And-the verdict comes on Tuesday...

I get all the results of the tests on Tuesday afternoon. I forgot (conveniently) to tell you that...but it's Tuesday.

I didn't think I would be worried or upset-but I remember last year, when I had a bad feeling and it turned out to be breast cancer. I have a bad feeling. Hopefully I am just being an alarmist. Hopefully.

I have been thinking a lot about what I will do on Tuesday after the verdict is in. Actually-I don't know. At the moment I am doing laundry and cleaning my kitchen. Can you imagine keeling over from cancer and doing it thinking-Oh my God, I'm leaving a dirty kitchen!!

I know, these are really weird thoughts to have at the moment. I can, of course, put it all down to being an alien (and an alien with voting rights, how cool is that??). But I am not going to consider what I am going to do until I see Mr. Tan and get the verdict.

Anyone remember the Edgar Allen Poe story about the Pit and the Pendulum? I feel like there is an axe swinging over my head, and I won't know which way it will go until Tuesday afternoon. That is not a great feeling to have-something even Kettle Chips and Starbucks can't help (or a clean kitchen, for that matter).

I know one thing: I will be able to handle whatever comes my way. After gentamicin, vestibular destruction, breast cancer, patella surgery, hospital stays because of severe chest infections-well, I guess I am strong enough to deal with whatever comes next.

I'll let you know on Tuesday.

It's good to be an alien

Yes, that's right: I'm an alien. Not only that, I am a registered alien. Whether that makes much of a difference-who knows? For all the years I have lived here-and I lived here longer than I lived in my own country-I have been an alien. I worked, paid taxes, got sick, got well, got married (must have been nuts), got divorced (must have wised up), and the only thing I have never been able to do-was vote. Until now. Meh.

I have done all the hospital stuff since last time I posted: I've been poked, prodded, blood letted, had my scan so I've also been irradiated up the wazoo-and the general pronouncement (by everyone except the oncologist) is that I am in really good shape-for my age. It's the "for your age" that I could happily do without. For my age-you would think I was a car. But never mind, I am doing really well-for my age. God isn't even my age. Well, that does really irk me. But it certainly beats the alternative.

In the middle of all this palaver, it was my birthday. Did I celebrate? Is the Pope Catholic? My friends called me from the US, I received birthday cards and emails (love those calls, emails, cards-what a lift that gave me), and I celebrated with friends here. And celebrated. And celebrated. Not everyone could make it on Monday, so I celebrated again on Wednesday. My head still hurts. But, when I consider that last year I wasn't sure if I would even live to my birthday, it's a year down the line-and I am beginning to see what gratitude really is. Tomorrow I could walk out of the house and get struck by lightning. So maybe it's a good idea to really start living. I thought about that last year-but some people take a long time before they get it.

Now-in the middle of the muddle, I received a letter from the government. When I see a brown window envelope, I know it's from the government. So-I wondered what they wanted. And what they wanted was for me to vote. I laughed so hard I got a cramp in my side and nearly fell off the chair (nothing new there; I fall over all the time).

A few weeks ago I received a letter asking me to register to vote. Of course, I did what I always do with this drivel: I threw it away. Now, last week, I received another letter, telling me that I am registered to vote and if I fail to vote (in the General Election in the spring), I could be jailed and fined a thousand pounds. Eeek. This current government isn't worth a thousand pounds.

So, when I stopped laughing, I rang the number on the letter-a premium number, of course-these guys will stick you with any kind of bill if they can get away with it. So I explained that I am an alien (didn't that go over really well!!). I said I hold an American passport, and the information in my AMERICAN passport enables me to stay and live here forever. Believe me when I say it feels like forever. In fact, some days it feels like a life sentence.

