Irradiated up the wazoo-and beyond

Since I wrote last, I have had so many scans, MRIs, Xrays-and, of course, some bloodletting to keep things interesting-that I must be radioactive by now. In fact, I should be glowing in the dark-it would probably save me a fortune on electricity. But-no such luck. No glowing.

This all happens annually, so I actually get another year to get over all the radiation. It can't be good for anyone. And I have to say, if you want to ever have children, stay away from me for at least another few days. Just in case. What a way to cure the overpopulation!

I saw the lovely Mr. Tan. He was very supportive when I told him I left the Royal London and skipped over to the Royal Free. I also flashed my boobs-I thought the nurse who was there was going to have an aneurysm. But, of course, it was Mr. T who removed the two cancerous ones-and referred me to Steve-so I did ask him first if he wanted to see Steve's work (I'm so polite, it's disgusting). He was delighted with the results, and reminded me that it will take some time to heal completely. He said not to be discouraged, that I will look great when it is all done. I will also look old. When they bury me (not for another thirty years or so, hopefully), the only things that will be perky will be my boobs. Everything else is already heading south. I swear at age, but-I don't much like the alternative.

Now, Mr. T told me something that I thought was really, really interesting. I know that breast cancer can come back, so I asked him about that. He said that a great deal of research has been done about recurrence of breast cancer, and findings show that if it does return, it almost always goes to one of three places: the lungs, the bones or the liver. It rarely recurs in the breast, even in people who have had lumpectomies or single mastectomies (I had a double. I must be greedy). So there you are: something you can tell all your friends, and look really, really smart (even more so than usual).

I am having scans of all three areas, and I will have those every two years or so-and I will see Mr. T in six months, unless there is a problem (which, of course, there won't be). He then said I am looking very skinny. I said-thank you, but I'm not skinny. He said: yes, you are. Well, I'm not going to pick a fight with the man who removed cancer, am I? That would be bad manners. So I said thanks for everything, he gave me a hug, and I immediately went out and bought a blueberry muffin. Well, I'm skinny, right? So I hit the sugar-as you do. And I stuffed my face all the way home.

It has been that sort of week, and I did everything and saw everyone, and I am finally able to get online (remind me to throw this computer off the roof of a very tall building!). Next week is my birthday, and I might just treat myself. After all, I have survived a few very, very bad years. And I haven't really celebrated. It's time I do. I've been so focused on keeping alive, surviving, that I haven't enjoyed life. What is the point of trying so hard if there is no joy at the end of it? I could walk outside and get hit by a bus (nearly did that a couple of times, too). Or get struck by lightning (no, I haven't done that, if you were going to ask. Which I'm sure you weren't). Or get blown up by a terrorist bomb (this is London, after all. And that would be the world's shittiest luck, I can tell you).

I'm determined to start enjoying life, because I don't know when it is going to end. Live it up. Have a blueberry muffin. Kettle Chips. Chocolate. (not all at the same time. Ewww!).

As long as I'm still breathing, I refuse to give up. That is what I call obstinate (or foolhardy. Depends on your point of view!).  And-you'll hear from me more often, as long as I don't lose it and trash this computer (already a piece of crap, by the way!).