How Cancer Changed my Life

It's been three years since I finished my treatment for breast cancer, and yesterday I had a meeting with my oncologist to discuss my latest blood tests.

I have, he told me, 'a perfect set of bloods.' I don't have a perfect set of boobs any longer, obviously, but you can't have everything.

This, my friends, means that I am, as far as we can tell, still cancer free.

I swore, when I was first diagnosed, that if I was lucky enough to survive this, I would never, ever become one of those irritating people who said that cancer was the best thing that happened to them.

I still stand by that. Cancer was the very worst thing that has ever happened to me and my family, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

However, in many ways my life is so much better now than it was before my diagnosis.

I am Grateful

Many studies have shown that feeling grateful is really good for our mental health. It's so easy to send life feeling constantly dissatisfied with our lives, and to forget the important things, like health and family.

I can never forget. Because three times a year I have checks at the boob clinic.

The night before this check-up, I lay in bed mulling over the usual issues of the day, like whether my son will ever get to grips with French grammar, and where my daughter's hockey mouth guard had disappeared to, and it struck me that in twenty-four hours I might be worrying about how long I had to live instead. From one day to the next, your life can change irrevocably.

Every four months I am reminded that having your health and your family is a precious gift that we can never take for granted.

I Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

I used to stress out about the smallest things. Everything had to be perfect.

A cancer diagnosis puts things into perspective. Once you've had to stare death in the face and think about your children growing up without a mother, a parking ticket or a less than perfect school report seem utterly insignificant.

I'm still not an entirely laid back mother, but I'm much more so.

I'm More Empathetic

We are always so quick to judge each other, and to get angry when we think that someone has treated us badly in some way.

Dealing with cancer makes you realise that everyone has their own stuff going on - a sick parent, a troubled child, a mean boss. Sometimes, just getting to the end of the day is a triumph. No-one can be expected to be perfect.

I Have a 'Fuck-it Button'

My life has totally transformed over the last three years. There were always many things I wanted to do with my life, but I thought there was plenty of time. I'd get around to it one day, when the time was right.

I was also paralysed by the fear of failure.

Since I was a child, I'd wanted to write, but I worried that I didn't have time, that I would never be good enough, that I'd be rejected or, worse, laughed at.

Since the cancer thing, however, I've developed a 'fuck-it button.'

Now, whenever I hear that little voice of doubt saying you can't, I reply FUCK IT! What's the worst that can happen? I'm not going to DIE (yet), and if I don't do it now, I might run out of time, because who knows what's around the next corner.

So, I published the story of that year of my life - the year I quit drinking, and then got cancer, The Sober Diaries (click here for my Amazon page). And, next year, my debut novel is being published.

I told this story to my oncologist yesterday, and he said that many of his breast cancer survivors have gone on to do extraordinary things.

But it's not just about cancer.

Whatever trauma you are dealing with in your life right now, know this: when you get out the other side (which you will), you will be stronger, happier, nicer and - what's more - you'll be a superhero.

Love to you all,

SM x

Be Your Own Best Friend

I took this photo two days ago.

I was in a cafe with my friend, Harriet, waiting for the results of my blood tests.

Those of you who know my story will be aware that I am a breast cancer survivor. As a result, I have regular check ups at the cancer clinic to make sure that there aren't any pesky cancer cells rampaging around my body.

Currently, breast cancer that spreads beyond the breast and lymph nodes (secondary breast cancer), is incurable. So waiting for those test results is a bit.... nerve wracking. To say the least.

So Harriet came with me to hold my hand. And I took this photo to remind myself of the true value of a great friend.

You see, Harriet is a busy lady. She runs a business from home. Her incredible Spacemasks are so popular that the Royal Mail come to her house to collect her mountains of boxes, packaged up by herself, often with hand written note.

But Harriet wasn't too busy to take a whole morning out to sit in a hospital waiting room with me. And I wasn't exactly sparkly company.

True friends, I realised, will always put you first when you're having a tough time.

They don't expect you to be perfect. They applaud your strengths and forgive your weaknesses, which they know are what makes you human.

A real friend doesn't expect you to always be on best form. They know that sometimes you just need to sit quietly and have a hug.

And this got me thinking. Why is it that we are unable to treat ourselves the way we'd like our friends to treat us?

So, please, if you are having a tough time - whether you're giving up the booze or another addiction, going through a divorce, coping with illness, or just dealing with the lemons that life sometimes chucks at us, then treat yourself like your own best friend.

Make time to look after yourself. Give yourself a hug, by taking some time out to relax, buying yourself flowers, booking yourself a massage. You deserve it.

And stop judging yourself! We often focus on our faults and ignore our strengths. See yourself the way your best friend does - flawed, yes, but awesome.

And you know what the amazing thing is? If you start to really believe that you are worthy of friendship, you attract even more friends, and you'll have even more hands to hold.

And if you have a friend who's going through a hard time, please be like Harriet.

When I was drinking (a lot), I spent an awful lot of time thinking about myself. Usually negatively.

Now I have so much more time and energy that I can properly focus on other people, and I'm a much better friend. Still not perfect, but better.

And, by the way, the blood tests were all clear! Whoop whoop!

You can read my story, of quitting the booze (and getting breast cancer) in The Sober Diaries. Click here to go to my Amazon page. You can read the first few chapters for free using the 'look inside' feature.

There's loads more information and inspiration on the SoberMummy Facebook page here, and you can now follow me on Instagram at @clare_pooley

Love to you all,

SM x

The Cancer Clinic

Today was the day of my check-up at the cancer clinic - two years after I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

When I was drinking, if I was scared about something I would - obviously - use booze to dampen down any trepidation.

Since I quit, I've learned all sorts of way more effective strategies for dealing with fear.

So today, I dressed in bright red - the colour of battle, the shade that says "f**k you, cancer, don't even think about it."

Then, as I did back in the early days when I was facing down the wine witch, I used visualisation.

