Yesterday was my final session of radiotherapy.
If I could liken myself to a microwave oven (and right now I think I can), this is the moment at which I would be going "PING!"
I'm now a bit sore (like I feel asleep on a very hot day with my left boob poking out from my bikini), very tired, and one side of my torso is hotter than the other (weird, right? Or, actually, weird left in my case).
Apparently, at some US clinics they have a huge bell in the waiting area, and when you've finished your cancer treatment you get to ring the bell and everyone cheers.
I really, really wanted a bell to ring.
Instead, I showered the nurses with chocolates, gave them all a hug and told them I never wanted to see them again. Then I walked out into the winter sunshine, feeling simultaneously elated and weepy.
And all I wanted to do - really, really wanted to do - was to get utterly trashed.
I wanted to drink at least a bottle of wine. I wanted to talk nonsense with Mr SM. Laugh. Cry. Have drunken sex. Make everything fuzzy, walk into the furniture, then pass out on the sofa.
Instead I went shopping. I spotted a sale on in Zadig & Voltaire, and bought a charcoal and gold t-shirt, an Alexander McQueen inspired scarf, and a crimson sweater with black sequined detailing. Rock chick clothes, not sober-person-cancer-victim clothes. An easy fit in medium. Whoop whoop.
I went home, then we dropped in on some friends for mulled wine and mince pies (I took my own Becks Blue), watched 2 episodes The Affair with Dominic West (Mr SM's old school chum), and went to bed sober - as always.
And today? I woke up guilt free - the only hangover from yesterday being some new clothes.
I figured that every year there are bound to be a handful of days when it would be really, really good to get drunk. But what about the other three hundred and sixty? Because, in my case, one doesn't come without the other.
Plus, it struck me that it's a weird reaction to have: I've got to the end of a horrendous two months. I am, as far as we can tell, cancer free. So why not anaesthetise myself to the point of oblivion to celebrate?
It's just habit.
And now it's Christmas Eve! And, you know what? I'm not worried about Christmas itself at all. I'm excited about it. Because Christmas Day (unlike New Year's Eve) is about way more than drinking.
It's about seeing the children's excitement when they bring in their stockings to show us in the morning (and Santa was on form this year), church, slap up lunch, handing out and opening all the presents, charades, great TV, The Queen. It's got a bit of everything.....
(And it's really difficult to do all of that when drunk. We know that, don't we?)
Merry Christmas to you all!
I'll post again when we're on the other side.