Wow! I scarcely believe it. ‘Tis true though. I’ve got there – and I’m still here!

Four months ago I said I wouldn’t comment on the subject ‘til further notice’, I didn’t want to turn this into a ‘how I beat Cancer’, or worse, a ‘how I didn’t beat Cancer blog’ – now ‘further notice’ has arrived, so join me in a little celebration.

Happy Hour, free doubles all day, please Barman – I’ve reached the end of my treatment.

I thought Cancer was Cancer, and Chemotherapy was Chemotherapy four months ago. My, I’ve learned a lot since then. There are hundreds of different cancers, hundreds of different places you can ‘get it’, hundreds of different shapes, sizes, weights, heights and personalities of the people who get it – and hence hundreds of different chemotherapies delivered, and outcomes achieved.

To anybody reading this about to embark on the same journey, read by all means, but take not a darned bit of notice of me or anybody else who fills your head with what happened to their Aunt Mairie when she had chemotherapy – you have more chance of winning the lottery than replicating her experience.

Some sail through – Mo Mowlam MP managed to sort out the hard men of Northern Ireland whilst undergoing treatment, others are hollow eyed wraiths glued to their pillow, neither beat yourself up nor congratulate yourself for being in either camp – some never complete the journey.

Chemotherapy is the art of killing all the cancerous cells in your body – friendly fire is an occupational hazard – it is actually the art of taking your body to the very limits of existence, knowing the precise moment when they need to stop and start giving you a breath of fresh air again – a bit like water boarding.

In fact the only sensible advice I really took note of was an ex-special forces correspondent of mine who passed on the training they received to withstand torture during the North African campaign. ‘Never lose sight of the fact that dead men don’t talk – they don’t actually want to kill you; they just want you to believe that they do’.

Believing that they will pull you up from that knife edge at the last moment is probably what most people really mean by ‘think positive’. The informed ones, anyway.

I have sat up through the night having conversations with people that would never have occurred in the ‘real’ – outside of chemotherapy, that is – world.

What do you say to a 33 year old girl – a yoga teacher, Buddhist, vegan, non smoking, non drinking, mother of two who has just asked the Doctor ‘how long’ – and been told ‘Christmas if you are lucky, we could have saved you last year’. She had had a small tumour removed by surgery in November last year, horrified at the prospect of filling her body with the toxins she had spent a lifetime avoiding she took the next plane to Mexico (literally!) to the alternative treatment centre there – to no avail – a year later the cancer had spread into every corner of her body.

In the ‘real world’, the outside world, you don’t have those conversation, you say things like ‘you must think positive’, and even more frequently ‘I must go, I don’t want to tire you out’ – and you escape.

Sharing a room, or more usually, a bench in the petit jardin where we repair to smoke a cigarette, (aye, and not just tobacco either, this hospital has a refreshing ‘non-nagging policy’) chat amongst ourselves, munch cream cakes, compares notes on the physique of the ever present builders and await the mobile phone call from our nurse to come upstairs and take delivery of another bagful of toxins – we do actually discuss such things.

Helping someone to plan how to fit in everything undone over a lifetime into three weeks has made my own three months seem luxurious. For the benefit of doubt – it is not the only ‘three months’ I intend to have, but the nature of my cancer is that this is as long a period of warning as they will be able to give me, so I must go back and request a fresh three month pass for the real world – every three months.

There is no time for inessentials. Like an austerity budget, things that seemed important when I had all the time in the world must be jettisoned.

Christmas is too soon to plan to be more than an hour away from ‘my’ hospital, but straight after Christmas, a trip to Jersey, for no other reason than it is close enough to allow the people I care about to meet me there. For it is people and specifically the people I really care about who matter most when time is rationed.

I still cherish the memory of that week in June when Smudds and Gildas and Obnoxio and co gathered with French friends to break bread and much wine during a medieval recreation of the origins of this village. Marvellous stuff, I wish more of my close friends could have been there, but bed space was severely limited, as some found out to their cost.

Next on my agenda is a trip ‘oop North’ to meet Sad and Matt, neither of whom I have ever met, who have devoted so much of their time unselfishly to helping a fellow blogger keep her ‘life-line’ going. Perhaps I shall meet some of you?