I imagined that I was Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, preparing for battle with my army of Unsullied.

I pictured myself as Wonder Woman, with her fabulous metallic corsetry and magic bracelets.

I strutted out of the house and, although I actually took the London Underground (District Line), pictured myself on the back of a dragon, bearing down on the Breast Unit.

I went in for my mammogram.

I did not feel at all sorry for my left boob, as they squished it flat as a pancake into the mammogram machine.

You deserve that for trying to kill me, Lefty, I thought.

(Is it normal to harbour resentment for one of your own body parts? I suspect not...)

Then I had to sit, for quite a long time, in the waiting room, for the consultant to give me the verdict.

Gradually, as the clock ticked on, my dragons flew away, followed by the feckless Unsullied. My magic bracelets reverted to plain metal, and I was left a rather terrified ex-lush housewife.

Finally, I was called in, to be told that ALL WAS WELL.

I was reminded of a phenomenal video of Will Smith talking about fear. He says: "On the other side of maximum fear are all the best things in life."

The Will Smith video is going up on the SoberMummy Facebook Page today - if you're ever afraid of anything (and who isn't?) then do watch it.

(Click here to go to the SoberMummy Facebook page, 'like' the page to stay updated).

Thank you all, so much, for all your thoughts and good wishes - they made all the difference in the world.

Love SM x

Fingers Crossed

You know how life spins out, everything trundling along just fine, and then something really awful threatens to happen, right out of the blue?

Maybe it's a health scare, or something wrong with one of your children, parents or friends, a redundancy or relationship break-up.

Then you find yourself doing a deal with the universe. You say things like if I get through this terrible time, then I promise I will never, ever take things for granted again. I will always be grateful for the stuff that really matters, and I will be a GOOD person, for ever and ever.

(Or is it just me who does that?)

Anyhow, a few weeks down the line, the potential disaster dealt with or averted, then forgotten, and - sure enough - you're back to stressing about the things that don't matter and forgetting to be grateful for the things that are genuinely important, like your family's health, a roof over your head and food on the table.

Well, the handy thing about having had breast cancer is that you are never, ever allowed to forget. Because every few months, a letter arrives in your post box telling you that you have a mammogram, or an ultrasound or a blood test, to check that your boobs haven't decided to try to kill you again, or - even worse - that some pesky cancer cells haven't cropped up in your bones, or your lungs or your brain.

Tomorrow I have to go back to the cancer clinic for my two year check-up.

So, to distract myself from feeling terrified, I am reminding myself to feel grateful.

Grateful for a wonderful two years which I might not have had. Thankful for any more time I'm allotted which I can spend helping shepherd my children towards being proper, well-rounded and happy grown-ups, and making some fabulous memories for them.

(Yesterday, I got to celebrate my eldest turning fourteen. There was a time when I thought I might not be able to do that.)

It's also a great time to feel grateful for being sober. Because the truth is that when you drink to numb all the difficult stuff in life, you numb all the good stuff too. And I don't want to miss a single minute of it.

If you have a spare moment, please keep your fingers crossed for me.

And here's some really HAPPY NEWS! Ang75, who many of you know from her comments on this blog, is ONE YEAR SOBER TODAY! Happy Soberversary Ang. You are amazing. Have a truly wonderful day.

By the way, new on the SoberMummy Facebook page, a lovely post from Club Soda on what children say when their parents quit drinking.

(Click here, to go to the Facebook page, 'like' the page if you want to stay updated).

Love SM x

Booze in the News

Right now is a really good time to be ditching the booze, because pretty much every single week there are articles in the press about the dangers of drinking and how more and more people (especially the young) are walking away from alcohol.

Today's big news - reported widely in the USA (thank you to the wonderful NorthWoman for alerting me), is that the American Society for Clinical Oncology (ASCO) has, for the first time, put out an official warning on the link between alcohol and cancer.

Dr Noelle LoConte, author of the report, says "ASCO joins a growing number of cancer care and public health organisations in recognising that even moderate alcohol use can cause cancer."

According to ASCO, drinking alcohol is linked to SEVEN types of cancer: oesophageal, mouth, liver, colon and breast cancers.

It is, they say, the direct cause of 5.5% of all cancers globally.

It is also probable, they warn, that alcohol is a causal factor in pancreatic, stomach and other cancers.

The more you drink, the higher your risk.

Yet two-thirds of Americans surveyed said they had no idea that alcohol has any link to cancer. I'm sure the same is true in the UK.

None of this is terribly surprising to me, as I was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago, after two decades of drinking rather a lot more than I should have.

I had a relatively uncommon form of breast cancer - lobular - which has a particularly significant link to alcohol consumption.

Yet, whilst every single medical professional I came across during my initial diagnosis asked if I smoked (which I didn't), only one asked me if I drank.

(I am very sure about this as I was desperate to be asked how many units I drank each week so I could reply "Zero. Zilch. Nada. Not a drop." Before confessing to past misdemeanours...)

Also, not one single person told me to stop drinking alcohol, or cut down, during or after cancer treatment. Quite the reverse. I was constantly being urged to "go and pour yourself a large gin and tonic."

It's not so very long since doctors would recommend their patients smoke tobacco to ease a chesty cough.

Alcohol is, I suspect, the new tobacco...

Also in the news this week, a report by the Office for National Statistics showing that the baby-boomer generation are increasingly dying from alcohol abuse as decades of overly-enthusiastic drinking starts to catch up with them.

Since 2001, the likelihood of women aged 60-64 dying as a direct result of alcohol has increased by 35% (this does NOT include those dying of cancers which may have been attributable to alcohol consumption).

But there is GOOD NEWS! If you reduce the amount you drink or, even better, stop altogether, all your risk factors go down. WHOOP WHOOP.

So hurrah for me, and hurrah for all of you.

