Head + rectum + remove = fill in the dots

I told you last time that I was going to pull my head out of my behind and start living-and not too soon, either.

Fighting words, delivered two days before Thanksgiving. So I did something I didn't do even when I was in New York: I went around the corner to Pizza Express and I had a pepperoni pizza. Bonkers, or what? New York is the home of pizza, calzones, cannolis-but I didn't have a single slice, I waited until this week.

I don't eat much junk food-usually-but I'm one of those people who, when depressed, eats everything that is edible and isn't nailed down. It's usually Kettle Chips-which, strictly speaking, constitute one of your five a day (vegetables. That's my story and I'm sticking to it). I had those, too-not together, obviously.

Now-when I was home I had Popeyes, which, as I wrote, is like Kentucky Fried Chicken but with chicken (I hope!) and without the food poisoning (trust me, I know). Popeyes? Pizza Express? Absolutely delicious. With every bite I could feel my arteries harden and my cholesterol go through the roof. All that saturated fat. All those chemicals. All that salt (sugar, too. Mustn't forget the sugar).  Yum!! Life is far too short to start worrying about cholesterol and arteries.

Unfortunately, my pigging out had consequences. I was so bloated that I looked like I was ready to give birth to a brontosaurus. And the pizza, delicious as it was, generated enough gas to launch the Hindenburg. I could easily have blown myself over to Paris for the weekend-and probably blown myself back, too. Pigging out is a good thing, anyway. I don't do it all the time; if I had pizza or fried chicken every day I would be twice the size of an airship. Someone could paint advertising on my side and just let me fly.

But by yesterday afternoon I was back to normal, and I'm advising you-just in case you're looking for permission from someone (anyone), you've got it. Going overboard once a year-even once a month-makes all this eating clean stuff tolerable. But only just. Tomorrow we could be hit by a bus-struck by lightning-be smack in the middle of a terrorist attack. Hardly the time to be worrying about calories.

On Wednesday I was getting ready to cook the turkey and do all the vegetables the next day-but the best laid plans, and all that. I got a call from an old friend who was in my cancer group: Sue was one of the people who had a worse time than I did, and we cheered each other up. We went our separate ways, although every Christmas we call each other to catch up. On Wednesday I knew there was bad news: we only have a chat every December.

Sue's husband is terminal, and this will be his last Christmas-if he makes it that far. So Sue, knowing that Thursday was Thanksgiving, decided to throw him a Thanksgiving party. They're both English, so that surprised me-but she said that she'd like me to attend, even though she only put the whole thing together the day before. I'm her favorite American, she said. What, was it either me or Trump?

It was great fun, and nobody wanted to mention any health issues. There were six of us, one American, four English and one Irish (sounds like a lunch menu). We all were grateful for a lot, and we went around the table to talk about it. It turns out that I am really lucky, and I have about a dozen reasons to be very, very grateful. Plus I cracked jokes, and everyone found them funny, which is another reason to be grateful. Coping mechanism: it really does work. So do Kettle Chips.

Well, that is me done for another Thanksgiving, and I hope that everyone reading this had a good one, too, no matter where you were or what you were doing. Tomorrow I get to cook another turkey-Sue had bought three, so she asked me not to bring anything, or they would be eating turkey, veg, potatoes, and whatever until mid-December.

Here we come: turkey sandwiches, turkey curry, a hundred ways to cook turkey. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, it's Black Friday, and you would think that there were some real sales out there, the way that people are pushing and shoving. All in the Christmas spirit.

I'm keeping my head down, and going to Starbucks.

Life goes on-even with one's head up one's own rectum

That's about right: I've been on automatic pilot - and in survival mode - for the past seven and a half years. And when I haven't been struggling to survive, I've been wandering around with my head firmly lodged up my ass. That is the only possible explanation for being where I am now.

I returned from New York a month ago-as my friend from New York reminded me last week. Since I got back, I went for all my appointments (not many, since I seem to be in terrific health, or so I was told by one of the consultants last week-which made me as happy as can be, as you can imagine), but came back and did-precisely nothing. Automatic pilot? I've been like a walking, talking, eating, crapping robot. I get up, do the same thing, head out, do the same thing (mostly wait. It's the NHS: hurry up and wait. For hours. And the NHS will be history, sooner rather than later).