It has been a life-line too – the ability to don the Raccoon fur and pretend that the only thing which mattered in life was some daft feminist trying to bring in more draconian laws to curtail the freedom of men – has meant more than you can imagine. A time to be normal, not a victim, not a patient, not an exercise in the art of chemotherapy; just another blogger sounding off, laughing at the insanity of the world, has been an essential tool in the weaponry of survival.

Without you, the commentators, it would have been like a gun with no bullets. Pointless. Meaningless. So Thank-you.

See? I’ve only filled perhaps two of those weeks, and I have twelve to play with. So a trip to Portugal, to a speck on the Atlantic coast, a sandy cove where the long breakers roll in endlessly from the Americas. The wild flowers are an attraction, multi coloured, many facetted; they carpet the chalk cliffs, as far as the eye can see – yet my eye didn’t often stray to the horizon, for parked next to us high up on those deserted cliffs was a WWII Mercedes truck.

It had been turned into a comfortable home, up on blocks, so was obviously there for some time. Inside dwelled the most beautiful man I have ever set eyes on – every morning he would set off down the cliff path with his wet suit carelessly hanging round his waist, surf board held high on his shoulders, blonde Rasta locks billowing in the wind – a picture of Aryan perfection. I could watch him for hours as he perfected the art of balancing on a wave, a futile art. Mr G gave him barely a glance, far too engrossed in his young blonde mistress in her lycra body learning how to juggle three balls and a stick on the end of her nose!

In the evenings, his two pedigree Alsatians would be tied up outside the van and a succession of battered vans would draw up, conversations were hurried with many a glance in our direction – and then the vans would depart – and ‘body beautiful’ as he came to be known, would take yet another walk over the cliff tops to an unknown destination returning some 20 minutes later.  I often pondered on his lifestyle – Mr G was all for taking a walk with our dog in the same direction until I pointed out that he quite probably owned a WWII revolver as well……

Yes, I want to go back there, perchance to glance…

Perhaps a call at Cadaques en route – the most perfect Spanish village still in existence – then what? Have I really run out of people I must see, things I must do, in just three weeks, let alone three months?

‘Tis true, once you cut out all the crap of ‘things I should do, ought to do’; when you look back on life and realise what an extraordinarily lucky person you have been; that you have no unresolved ambitions; you’ve done everything you wanted to do, you own everything you need, you enjoy every day of your life – then three months at a time, (and lots of the little buggers) is absolute luxury compared to three weeks.

It’s been an interesting exercise in ‘what I really, really want’…..

How about you? What do you really, really want?

Ps. Can I just add one thing to the list? Hair please, all I want for Christmas is some hair….starting with inside my nostrils – have you any idea how irritating life is when every bug in Christendom is free to explore as he wishes?…..Grrrr! Atishoo! Snort! Duck!

sunnymama November
27, 2011 at 18:42

This is wonderful news. Very happy to join the celebration.

alan scott November 26, 2011 at 17:35

On! On! dear Anna. We need you.

Dick the Prick
November 26, 2011 at 16:13

Wonderful stuff – KBO. Just to be an arse, chances are the Atlantic in
Portugal hasn’t come from the Americas, that’s just surface currents, the
Portugal oceanic currents probably come from the Arctic near Greenland. All
the very best and i’m sure choccie buns are more important than those dashed
pills!!

Pericles November 24, 2011 at 00:19

As ever, Anna, from your pen (keyboard, I mean) flows an uplifting message.
ΠΞ

Leg-iron November
22, 2011 at 16:54

Congratulations on your successful delumpification. I looked everywhere but
nobody sells any cards saying that. A gap in the market maybe?

Here’s hoping the lumps go elsewhere in future.

Livewire November 21, 2011 at 11:36

Why do dogs howl when the moon has no ears?
Angst and malaise or
summation of fears?