New on the SoberMummy Facebook page this week: a post I've written about wine bellies and the most fascinating TED talk by Ann Dowsett Johnston, the author of DRINK - The Intimate Relationship Between Women and Alcohol.

Click here to go to the Facebook page, 'like' to stay updated.

Love to you all,

SM x

Apologies

I'm so sorry I've not been posting much recently. I'm in the middle of writing the book, and I've got to the part of the story where I'm right in the middle of all the cancer treatment.

I've managed, fairly successfully, to push the whole cancer thing to the back of my mind for the last few months, so I'm finding having the re-live the whole experience in detail extremely hard.

As a result, I'm writing as much as I can, as quickly as I can, so I can get out the other side.

I'm sure that once I'm able to type THE END, I'll decide that it was all immensely cathartic. But right now it's pretty awful.

Normal service will be resumed soon....

Love SM x

Stress

It's funny thinking that not that long ago I couldn't even deal with the stress of renewing my car insurance without a glass of vino to take the edge off, and yet now, several times a year, I have to cope with check ups to see if there's any sign of my cancer coming back stone cold sober.

Yesterday I had a meeting with my oncologist to go through the results of my blood tests. The key thing they check for is 'tumour markers'.

Their main concern is that some pesky breast cancer cells may have escaped last year's slash and burn procedure and have taken up residence somewhere else - like my bones, brain or lungs. If this happens (which is, in my case, statistically unlikely, thank heavens) I am buggered.

I'm getting better at dealing with these appointments. On previous occasions I've started to freak out several days in advance and have had to take a friend or relative with me to hold me up.

Yesterday I only started falling to bits that morning and I decided to (wo)man up and go on my own.

I love my oncologist. He's all antipodean and twinkly and frightfully clever. If you have to have someone use the words terminal in front of you (apart from an airline operative), then he's the one you'd choose.

"So," he says, after giving me a bear hug, "how are you doing?"

"Good," I reply while thinking just tell me about the tumour markers. Are my children going to be motherless?

"How's the Tamoxifen? You don't look like you've put on any weight." (I bet he says that to all the girls) "Hot flushes?"

"I get a bit warm sometimes, but at least it saves on heating." I'm trying to read my incomprehensible blood test results up-side down.

"Well," he says, moving his finger painfully slowly down my print-out, "immune system fine...." tumour markers??? "Vitamin D levels normal," what about the tumour markers? "liver function good" ha ha, "cholesterol good" spit it out! "tumour markers normal."

Hurrah ! Hurrah! Hurrah! Looks like I'm going to be around for the immediately foreseeable future, which is great as I have a lot to do.

We move onto the 'manual examination' phase. I have had my breasts fondled more in the last fourteen months than over the entirety of my teenage years. And my boobs were a completely different kettle of fish back then.

(Can one describe one's boobs as a kettle of fish?)

While the Prof is copping a feel I take the opportunity to tell him about the book.

"I thought you should know that I'm writing a book..... and you're kind of in it."

"Really? What's it about?"

"It's about quitting booze, with a little foray into the whole breast cancer thing. I know it sounds dreadfully worthy, but it's actually a black comedy."

The Prof looks rather chuffed and asks for a signed copy.

"How much were you drinking?" He asks.

"Around a bottle of wine a day," I reply. The first time in my life I've been honest about my drinking to a member of the medical establishment.

He looks a little shocked, but rallies quickly. "I'm sure lots of my patients drink that much," he says. Bless him.

He signs me off for a whole year (although I still have appointments for mammograms and ultrasounds).

I skipped out of the cancer clinic feeling like an escapee from death row.

In the old days I'd have gone straight to a bar. Now, without the masking effects of booze, I realise the real impact that huge stress followed by release has on the body: I felt utterly exhausted.

I picked the kids up from school and, as early as possible, we all piled into my bed, read Harry Potter and went to sleep... at 8.30pm. Result.

Love to you all,

SM x

All Clear

My friend S and I went to the boob clinic for my 12 month check up.

A couple walked up the stairs behind us. They were, I think, in their late fifties. Their fear was palpable.

She was in exactly the same place I was a year previously - recently diagnosed, waiting for more detailed results to tell her just how bad it might be.

I desperately wanted to give her a hug, but this may have just tipped her over the edge. It's bad enough receiving a life altering or threatening diagnosis, without mad women accosting you physically on stairwells.

After a short wait I was called in for a mammogram. I can barely remember my last one - I was in shock at the time, having just been told by Mr Boob God that he was 99% certain that my lump wasn't at all benign (the 1% of uncertainty he left me was his version of breaking the news gently).

I felt very much like I was making a toasted sandwich with my boobs as the huge machine squeezed each in turn flat and x-rayed them. I fought the urge to suggest the addition of a little Worcestershire sauce.

As I was getting changed, I could see the radiographer checking and printing off my results. I tried desperately not to analyse her facial features. Likewise when, back in the waiting room, I watched her trundle down the corridor and put my envelope in Mr Boob God's in-tray.

After a wait which felt like an eternity I get the call up and he says "your mammogram was all clear." I wanted to clasp his hands and kiss them all over, but I knew just how many mammaries those hands had kneaded over the previous few hours.

He had a grope of mine, pronounced them all good and I was done.

S and I cried. Then we shopped. Then we went to the Chiltern Firehouse where I ordered a Virgin Mojito and we had the most delicious lunch.

Funnily enough, I am so used now to dealing with traumatic situations without booze that I don't miss it so much at those times. I know that a clear head is crucial in testing circumstances.

The time I really miss the booze still is when I'm celebrating.

However, fabulous food and friendship go a long way to making up for the lack of a fuzzy head.

And last night we went to a fireworks party. At the same event last year I'd felt totally disconnected. I was floating in a bubble of fear, watching all the people around me having fun.

But this time, as I watched the display surrounded by my family and some of my oldest and best friends, it felt like all those fireworks were laid on just for my benefit.