The woman requested my national insurance number-like our social security number-and then after a few moments she got back on the phone and told me that I can, indeed, vote in both countries (I'm never going to give up the right to vote for President, no matter how mediocre and how big a jerk he is), and I am, therefore, expected to do my civic duty and vote for the next Prime Minister. I said-you've got to be joking, am I going to vote for one of the Chuckle Brothers, or worse, one of the Three Stooges? She laughed-and said, yes, everyone needs to vote. So I took her name and we thanked each other, and I got off the phone and thought-no way in Hell and I going to cast my vote for any of these idiots. I already voted for the chief idiot in America, I won't repeat the process. Honestly-as an aside-can you imagine Sarah Palin in the White House? Oh, please-the moron would probably hit the button and start World War III because she thought it was the television remote.

So there you are: I am an alien with voting rights. Go figure. I wonder if there is a place where I can write in my candidate...I'd write in Mickey Mouse. Cameron is such a wanker, a rhesus monkey could do his job better than he can. A rhesus monkey would probably save the NHS. And monkeys are cute. You certainly can't say that about politicians, can you?

Just thinking about voting makes me smile. Now I need to figure out a way to get out of it.

Let's kick some butt

I returned from Great Hucklow feeling really depressed-and I was depressed for two and a half weeks. I had a real pity party: feeling sorry for myself, wondering how on earth I ended up in the position of having (suddenly) such rotten health, a good friend who turned out to be no friend at all (we don't speak to each other now-and that is fine, who needs someone like that?). I had the hospital run nearly every day: the immunologist, the neurologist, the gastroenterologist-and Mr. Tan, the oncologist, who prodded under my arm to see if there is a mass. Not fun.

That was Monday; Tan has ordered a body scan, which I will have on Thursday. Ten days after that I get to see Tan and get the results. Oh, Joy.

I decided to give a name to feeling so down. I call it the Black Dog Blues. Why not give it a name? I think I started to feel a bit better on Monday, since I not only gave my pissy mood a name, but I also decided that I was going to feel more cheerful. Actually, I was boring myself rigid-so I told myself off, reminded myself that life doesn't wait for anyone, and get over it. And, with that, I kicked the black dog's butt out the door.

So now I am feeling better, back to being my irascible self (always allowed when one reaches middle age). And-I will not worry (as if) about the scan or the results. Simple: either I survive or I don't. Either I start living as much as possible now-or I don't.

It's interesting (to me, anyway) that I felt anger, hatred and bitterness toward the people who caused the gentamicin damage-and to those who refused responsibility (so I wasn't compensated-and if I lived in the USA, that would be very different), and those really seriously negative feelings drove me forward. I don't know that I would have come this far-although it has been four long, hard years-if I hadn't been pushed by anger. It turned out to be constructive-at least until last year, when I got the extra blow of being diagnosed with cancer. Personally, I think it is all interrelated.

So now, I just keep plodding along. Tomorrow I see a physiotherapist who will give me extra vestibular exercises-and my balance and vision have been really awful since the weather started to change. But I don't give up. I never give up. There is no sign of a singing fat lady.There is, however, a bag of Kettle Chips with my name on it, and I can hear it calling me ("eat me, eat me"). Now I wish I'd bought stock in the company...

The organ grinder and the monkey

It seems like so much longer since I returned from Great Hucklow-so long I finally got the name right. But I came back feeling very low-I was tired, down, in a very pissy mood, and everything went wrong in these two weeks. So I stayed away from the computer, since I know from recent experience that nobody should write anything to anyone when in a very bad (or depressed) mood.

Everything really did go wrong: the plumber didn't show up (twice), so I still have a leak in the kitchen. Someone else didn't show up to fix a light switch-so if there is a fire, I hope it happens when I am absent! And on and on it went, to the point where I finally imploded. I sat on the bed, stuck my face in the pillow, and screamed and cried, and punched the pillow a few times. I wanted to do this all silently, just in case the neighbors thought I was being murdered. Then after about ten minutes, I felt better, and I did what any self-respecting woman would do under the circumstances: I went shopping.

I thought about buying a new stereo-but the one I want is so expensive, I wouldn't be able to take a trip home in the new year. So that was out. Instead-I bought a new hat. Did I need one? No. But so what? I've been through one ordeal after another-for four years, and there is no sign of it stopping-so I decided to buy a really lovely burgundy trilby. Expensive, yes-but much less than a new stereo system! And I came back, feeling much happier than I had felt in the last two weeks, and paraded in front of the mirror, deciding that I look really terrific. Why not? I recommend buying something when you feel really depressed for a long time-not a car, or a house (unless you are very rich, in which case you can buy me one, too)-but a hat? Great.