To let us all know that the world’s full of pain?
Don’t dwell on the
thought if you wish to stay sane

The owner is stirred, demanding to sleep
“Good dogs make no sound, not
even a peep”

The dog will obey his pack leader’s voice
The harshness of tone, it
leaves little choice

We could leave it there, it’s simple and neat
Or dig like a dog, but not
use our feet

We dig in a book, we pick someone’s brains
We find that the wolf leaves
genely remains

The howl is not pain but “Hi, I’m around”
For humans and dogs a
much-needed sound

The book said the words in pages and print
The dog couldn’t type, but
gave a strong hint

Who’s training who ‘tween master and pet?
Think long and hard, I’d not
place a bet

M Barnes November 21, 2011 at 10:50

Bonne Chance….. and many a glass of fine red to toast those 3 month
horizons.

Châtelaine November 20, 2011 at 20:07

Very good, 2Mac. I have often noticed – not from a philopher’s point of
view, but merely based on life experience – that most bad things are in the
end for the better …

2Mac November 20, 2011 at 18:35

Thanks for sharing that. It helps to remind a person what is really
important.

When I feel life is shit I read this proverb.

Sāi Wēng Lost his Horse

Sāi Wēng, a Chinese farmer, lived on the border and he raised horses for a
living. One day he lost a horse and his neighbour felt sorry for him, but Sāi
Wēng, the philosophical farmer, replied to his neighbour, “Good luck? Bad
luck? Who knows?”

After a while the horse returned with another beautiful horse, and the
neighbour congratulated him on his good luck. But Sāi Wēng thought that maybe
it wasn’t necessarily a good thing to have this new horse. The farmer replied
to his neighbour,” Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?”

The farmer’s son liked the new horse a lot and often took it riding. One
day his son fell off the horse and broke his leg. Again his neighbour felt
sorry for the farmer. But the old farmer replied, “Good luck? Bad luck? Who
knows?”

When the military came to collect all the young men in the village, the
farmer’s son couldn’t go off to war because of his broken leg. Most of the
young men in the village died in the war. Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?

Engineer November 20, 2011 at 13:42

Very glad to hear that the worst of the treatment is over, and fervently
hope that you enjoy many more ‘three months’-es (if you see what I mean!).

Mr G must be relieved and delighted to have you back too; bald nostrils
notwithstanding.

Anna – what an amazing piece of writing with which to break the news, too.
Hope, humility, humour. It is no coincidence that this blog is so high in the
rankings.

Dave H November 20, 2011 at 13:01

Good to hear the news. Make the most of each three month pass and reserve
procrastination for tomorrow.

Caedmon’s
Cat November 21, 2011 at 14:02

Amen to that!

Woman on a
Raft November 20, 2011 at 10:37

Exceellent news. Jersey. Top choice, definitely.

My next hope-to is trying to figure a way to be at Sto-Nenge on 21st
December this year for the sunset at the winter solstice. No matter how bad
the weather is, after that point it is an astronomical certainty that the wolf
winter is as close to you as it can get and now is running past, running
scared, chased by the sun.

The exact time for the Winter Solstice is December 21st, 11.39pm (UK time).
The sunset on the 21st is at 3.53pm and the sunrise on the 22nd of December at
8.04am. English Heritage, who run the site, are keeping it open and hope for a
clear sunset as they expect several thousand people to congregate. It’s a
matter of luck, but the staff say they often get better views then. ( New Moon
– December 24, 18:06).

gladiolys November 20, 2011 at 09:46

Anna: as someone living with an ongoing condition that means the horizon
sometimes gets closer then stretches further away with each new “event”, may I
say thank you for writing this so well and also, it’s good to have you still
with us.

Mjolinir November 20, 2011 at 09:31

Glad you are ‘still with us’, Anna.

RAB
November 20, 2011 at 00:53

mmmm, warm cockles with garlic and almond and tomato and pasta……one of my
favourites…..

And long may you enjoy it. We Taffy peasants usually make do with vinegar
and pepper, and some crusty buttered bread.

“Do not go gentle into that goodnight…”

Anne4 November 19, 2011 at 23:22

The joy of living bursts out of your piece. A fabulous read- thank you.

Bonne continuation.

Wigner’s Friend
November 20, 2011 at 08:35

Ditto

The Filthy
Engineer November 19, 2011 at 22:58

I forgot to add, You are my favourite blog.