I knew that every year from now on fireworks will have a special message for me: you made it. Another year all clear. Another year to do all the things you want to do and to be with the people you love.

Hurrah, and love to you all,

SM x

Angels

The internet has been responsible for some terrible things; grooming, trolling, cyber bullying and those horribly irritating gaming videos on YouTube that the children are obsessed by, but it also has the miraculous ability to bring together people who would never normally have met, but who go on to change each other's lives.

Just over a year ago I received an e-mail from a lady called Elizabeth. She wrote this:

....I'm drinking a bottle of 12.5% red wine a night and would love to be one of those 'normal' one glass with dinner people, but I'm an all or nothing girl. When I smoked, I smoked 30 a day. Now I haven't touched a cigarette for 11 years but I have another crutch in red wine. I will stop one day and I read your blog every day. So please don't stop blogging because one day will be day one of never again....

I wrote back to Elizabeth, telling her that she sounded exactly like me, and that she'd never regret quitting once she decided that the time was right.

Then, just ten days later, I found The Lump in my left boob. In a bid to try to calm my terror, I wrote about it (see my post: I Need Help). That night I was lying in bed, unable to sleep and I found this e-mail from Elizabeth:

...I have just read today's blog and I really feel for you. I know exactly what you're going through. I found a lump when I was 42 (16 years ago) and it turned out to be cancer....

....what I can tell you is that the waiting is far worse than anything you have to come. The not knowing, the terrifying scenarios that play in your head every single second of the day far out-terrify the outcome...

....I am just one of so very many people thinking of you because you have done so much for so many. if anyone deserves good luck it is you.

I remembered those words over the next few weeks and, you know what? She was absolutely right: the waiting is always the worst.

When it turned out that I wasn't one of the lucky ones, Elizabeth mailed me again, telling me her story in detail, reassuring me that it would all be okay, and ending with these lines: Keep dreaming your dreams because there is a future for you and your lovely family and this is just a blip in that wonderful future.

When I posted from the depths of despair I found a message saying I don't know what to say, because whatever I say won't help while you are in this horrible fog of doubt. All I can tell you is the truth. You are going to be fine. I know this because (a) I've been there and (b) I'm a nurse :-)

Once or twice over those initial weeks I found myself on cancer sites and forums. Within minutes I'd be convinced I was going to die. So I stopped Googling. Instead, almost every day, I'd read one of Elizabeth's wonderful mails. It felt like she was holding my hand across the interweb.

Then, on 30th October last year I said farewell to a chunk of my left boob, and Elizabeth sent me this:

...we find the people we are meant to find, and, as a result, come Friday when you lose a bit of boob I'm going to give up my wine habit....It seems like as good a day as any to rid myself of a bad habit while you rid yourself of bad cells.

Elizabeth and I have mailed each other regularly over the last year, and then a couple of days ago this dropped into my inbox:

I can't believe that it is one year tomorrow that both our lives changed. Had I not pledged to quit drinking on the day of your surgery, I may have slid off the wagon in those early days, but you had been so supportive I couldn't even contemplate failure...

I replied that the support I had given Elizabeth was nothing compared to what she did for me.

The truth is that angels come in all forms, and some of them are wifi enabled and have addiction issues :-)

CONGRATULATIONS, Elizabeth my friend, on one year sober. You are my angel.

Tomorrow I have my check up at the cancer clinic. Please keep your fingers crossed for me. (Unless you're a surgeon on duty - that would be dangerous).

I'm going with a lovely friend (another angel who has dropped everything so that she can hold my hand) and have booked a table for lunch at the ferociously trendy Chiltern Firehouse afterwards.

If I'm going down, I might as well go down in flames....

SM x

Stiff Upper Lip

Yasmin le Bon has been in the press a lot this week talking about how the strains of juggling a career and motherhood led to her having a breakdown.

Yasmin admitted that, when it all got too much, she would often hide in the bathroom and cry.

Under the same circumstances I would have drunk a bottle of Chablis. It strikes me that Yasmin's reaction is altogether healthier.

But it's not very British. I'm sure it's no co-incidence that the land of the 'stiff upper lip' is also the home of heavy drinking.

The British see crying as a form of - at best - weakness, at worst - mental instability.

When I started work in the early nineties, it was perfectly okay for my boss to quiz me about my sex life, or to pat me on the arse. It was 'banter.'

Another senior director stroked my thigh under the table during one formal dinner. I discovered afterwards that he was doing the same to my friend on the other side. How did he manage to actually eat anything?

All that sort of behaviour was totally acceptable, but one thing I was warned about in no uncertain terms was crying.

I asked one of the (few) female directors for her advice when I first joined. "Never cry in the office," she said. "Your career would be over. If you feel like you're going to cry, go to the loos and whistle. It's physically impossible to cry and whistle simultaneously."

I whistled a fair bit, and drank an awful lot, during my twenty year advertising career, but I never cried. Not once.

Then, exactly a year ago, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I discovered the miraculous power of crying.

Weeping is nature's pressure valve.

You know those old pressure cookers your Mum used in the seventies? The steam builds up and up until you need to release it with the valve on the top and it makes a really satisfying whooshing sound? That's what crying does.

Last year, the children were on half term and I was getting to grips with the idea that I might not be around to see them grow up. I couldn't cry in front of them, so I would take the dog out for a walk and weep in parks.

One day I was standing alone on Eel Brook Common howling like a banshee when I was spotted by one of the mums from the school playground.

I didn't know this mum well. I didn't even know her name, but I'd always been rather in awe of her. She looks a bit like a rock chick, and at a school where everyone calls their children names like Octavia and Joshua, hers are called Spike and Buster.

Anyhow, she starts walking over to say hello, then realises that I'm falling apart in front of her. She freezes, not sure whether to come over or to escape as quickly as possible.

Understanding how terribly awkward this situation was (for a Brit), I went over to her.