So I decided that I am clearly depressed. No kidding: after all I've been through, without really processing it all at the time, no wonder I'm depressed. And it's November. I'm always down for the last quarter of each year. It isn't SAD, the trendy disorder where people get down because there is so little light. I've diagnosed myself: I'm down because I feel like I haven't accomplished anything.

What on earth-said my friend from New York-do I expect? To end poverty? Find cures for all cancers-and all other diseases - HIV, hunger, homelessness, domestic abuse, genocide, homicide, suicide, and, of course, while I am at it maybe I could take the time to write that best-selling novel...

I had to smile at that-I still have a sense of humor after all this time, since it is my coping mechanism. And it usually works-not always, but most of the time. This time, it did.

Thanksgiving is on Thursday (Happy Thanksgiving, in case I have one of those pre-senior moments and forget to write tomorrow. Or whenever). So I have decided to take the day, celebrate with a traditional Thanksgiving dinner (doing my best not to burn the turkey or blow up the kitchen. I did well last year, so I should do even better this year).

There will be a turkey-so there will be turkey salad, turkey sandwiches, turkey burgers, and turkey soup-for at least another week, and I will be glad to see the back of anything turkey - until Christmas, when it will start all over again. Hmmm...turkey curry? Turkey fricasee? I'll just get creative...

One thing I really want to do is spend the day - or part of the day - meditating. I'm really lucky that |I am still alive and in reasonable health. I'm lucky that, after seven and a half (nearly eight) years, I can walk without falling over -most of the time, or until some imbecile crashes into me. I very nearly died at the hands of the incompetent cripplers at Barts and the Royal London. Nearly-but they didn't succeed. I came uncomfortably close with breast cancer. Again: nearly. Close, but no cigar, as they say (actually they say close, but no banana, but I've got no idea who started that one).

Giving thanks and realizing how lucky I am - so important right now, when I'm feeling down, and irascible, and spiky and generally pissed off with life and the state of the world.

Thankful? I'm still here, and what a difference between 2017 and 2010. What a difference! If I'm still here, and I've fought this hard to get here-and stay here- there must be a reason for it. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing, but I do know that as long as I wander around aimlessly and with my head up my ass I am not likely to find out.

So that is what I will be doing on Thursday: cooking. Eating. Drinking (well, I don't drink alcohol that often, so I'll be doing some of that). And-pulling my head out of my ass so I can start doing what I was robbed of doing seven and a half years ago: living.

Happy Thanksgiving. No punching, kicking, scratching or slapping. Peace for one day-unless someone really pisses you off. Then kick them hard, where it hurts the most. And run.

Buckle up, tempus fugit

I've heard that for most of my life: tempus fugit (time flies). I always thought that I would have more time, and that my life would turn out just the way I wanted, within the time frame I wanted. Not so.

I had my little pity party when I got back from New York...really, that was more than enough. It was so underwhelming that I had to take a long walk on Wednesday and kick a few brick walls, and then I felt better (except for a sore foot).

Tempus really does fugit. I had a few sleepless nights, and realized in the middle of the night (last night; some people can be really slow learners sometimes) that I've lived more than half my life in this country, and that it looks like I will remain here for the duration. Thanks to the cripplers (Hilary Longhurst, Sofia Grigoriadou, Phil Bright-or, rather, not-so-bright- and the spouse beating pedophile Matt "Bucky" Buckland, I would have a really tough time finding work back home. I find it difficult to find work here, never mind going home and starting all over again. Gentamicin, breast cancer, numerous surgeries-it's been a really rough ride.

I calculated-in the middle of the night, of course, when I do my best thinking and agonizing about life-that it has been a horrendous seven and a half years. Horrendous. But I managed to get through it, and although I'm missing a few body parts, I still have all my vital parts. What a bonus.

I also calculated the amount of time-in years-that I have spent procrastinating, rather than living. I didn't learn this lesson fully when I discovered I had breast cancer four and a half years ago; some people take a long time to learn something really important like that, and I'm obviously one of them.

So, lesson well and truly learned. There is nobody around to give me a kick up the backside (figuratively speaking, of course!), so I have to give myself a kick. I've told myself to buckle up, step up and start living the way I want, do what I can do and accept that there are some things I will probably never be able to do again. Well, boohoo. I'm not the only person in the world who has been damaged by other people's incompetence-not the first, and, sadly, not the last.

Seven and a half years-that is a long time to hang onto resentment. Five minutes is a long time to hang onto resentment. It's very difficult to live in the moment, unless you're the Dalai Lama, or someone who lives on a mountain top and has nothing to do with people. But I am working on it.