PS. I’m not a stalker

The Filthy
Engineer November 19, 2011 at 22:51

For all the failings of the NHS, I have nothing but admiration for those
that work in Oncology. When my wife was diagnosed with suspected bowel cancer,
she was treated with dignity, respect, And more. Luckily it was a false alarm.
My son was diagnosed with thyroid cancer this year and hopefully has been rid
of it with the operation to remove it. He is of the same opinion as you. Do
it, suffer it, and get on with it. He agrees with me that shit happens, and
has found a way through it. What brought tears to my eyes when we were walking
through the beautiful park, opposite his house, were the words ” I’m glad I’ve
learnt to be pragmatic like you”.

I was lost for words.

Get back behind the bar in the Raccoon arms as your temporary staff have
been ripping you off.

Gildas has been at the mead.

ivan November 19, 2011 at 22:42

I said you would do it.

Now there will be some jobsworths starting to nervously look over their
shoulders in fear that our Raccoon will drop on them from a great height.

BTW my friend is now well into his seventh year.

Chromatistes November 19, 2011 at 22:33

Anna, You have special permission to enter the third dimension (should it
exist), and are excused the obligation – imposed on all your sisters – of
maintaining the Peace-Cry.

The Filthy
Engineer November 19, 2011 at 22:27

Great news. I’m looking forward to the sequel. Looking forward to another
fifty years of your postings.

http://bastardoldholborn.blogspot.com/
November 19, 2011 at 18:40

That’s my cockles warmed for a change.

Saul November 19, 2011 at 18:51

I was happy with a few pints, where do I go for the cockle warming?

Anna
Raccoon November 19, 2011 at
19:02

mmmm, warm cockles with garlic and almond and tomato and pasta……one of
my favourites…..

GildasTheMonk
November 19, 2011 at 18:36

You STAR!
Get in!
G the M

Single Acts of
Tyranny November 19, 2011 at 18:20

Score! I am so pleased for you.

Subrosa November
19, 2011 at 18:13

Scotland awaits your presence Ma’am.

Châtelaine
November 19, 2011 at 18:19

Good gracious. With all of these places to go, how do I ever get her to
go to Italy via the château …

Châtelaine
November 19, 2011 at 18:21

Having said that, perhaps I should be realistic and plan for the 2nd or
3rd trimester?

Gloria Smudd
November 19, 2011 at 23:44

I took my Smuddlette to Edinburgh for the Comedy Festival this year. I’d
always said I would take her when she was old enough and she and I had a
wonderful 4 days. I was worried about spending 24-7 with a strident teen and
she was worried about spending 24-7 with a menopausal blob but the beauty of
the city, the excellence of the restaurants, the hilarity of the shows we
saw and the genuine buzz in the air made it a trip I’ll never forget and one
I think Smuddlette will always, always remember. Who could ask for more?

carol42 November 19, 2011 at 18:13

Wonderful news, I am 15 months out from surgery, lucky enough not to need
chemo, and most of the time I just forget about the cancer. However about a
week before the scan, I am now on six months, I start to get scanxiety until I
get the results. Next one is in March so won’t worry about it until then. True
about cancer, you do meet different people and like you I had no idea of the
huge variations even in cancer in the same primary place. Don’t worry about
your hair, everyone I know has had a return to normal. Have a great time and I
wish you the very best of luck for the furure.

talwin November 19, 2011 at 17:57

Continuing good luck.

Michael November 19, 2011 at 17:47

All the very best Anna from oop North

Saul November 19, 2011 at 17:42

You could have one of those posh Bouquet lists.

Anna
Raccoon November 19, 2011 at
17:47

Eeh up lad, just enjoy the free bar tonight……

Gloria Smudd
November 19, 2011 at 17:21

Whoop-de-dooooh! It’s cartwheels of joy at Smudd Towers, so picture me one
great, fat, cheerful cavorting blurr of liberty bodice, support stockings and
roomy bloomers! I don’t even care if me teeth fly out, so delighted I am that
the ruddy chemo is over!

Anna
Raccoon November 19, 2011 at
17:48

I think I just swallowed yer glass eye m’dear, thought it was an olive,
need new glasses…….