"I'm so sorry," I said, through the howls (another British trait: always apologise for everything, especially if it's not your fault), "I've got breast cancer."

She was utterly lovely and we've been friends ever since (in that building up gradually to eventually meeting up for coffee way that the British make friends).

Anyhow, my point is: CRYING IS AWESOME. And it really works.

So, next time you're finding life just too overwhelming and you can't turn to booze to take the edge off, have a damn good weep instead. Much more effective.

Love SM x

P.S. Check out a fab new blogger I've come across: www.sobersphere.blogspot.com

Flashbacks

It's almost exactly a year since my cancer diagnosis (see my post: I Need Help) and even the most innocuous things that happen at this time of the year have the ability to plunge me right back into that hellhole.

The slight chill in the air, the darker mornings, displays of pumpkins in the shops, any date with '10' in it, planning for half term; all bring back memories of stomach churning dread in the cancer clinic waiting rooms, lying awake all night planning the music for my funeral and having to tell the children that "Mummy has cancer."

On top of that, I've been re-living the last of the drinking days, and the hell of the early not-drinking days, as I've been writing The Book.

But all of this churning up of the past has a purpose:

When you have cancer you constantly tell yourself that if you are ever blessed with good health again you will no longer take it for granted. You promise never, ever to moan about the insignificant and to count your blessings every day. Yada, yada, Pollyanna.

Then, a few months later and you're back to cursing at the weather, the PTA and the demise of Bake Off as we know it. You forget to say hurrah for being alive and surrounded by the people I love.

So, these reminders are timely ones.

My amnesia about the drinking days is similar, but more dangerous.

After nineteen months of no booze I am feeling totally normal (well as normal as I'll ever be). The dark days seem so far away that it's hard to believe they were real. Our brains are hard wired to hang on to the rose tinted memories and bury anything unpleasant.

It's so easy, even after years of sobriety, to listen to that voice that says hey, you were never that bad! Drinking was FUN! What are you worrying about, you big girl's blouse?

The more 'cured' you become, the more precarious your situation.

It's no wonder studies show that between 50% and 90% of people relapse after a period of recovery.

That's why AA have The Rooms to which people return for years, decades, after they quit in order to re-live their rock bottoms, and to hear the stories of others.

It's also why I, and many like me, are still blogging and reading other sober blogs long after we've quit, because hugging those memories close is crucial.

So, if you're recently sober, or thinking of taking the plunge, then write it down.

Document how you feel in lurid, livid detail. List all those reasons why you're waking up at 3am every morning thinking this has to stop. Start a blog, or a diary, write a letter to your future self.

One day that piece of paper, or blog post, may be the thing that saves you.

Happy sober Saturday!

SM x

Thank You, Someone

Regular readers might remember that, back in January, I'd just finished all my cancer treatment and really wanted to help other women going through the same thing, so I wrote this:

I don't make a penny from this blog. And reading this blog costs you nothing.

If it has helped you, then please, please will you do something extraordinary for those who are helping other women dealing with breast cancer?

It will be like a sort of global, interwebby, karmic circle, passing on the love.

I've set up a Just Giving page to raise money for The Haven - an incredible support centre for women (and men) with breast cancer. It's on www.justgiving.com/sober-mummy 

If you could donate just a small fraction of what you would have spent on booze this week, then together we can make a huge difference.

(You can donate anonymously, or using whatever pseudonym you like).

Here's a link to the Haven website so you can read more about the amazing work they do.

Let's harness the power of the sobersphere and change some lives.....

And you were amazing. Together we raised £1,686 (and thirty six pence).

(The web page is still open if you haven't donated already and would like to!)

Then, yesterday, I received this e-mail from the JustGiving people:

Hi Sober!

Someone's nominated you for a JustGiving Award! They took the time to tell us how incredible they thought your fundraising was - that's a pretty awesome achievement, so we wanted to say congrats!                 

Whoever you are, someone, thank you! Thank you for thinking of me and for taking the time to fill out the nomination. You've made my day, my week, my month.

Love SM x

Drained

I had my check up with the oncologist today.

I took my Mum. She's a breast cancer veteran: been there, done that, got the Tamoxifen and the mismatched boobs.

He only had half my blood test results, but those he had included the cancer tumour marker count which was fine.

I should be happy.

I expected to be writing a blog post about remembering what's important in life, seizing the day and all that sort of uplifting stuff...

....but instead I feel totally flat. Drained. Exhausted. Like a whoopee cushion without its whoop.

I came home. Did the school run. Answered 'uh-huh' to all the children's chatter and questions. Then, as soon as Mr SM walked in the door, I went to bed.

I just lay there for ages feeling numb.

I wanted to cry, but couldn't. And I can't find the words to express how I'm feeling. I've lost my tears and my vocabulary.

I'm tired of it all.

Walking Away From Booze

Sometimes the simplest things are the best.

I find that walking is an invaluable sober tool. For a whole host of reasons. Here are five of them:

1. It has no booze associations

However much of a hardened drinker you are/were it is unlikely that you used to go for a walk with a glass of Chardonnay in hand.

(In my case, walking was one of the few occasions when I wouldn't have a glass of wine nearby).

That's why it's a perfect activity around wine o'clock, when you really, really want a drink. Just go. Walk out the door. (I'm channelling my inner Gloria Gaynor here).

Get away from the fridge, the wine rack, the irritations of home and walk. Walk until you feel better.

(N.B. Remember to plan a route that does not go past your favourite pub or bottle shop).

2.  It's a natural drug.

We enthusiastic imbibers rather like our drugs, our highs. And walking is a natural high. It releases serotonin which boosts your mood.

Numerous studies have shown that walking helps reduce depression, anxiety and can even ward off Alzheimer's.

3. It can be social

I avoided parties for a while. But I'm a sociable person. I wouldn't want an alcohol free life that turned me into a hermit.

