, the usual 1st world problems I face on a daily basis…

Despite the solemn-sounding biopsy, I wasn't even really thinking about the possibility of cancer at all. I popped to the GP a couple of weeks earlier, grumbling about the reminder letter for my 2 yearly smear test (delightful) and then this very nice doc asked if I'd like a breast check at the same time. So off she went. And she found something pretty quickly. I thought she was probably just being over-zealous. Maybe she was new. Maybe she hadn't done one before and was just having a crack.

And so it began. 'Cautionary' boob check followed by 'cautionary' ultrasound. 'Cautionary' ultrasound followed by 'cautionary' mammogram (where they essentially squash your boobs in between what is basically a fancy sandwich press and take pictures - the least sexy topless shoot in the world by the way) 'Cautionary' mammogram followed by 'cautionary' core biopsy to lumpy boob (Me to GP: What’s a core biopsy? GP to me: You know what an apple corer is? Me to GP: STOP TALKING!!) and FNA (Fine Needle Application = not an apple corer) to the lymph. Every girl’s Christmas dream!

And so 2 days into 2015, it turned out that the little cancer dwarfs Lumpy and Lymphy (as I shall affectionately call them) are actually attempting to wreak havoc in the calm and orderly Kingdom of Connerty. Unbelievable. Especially when I’d just tidied up and taken the tree down.

Telling people the news today was utterly surreal but listening to their wise words and reassurances did make me feel better. Some have been pragmatic, some have been tearful, some have offered advice, some have remained silent and just listened to me rambling on but every single one of them has helped me in some way and I already know I chose this merry band well.

I am probably going to be really quite grumpy at times over the next few months but I'm also going to follow a dear friend's advice and try and be grateful for at least one thing every day, once I'm done being grumpy. So today, I am grateful for my support crew who sit in all corners of the globe and I'm grateful that I don't have to kick the shit out of Lumpy and Lymphy on my own.

Love, 

VC x

p.s thanks to my niece Lottie for this perfect pose in her new low key T-shirt!! xxx

The youngest of our clan joins the Fellowship