I had a very bad time, with the black dog biting big chunks out of my behind and refusing to leave-for longer than usual. But I have been so stoical since the gentamicin experience, and the cancer experience-cracks were bound to show in my facade of being happy and cheerful and joking. I have never felt sorry for myself for very long, or moaned to anyone (other than close friends) for very long, so this really long, black mood took me by surprise. And it was bound to happen sooner or later.

But some good things happened in these two weeks, too. I remember when I got my first job, and my granny gave me some good advice: if you want to complain to anyone, don't talk to the monkey. Talk to the organ grinder. Well-I had to laugh, but it is so true: find the person in charge, the person with the power (the organ grinder), and don't give up on what you want (or think you deserve) until you either get it or are given a valid reason why you can't have it. I'm just as guilty of complaining to all and sundry as anyone else, I hasten to add-another piece of good advice I ignored for too many years. Until two weeks ago.

I rang Mullaley's about the total mess their people made of my kitchen (if you are in the UK, never have Mullaley do any work for you-unless you want to stress yourself into a heart attack or a brain hemorrhage), and rang my landlord. I did both, repeatedly; I made a pain of myself until I got some results. I was not going to give up. And last week I had a visit from two very large men-I say "very large" because my kitchen is very small, and they kept bumping into each other. It was almost very entertaining.

One was called Dave, and he was the landlord's representative; the other, John, was the surveyor from the company that gave the contract to Mullaley. They spent forty minutes crashing into each other, taking photographs, saying what a terrible job had been done, and then asked me if I would be happy if they put everything right-including the washing machine, which the geniuses had broken by dropping it twice (and right in front of me, too). Yes, I said, I thought that would be very fair.

Someone from Mullaley (called Danny Murphy) will be here on Friday-along with John, the surveyor-and will organize everything to be fixed. And there is a lot to be fixed. But John assured me that it will all be done, and in the next few weeks, so we will see if they will all keep their word. Organ grinder. Only complain to someone who is in charge and can make decisions, and just keep at it until they get so fed up with you that they give you what you want just to get rid of you. Huh. Middle age can be a blessing.

But-there is also some not-so-good news this week, too. I've been having some pain for over a week-and I put it down to middle age: things go south, you get more lines and wrinkles, more grey hair (mine couldn't be any more grey-it's been grey since I was twenty), and when you move you start to creak in places that never used to creak. In fact, some days I creak so much that I think I seem like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz-except that he was taller and a better dancer.

I finally decided to call Mr. Tan's office (the oncologist who performed the mastectomy last year). I told his secretary that I was having pain under my right arm, and that it wouldn't go away-I said it is probably nothing, but I said that last April, too, and look where that landed me! The next thing I knew I was called and told that I need to go back to see Mr. Tan this afternoon-because cancer can come back. And that was the reason he didn't do any reconstruction last year. The cancer might have returned-and gone into the lymph nodes. I will know more when I see him a bit later. That is a bit of a blow.

Whatever happens, I will deal with it. I handled the total destruction of my balance system four years ago, when I was finally told that I would never be completely better (I'm not completely better, but I'm not giving up, either). I handled breast cancer, knee surgery, hospital admissions for serious chest infections-I handled everything, on my own-the only real support came from the people who are closest to me, and they are over the Pond. Everyone who called themselves my "friend" in this country disappeared. I couldn't stand up without falling over after the gentamicin, so I couldn't go out and party-so that was that. And last year-well, perhaps people thought that cancer is contagious. You exhale, they inhale, and - oops! Who knows? Cancer frightens people. It scared the hell out of me, I can tell you!

I'm a bit nervous about my consultation with Mr. Tan this afternoon-but whatever it is, I will deal with it. These last four years have taught me how to be very, very strong. And one thing I do know for certain: if I can't take my new hat and my Kettle Chips with me, I'm not going anywhere.