So, even in the days when I avoided going out too much in the evenings, I would arrange to meet friends during the day for a dog walk.

I'd spend an hour of the day drinking coffee, catching up with an old friend and getting myself, and the dog, fit. That's multitasking ;-)

4. It blitzes the belly

One of the best consolation prizes for ditching the booze is losing weight, especially the dreaded wine belly (see my post: Wine Bellies Can Kill).

Walking not only burns calories and builds muscle, but it can improve your body's response to insulin which leads to reduced belly fat.

5. It reduces your risk of chronic disease

Again, there are a huge number of studies showing that walking can be a wonder drug.

It lowers your blood sugar and, therefore, your risk of diabetes, it lowers blood pressure and your risk of heart disease and stroke, and it reduces your risk of cancer - especially breast and colon cancer.

When I first had the cancer diagnosis (eight months after I quit drinking. To read my story, click here), and I knew that easiest and quickest way to blot it all out, to silence all the thoughts of death and motherless children, would be to pour a large glass of wine (and then drink the whole bottle), walking saved me.

I would take the dog out to the nearest park and then howl. Literally.

(I once bumped into a school gate Mum while doing this. It was what the children would describe as #awks).

Walking calmed my thoughts. It made me feel happier - or at least less desperate. And, crucially, it got me away from the vino.

But tonight I may just be overdoing it on the walking front.

#1 and I are doing the Moonwalk (she's only just old enough, so will be one of the youngest there).

It's a twenty six mile walk through the centre of London with thousands of other women (and some men) all decked out in decorated bras (even the men), in aid of breast cancer charities.

We've raised nearly £2,500 between us, so we've got to make it through to the end!

We set off at 10pm, and should finish at around 7am. I haven't been up all night for a very long time, and certainly not because I was walking. Wish us luck!

I'm not going to post my Moonwalk fundraising page because I'm still a little twitchy about my own anonymity, and a lot twitchy about my daughter's

However if you would like to support us, and help other women dealing with breast cancer, then please please visit my Justgiving page in support of the Haven Breast Cancer Support Centre.

Here's the link: www.justgiving.com/sober-mummy

THANK YOU!

Love SM x

Cancer Recurrence

I do apologise. I know this is a sober blog, not a cancer blog, but regular readers will know that last October, seven months after I quit drinking, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

(To read my story from that point, click here).

What we breast cancer 'survivors' are terrified of is recurrence.

If breast cancer comes back, anywhere other than in the breast, it's called 'secondary breast cancer', and it's incurable. 85% of people with secondary breast cancer are dead within five years.

The most common places for it to crop up are the lungs, the liver and the bones. (And eventually all three of those).

Anyhow, the reason for the medical lesson, is that I've had pains in my left shoulder and arm for the last week or so, and I'm freaking out.

I know I'm being illogical. I know I'm overreacting. That's why I'm blogging about it, because I find that just the act of writing it all down helps me to calm my anxieties.

(Which is why I recommend blogging, or writing a journal, to everyone).

For my own personal benefit (so no need for you to read on!), here are all the reasons why I am unlikely to be dying:

1. I had a full body scan only 5 months ago which, apart from the dodgy left boob, was clear.

2. I had an ultrasound just a few weeks ago which showed nothing at all in my boobs or lymphs, and it seems unlikely that my cancer could have migrated so quickly from my breast to my bones without ever showing up in any lymph nodes.

3. My cancer was not a fast growing one. In fact, it was pretty lazy. It's improbable that it moved its arse so swiftly.

4. Since the pains are on my left side, where I had surgery, it seems far more probable that my muscles, nerves etc are all just a bit out of whack on that side.

5. Secondary cancer in the bones generally gets you in the spine or legs first.

6. I only get pain when I move in a specific way, whereas bone cancer tends to be more constant, especially at night.

7. Surely life's not that bloody unfair?

I'm seeing my oncologist next month, and he'll do blood tests for cancer markers, so I can ask him about it if it's still causing problems then, but in the meantime....

.....hurrah! I feel a great deal better. If you made it to the end of this post then thank you for your patience. Normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

Love SM x

Why?

One of the (many) benefits of sober life is that when your children ask you tricky questions - about sex, drugs, relationships or morals - you can be properly on your toes, and able to give it your best shot.

It's also easier to advise them about risky behaviours and self care without feeling like a hypocrite.

The other day, #1 and I were taking the dog for a walk.

"Mummy, " she asked me, out of the blue, "why did you get cancer?"

The thing to remember about this kind of conversation, is that they don't really come out of the blue. They've probably been fretting about it for ages, and waiting for the right moment, and the courage, to bring it up.

You need to think about why they're asking.

Thinking fast (and soberly - whoop whoop), I concluded that #1 might be worried that she'll get it herself one day, or worried that I'll get it again. Probably both.

The side benefit of being thrown a question like this one, is that it gives you permission to throw back a little, barely disguised, lecture on lifestyle choices....

"Well," I replied, taking a deep breath, "for a start, you mustn't worry. You know that horrid, genetic breast cancer that Angelina Jolie's mother had? The one that runs in families? It's called BRCA1&2."

She nods.

"I was tested for that, and I don't have it. As far as they can tell, my cancer is not genetic. Not hereditary."

"So, why you then?"

"Sometimes these things are just bad luck, but there are some major risk factors. Smoking is a biggie as you know, (hard stare for re-enforcement) but I quit fifteen years ago, thank God. Being overweight and eating badly is another, but that wasn't really me either....

"......the only thing I did which could have caused my breast cancer is I drank too much alcohol."

"But you haven't drunk for ages, and you never drank very much anyway," she replied, vehemently.

And, reader I confess, I could have spoken up and corrected her, but I was so thrilled at being portrayed in her memories as a moderate drinker that I said nothing.

"Well, recent studies have shown that even one or two glasses of wine a day can hugely increase your chances of getting breast cancer," I told her.

