How To Stave Off Mange

How To Stave Off Mange

Who notices the odd, innocuous stray hair?

Perhaps you occasionally see a few poking out of your hairbrush bristles, or accumulating in the plughole of your shower. Perhaps you casually brush one off your cheek, or pull it from the knitted loops of your jumper?

I have always grumpily noticed the ones my husband leaves strewn through the bathroom sink after shaving, that’s for sure. Although now that he is cultivating a fair bit of facial hair, the scatters of stray hairs are likely mine. EEK!

I pore over them. I try and count them. It’s become a weirdly wretched obsession!

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Dancing with the Red Devil

Dancing with the Red Devil

It’s nearly February, people. Already!

How is it that time seems to creep by us ever faster each year? As a kid it passes excruciatingly slowly; everything seems to drag. Nowadays, I feel like could practically blink in September and miss Christmas altogether. And boy am I glad that Bakers Delight start selling hot cross buns in January, because I need the three-month heads up or I’d totally miss the flicker of time before Easter!

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Debunking the Rhetoric of Cancer

Debunking the Rhetoric of Cancer

“I have cancer,” I say incredulously at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “How did that happen?”

Cancer evokes an innate fear in everyone, doesn’t it? I must admit, that even before my own diagnosis, the very idea of cancer practically repulsed me: abnormal cells multiplying inside someone of their own accord. It was enough to make my skin crawl.

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BOOBS. (Made you look)

BOOBS. (Made you look)

My life of late has become a collection of very bizarre events.

In the early days of diagnosis, cancer is pretty all-consuming. Not only because it’s a massive freak-out, but also because it seriously does take over your life in all respects. You live and breathe it day after day.

On the 5th of December, I went from strolling through a standard, Friday morning, to being suddenly whisked off for urgent scans and tests. Before I knew it, I was meeting surgeons and having little chunks of tumour bored from my boob and armpit. What a balls-up that was for my perfectly planned Friday, and every other one since!

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Not sinking, Swimming.

Not sinking, Swimming.

If I had to think of a metaphor for the way I feel most days, it would be treading water: trying to keep my head above the water line, struggling to keep carrying on as normal, while my legs make frantic circles below, unseen. Most of the time I manage to do this, but the unseen struggle continues. On the outside I can seem strong, upbeat and at times even funny, but inside, I am riding daily waves of turmoil. Still, I am swimming, not sinking.

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Everyone, this is Chemo. Chemo, everyone.

Everyone, this is Chemo. Chemo, everyone.

So today is D-Day.

Actually, today is C-Day.

Chemo. A systemic blitz on all the cells in my body that are multiplying rapidly: cancer cells (for the win), but also lovely, harmless little cells in spots like my digestive tract, hair follicles, mouth and bone marrow.

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