In the meantime, there is a big world out there, I've missed it over the past decade or so, and once time passes it is gone and can never be recaptured.

Huh. I'll let you know how I'm doing. Them's fighting words: get back in the saddle and start living, and who gives a damn what other people think? That's a lesson I finally learned: if they don't pay my bills, their opinion doesn't count.

I'm off to walk in the pouring rain-something I haven't been able to do since gentamicin, something that I find so difficult that I avoid it at all costs. Meh. It's only rain. And Starbucks is calling...

Oh, yes, and I forgot to blog on yet another holiday, so Happy Halloween. Late. And Happy Thanksgiving. Very early, just in case. (Nah, that is one I will remember. In time, too.)

The stomach has landed

It feels like I have never been away-and I just got back last Wednesday. What an ordeal it was, too.

The plane was delayed-by three hours-due to weather conditions coming up from Atlanta. Then there was turbulence. But, thank goodness, I didn't have anyone sitting next to me-and nobody farting (not that I could tell, anyway) all the way across the Atlantic. So that was a good thing.Ish.

Heathrow was chaotic, of course-so was JFK. All the big airports seem to be always packed. But at JFK there were men with big guns; at Heathrow there was no sign of security. They were there-I hope-I just didn't see them. And when I got out, got my case and decided to take the underground, then the problems surfaced. I discovered my limitations the hard-and painful-way. I was taking the escalator down to the underground level when my suitcase wheel caught on the bottom of the escalator-and both the case and I went flying backwards, and I landed on my back, on the escalator, hitting my head pretty hard. I was lucky, though-someone behind me helped me up and made sure I was okay. The young man was Australian, as it turned out-obviously he wasn't English, or he would have just stepped over me (or on me), and probably sworn at me and kicked me out of the way.

I managed the tortuous journey back to North London, taking the London Underground and getting off a few stops short of my station;  this was due to the fact that this station had a lift (elevator) to the street, so I didn't have to struggle with a 50 pound suitcase up several sets of steps to the top. Someone still hasn't figured out that there are people who, for one reason or another, can't actually walk up a lot of steps. I didn't have that problem in New York, even without a suitcase.

So I got back, my friend and I celebrated at the pub, she went back up north, and I sat, dazed, knowing that if everything was as it always was when I went overseas, I was in for five days of horrendous jet lag.

Yep-true to form, I was in London, but my stomach was in New York. I was here physically-ish-but my biological clock was very, very confused. And Thursday I had to go for my infusions, so you can imagine what a joy that wasn't! But it all worked out, I did walk as much as I could, and I managed not to fall into oncoming traffic. I did well-and one of the things I did when I got back was weigh my backpack: nearly 8 kilograms (around 20 pounds). No wonder my back hurt. Duh!

I more or less did nothing for a few days, although I did take my things out of the suitcase and do laundry. And sat. And contemplated how much I missed my friends, and how much I wanted to be in New York and not in London. I sat. And I got very depressed. I'm really here for the duration, unless some miracle happens. I think that if the imbeciles at the Royal London hadn't done such a fine job with the gentamicin, I would have been home years ago. But-that's out of the question now.

My life certainly didn't work out the way I wanted-or planned. And I'm certain that someone reading this will probably be able to identify with that statement. We think that things will happen a certain way, we expect a particular kind of life, and then we are thrown a curve ball. So what do we do? We deal with what is, and we do the best we can to make the best life we can for ourselves. If we don't succeed-or think we didn't succeed-it's down to us, nobody else.

My old friend Mo in New York was great after the gentamicin thing-and the breast cancer diagnosis. She sent me a little crown, which still hangs above my bed, to remind me that I am a warrior, and that I have faced tragedies constantly, with dignity, and that I have faced things -bravely- that nobody should have to face alone. Mo is somewhere in California now, and it's a shame that we've lost touch, because I look at the crown every once in awhile (okay, every day), and I remember her words of encouragement.

One day at a time, one foot in front of the other, and all that stuff people tell us. And Kettle Chips and Starbucks, of course.

I went back to Tai Chi yesterday, and I was so happy to be there. I missed it while I was away. I creaked. I hurt. But at the end of the hour and a quarter, I was doing all the exercises and doing all the movements, and it was as if I hadn't missed two weeks. Yippee. I'll survive. I'm damned if I will let the cripplers win...