"But now I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I eat super healthily, so there's no way I'm getting pesky cancer again.

"Just remember, what you eat, drink and put in your body matters. Everything in moderation - that's the key."

Ha ha ha. SM preaching moderation. Who'd have thought?

So, try not to worry too much about your children. The thirteen months I've been sober feels like an eternity to mine, they can barely remember the before.

And children do have the ability to re-write history in a way we can only dream of.

SM x

The Survivors

I spent over an hour in the waiting room of the Breast Clinic yesterday (with my lovely friend, H, who'd come to hold my hand).

I realised that there were three types of ladies waiting.

1. The 'Norms'...

....with their normal breasts, and cells that divide and multiply in a normal way. They just pop in for an annual road check to 'be on the safe side', or because they have a family history.

They sit, leafing through magazines, looking much like the ladies you see in the waiting room at the dentist. Being all normal.

2. The Newbies

The newly diagnosed. They're often waiting to find out just how bad it is.

You can spend weeks being drip fed this information - how aggressive your cancer is, if it can be treated with hormonal therapies, how much boob(s) you're going to lose, and - crucially - how far it's spread.

They usually look like they've been hit by a bus. Quiet. Pale. Stunned. Not knowing what's coming up, or how they're going to cope.

3. The Survivors

An amateur could mistake A Survivor for A Norm. On the surface, they look nonchalant, relaxed, smiley. But it's a cover.

They may flick through a magazine but they're not really reading it. The words aren't going in.

They greet all the nurses by name, and ask after their children, but what they're really thinking is I hope I don't have to see you again until next year.

Under all the false bonhomie, all they want to know is am I still okay?

Eventually, they called my name. H squeezed my hand, and I swanned in, all calm elegance (I always dress up for the Cancer Clinic. Like you do for a funeral).

A charming, fatherly, antipodean squirted (thoughtfully warmed) gel all over my boobs and starts running his (what on earth do I call the thing that doesn't sound sexual?) over them.

Within just a few minutes he says "that's all absolutely fine."

"Thank you, thank you," I whispered, "I've been really worried."

"I know," he replies. "I realise that just one word can change your life."

And that moment of empathy nearly had me sobbing all over his paper sheets.

On the way out I met a lady ten years or so older than me. She had one of those wonderful faces that looks like it had a host of stories to tell. She was also skipping, and hugging her reprieve close to her heart.

We did the 'Survivor' thing of exchanging case histories, like Norms chat about the weather.

She was first diagnosed fourteen years ago, with a recurrence (of primary breast cancer, not the terminal secondary variety) four years ago.

She said "I've stopped talking about it now, because no-one really knows what it's like unless they've been there." And we smiled at each other, members of a club no-one wants to join, and I felt I'd known her forever.

And it struck me that this blog is much like the cancer clinic.

There are the 'Norms' who pop by, just to check that they are really okay. There's the Newbies, all shell shocked and not sure if they can go through it (AND YOU CAN!), and the Survivors.

(I much prefer to think of myself as a Survivor, rather than 'in remission', or 'in recovery'. Both those words give me the heebie jeebies, as the implication is that you still have some terrible underlying sickness).

And nobody knows what it's really like unless they've been there, do they?

Much as I've hated the last few days, the good thing about going through it all (on a regular basis), is it's a reminder that you have to remain grateful.

(It's not happy people who are grateful, it's grateful people who are happy).

I re-read my post from January on gratitude, and how it can transform your mental health (click here), and today I really, really am.

Grateful for all those things we so easily take for granted. For being alive. For being healthy. For being here to see my kids grow up.

I'm grateful to my friends (like H, who came with me) and family (like my brother-in-law and niece who babysat my children), and lovely Mr SM, who pretends he's supremely confident, but who I suspect has had a few wobbles over the last few days too.

And I've grateful to for all of you, for all your comments, thoughts and prayers.

Thank you.

Love SM x

P.S. If you've just come across this blog and want to read my story from when I quit booze click here. If you want to read from when I found The Lump (eight months later), then click here.

Swearing, and Other Tips

I've woken up this morning feeling positive about my ultrasound at the breast clinic today.

Only a few more hours to go, and - after days of feeling increasingly stressed - it'll all be over. Then, next time it won't be so hard.

I've been reminded, yet again, that dealing with anxiety is just like dealing with cravings.

(The feeling is very similar too - a squirming knot in the stomach, constant restlessness and a one tracked mind that won't shut up).

So, I thought I'd share four things that helped me yesterday, as - if you're duelling with the wine witch right now - they might help you too.

1. The Soberverse

The soberverse really is the most amazing place. All your comments on yesterday's post, and your e-mails, meant so much, and really reminded me that I am not alone.

And it can do the same for all of you, too, because you really are not alone.

2. Swearing

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you'll probably have realised that I'm not a big swearer. I'm fond of an occasional bollocks! Partial to a bugger! And occasionally employ a s**t, but, that's about it.

Generally, I think swearing is just a bit lazy and unimaginative. I try to encourage the children to find much more interesting invectives if they're stressed. (Apart from anything else, it's great for the vocabulary).

So, #3 might drop something on her foot and say "Aarrrggghh! Dastardly, pox ridden camel's buttocks!"

You see? Much more fun.

I think this aversion to swearing comes from my childhood. I remember vividly the one occasion when my Dad told my Mum to "f**k off." She left the house, and didn't come back for TWO DAYS. As my Dad couldn't even boil an egg, it was a disaster. None of us ever swore again.

Anyhow, back to the point: Yesterday Soberat53 and Claireperth both said "Fuck cancer!" And I thought, well yes, why the hell not?

So, I went up to my bathroom, locked the door (the children were downstairs) and shouted FUCK FUCK FUCKEDY FUCK FUCK! FUCK RIGHT OFF AND DON'T FUCKING COME BACK, FUCKER.

And, you know what? I felt much, much better.