Gloria Smudd
November 19, 2011 at 18:05

I thought I felt it pop out during one particularly strenous string of
flick-flacks… it’s amazing how far those things bounce with a bit of
impetus behind them. If you’ve a tummy ache later, don’t blame Mr G’s
cooking!
Shame the same can’t be said for La Smudd’s unsuspecting
dinner guests tonight – I always offer a Rennie Roulade, just to be on the
safe side. xx

Plantman November 19, 2011 at 16:59

It’s lovely to hear/read something that stops me being so damned angry.
Well done ma’am.

InLikeFlint November 19, 2011 at 16:50

Excellent news, so glad you are back.

Ed P November 19, 2011 at 16:48

Very moving – I wish you all the best for many, many more 3-month units of
good health.

I’ve just today been at a Friends Meeting House (for an unrelated event, we
hired the room). I’m impressed by the Quaker’s literature and attitudes to
life & death – it could be the sort of non-religious religion that’d suit
me.

Anna
Raccoon November 19, 2011 at
16:57

I’m delighted Ed-P Quakerism is a very uncomplicated lifestyle. Keep it
simple – cut out the middleman.

Cascadian November 19, 2011 at 16:38

Well that is good news, I will certainly raise a glass to salute you.

Nasal hair huh? You always have a surprise in store, may it regrow but not
too luxuriantly, I hope that the Raccoon bandit patch returns too.

Ex-Liverpool
Docker November 19, 2011 at 15:57

Bonjour girl,

Keep your pecker up and try the same with your elbow, ok more of a pumping
action….

Mark November 19, 2011 at 15:12

You mean nasal hair actually serves a purpose? I am relieved, I thought it
was proof positive in the non-existence of God

Angry
Exile November 19, 2011 at 14:33

Glad to hear it, AR. Tough raccoon, you. May you keep on keeping on.

Mick November 19, 2011 at 14:16

Absolutely brilliant news, brilliant.
I agree completely with the
Portugal stuff, we live here, life giving in itself.
Live long and prosper,
Raccoon.

Robert Edwards
November 19, 2011 at 13:45

This is fine news indeed; you are, believe it or not, always on our
minds…

Châtelaine
November 19, 2011 at 14:06

Yes, she is …
Any chance, Anna, passing by the château on your way to
… ?

Anna
Raccoon November 19, 2011 at
14:09

Italy? Why not!

Châtelaine
November 19, 2011 at 14:11

macheath November
19, 2011 at 13:31

Great news – we’ll be raising a congratulatory glass to you in the Tavern
tonight.

Re hair; a friend whose treatment ended a few months ago is now – to her
great astonishment – sporting a full head of curls instead of her usual
poker-straight locks. Good luck with re-growing the pelt!

JuliaM November
19, 2011 at 13:25

Excellent news!

Davieboy November 19, 2011 at 12:54

Truly uplifting news. F.A.B.

brian in Cyprus
November 19, 2011 at 12:50

Wonderful news – keep going girl. I lost both parents to cancer and chances
are I will go the same way but you give great hope. XXX
Brian

Spiral Architect
November 19, 2011 at 12:43

Excellent news, very pleased for you.

My thoughts on mortality centre on its utter randomness.

Take the case Tsutomi Yamaguchi………

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/japan/6939379/Japanese-man-who-survived-two-atomic-bombs-dies.html

Then there’s poor little Marquel Peters…….

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1240433/Boy-killed-bullet-fired-2-miles-away.html

There can’t be a god.

Live your life, do good things, have a clear conscience………..drink beer,
play sport, fornicate, read books, know the names of flowers and trees, fight
socialism.

Michael November 19, 2011 at 17:46

I don’t know if I’ve quoted this before, but it seems appropriate in
relation to the above comment:

My argument against God was that the universe seemed so cruel and unjust.
But how had I got this idea of just and unjust? A man does not call a line
crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line. What was I comparing
this universe with when I called it unjust?
C. S. Lewis, Mere
Christianity

permanentexpat
November 19, 2011 at 12:20

Very well done…Lyrical, uplifting & sobering.
Keep well.

Livewire November 19, 2011 at 12:16

Great news, Anna, and a thoroughly approved new topic. For once, I’ll
switch off my windbag mode and let others do the talking…