Recently I had to fancy dress a book character and apart from the obvious fairy tales I thought of the wig days and then chose to be Bridget Jones...
You look at me like I have changed,
It wasn’t my intention,
They said I’d die,
But that’s a lie,
And something you can’t mention…
You look, but then you look away,
Is this a real bad hair day?
The style's not swell,
I don't feel well…
My ode this week is partly in respect for the book, The C Word, which I have been reading in anticipation of Sheridan Smith’s drama adaptation of the part. I feel very close, like this was my story too, yet I feel a little guilty that I survived it. But aside from the use of humour as a coping mechanism (and now that I am officially an old bag!), it is the refusal to believe in the fatal possibilities that I recognise…
This week I was honoured to have one of my poems printed on the new Macmillan carriers and I wanted to do that because I think the online community does such a wonderful job!
Sing a song of cell change,
They multiplied array,
Four and twenty blackbirds,
Through my lymph-nodes fly,
When my chest was opened,
The birds began to sing,
Isn't that a dainty dish,
To try to do me in….
I wish we could have simplified the jargon
-my diagnosis was less of a rhyme,
ER diffuse positive
PR negative
Ki-67 15% positive
HER +++
Highly differentiated
Ductal carcinoma
pT2 pN2a (5/23) MO
Stage I…
I'm discharged from the breast clinic,
A small step for a health cynic,
Tied up the gowns, hung up the frowns,
No longer dodging let me downs....
No more the annual mammogram,
I'm gambling or I'm fixed, I am!
The plastic chair, the tears, the stare,
The buttoned blouse I choose to wear,
And hushed impending everywhere...
Won't push my luck, just au revoir,
I've huge respect for all who are
Receiving…