So, next time the wine witch is bugging you, tell her to eff off. Really loudly. And with foot stamping and fist waving.

3. Eddie the Eagle

If you need some distraction then take the children (or just go by yourself!) to see the Eddie the Eagle film.

It's hysterically funny, plus it's a great tale about tenacity, bravery, and proving the world wrong (see the relevance?).

And the best bit?

Eddie doesn't drink! He managed to jump a 90 metre ski jump, with less than a year's training and the whole world laughing at him, without anything at all to 'take the edge off.'

There's a wonderful scene (that will do more for us sober people than endless government warnings and guidelines) where Eddie goes into a bar and is jeered at by the Finnish ski jump team, in their ridiculous skin tight all in one lurid lycras.

He goes up to the barman and orders....a glass of milk. Genius.

4. Finding something else to worry about

Sometimes, the only thing that will displace a worry is another worry.

#2 has gone off for four nights - the longest he's ever been away from home (he's nine) - on a sailing expedition. It looks amazing - all Swallows and Amazons.

Last night I found his toothbrush in the bathroom.

Personal hygiene is not his forte at the best of times.

So, forget fretting about cancer. I'm too busy worrying that #2 is going to come home with no teeth!

Onwards and upwards, and thank you.

SM x

I Can't do it Again

As a society we are conditioned to believe that the best companion when dealing with trauma is alcohol.

When I was going through the whole cancer thing, I was constantly told, by doctors and nurses, to 'go and have a stiff drink.'

If only they knew.

In fact, I learned that dealing with trauma is actually much, much easier without booze. Especially if you are responsible for children, and protecting them from the impact of whatever you're going through.

Alcohol makes coping with fear and grief a very selfish process.

I wrote a post about this when I was right in the middle of it, called When Life Throws You Lemons (click here).

I do, honestly, believe that doing the whole thing sober was what kept the wheels from falling off, kept me sane, and my family secure.

But, here's the thing, I don't think I could do it again.

And tomorrow I have a (routine) ultrasound exam.

I know, logically, that it's highly unlikely to show anything nasty. The chances of anything surviving the onslaught of surgery and radiation just a few months ago are extremely slim, and there's not really been enough time for anything new to crop up (I hope).

But I'm still feeling sick.

You spend months trying to forget the whole thing, then - just as life's returning to normal - you have to go back to the scene of the crime.

And my record is not good. I've only had one breast ultrasound and it was terrible. 

There's that awful moment when you catch sight of a black mass on the screen, and the friendly, chatty sonographer goes quiet.

Then they start measuring it, just like they measured your foetus's head and spine when you were pregnant, but less jolly. Because it's not going to grow into a gorgeous, squirming baby - it's going to kill you.

I don't even want to remember it, let alone go back there. And I certainly don't want to have to redo the whole cancer thing.

I couldn't do it again. And I definitely couldn't do it sober.

Everyone has their limits, and I think that's mine.

Fingers crossed, hey?

Love SM x

P.S. On a much cheerier note, HUGE CONGRATS to my lovely e-mail friend, P, who is celebrating her first SOVERVERSARY today. Well done P - you rock!

Breast Cancer Clinic

So, I was woken up, on the morning of my appointment at the Breast Cancer Clinic, in a strangely ironic fashion.

The news on the radio was that Dame Sally Davies (the Chief Medical Officer), while giving evidence to a Commons select committee, said the public should contemplate the risks of cancer before drinking alcohol.

"Do as I do when I reach for my glass of wine - think Do I want the glass of wine or do I want to raise my own risk of breast cancer?" She old MPs. "I take a decision each time I have a glass".

(By the way, The Sun newspaper headline on this topic reads: TOP DOCS BARMY ADVICE: IF YOU WANT A GLASS OF WINE, JUST THINK CANCER. They are obviously not, yet, on message!)

Well HURRAH FOR SALLY in flying the flag for non-drinkers. In my case it's rather like slamming the stable door after the horse has bolted. But this is not the case for the majority of you, so pay attention!

I made my way to the clinic where I was greeted like a long lost friend by all the nurses - bless them.

After a stint in the waiting room, checking out the newbies (poor little mites), I was called in by the genius-surgeon-with-terrible-bedside-manner.

He did a recap of all my stats: 23mm, grade 2 invasive lobular carcinoma, negative lymphs, 92% chance of non-recurrence, blah blah blah, after which he invited me to remove all my clothes above the waist.

So, I'm sitting there, with the doc and the breast nurse, half naked, when he decides to have a discussion. He tells me, at what felt like some length, that he wants me to talk to a journalist about my whole breast cancer experience.

I agreed swiftly, just to put an end to the whole half-naked-chitchat thing, and because some warped logic told me that if I was in the news as being 'cured' of breast cancer, it was even more in their interests to keep me alive for as long as possible...

I may live to regret that one. I hadn't planned to become the poster girl for breast cancer, as well as the (secret) one for sobriety.

Anyhow, he copped a feel, which he seemed happy about (in a medical sense, you understand), and told me that I need to come back every April for the foreseeable future for an ultrasound. In addition, I need to come back every October for a mammogram.

AND, on top of that, there's a new blood test for ovarian cancer, so they took a vial from my arm, and told me they'll repeat that one every twelve months too.

Oh, and I see my oncologist every May to have blood tests to check for cancer markers.

So, on the upside, I am going to be monitored to within an inch of my life.

On the downside, every time I go in for one of these tests I have to deal with the flashbacks and anxiety....

....which is why my post tomorrow (inspired by Ulla) is on Managing Anxiety - Sober.

Thank you all so much for all your comments, thoughts and best wishes. It helped hugely knowing you were thinking of me.

(If you're new to this blog, and want to read about my breast cancer 'journey' (hate that expression) from the beginning, then start with this post from October: I Need Help! Or, if you'd like to read from when I first quit drinking then start here, from March: Mummy Was a Secret Drinker)

Love to you all,

SM x