Manchester Terrorist Attack

I woke up this morning to the terrible news of a terrorist attack in Manchester last night.

What makes this event particularly horrific is not just the fact that at least twenty-two were killed and sixty or so injured by flying pieces of metal, but that the bomb was triggered (by a suspected suicide bomber) outside an Ariana Grande concert, and timed to explode just as the crowds were leaving the venue.

If you don't have young daughters, you may not know Ariana Grande. My girls have grown up with her, as the ditsy, pretty, wholesome 'Cat' in Sam and Cat and Victorious.

The people going to see an Ariana Grande concert would be teenaged girls at their first ever concert, mums taking their ten-year-old to see her idol as a special birthday treat, families enjoying an event that they know will be appropriate for all ages.

Pictures of the scene just before the explosions show a mass of pink helium balloons and groups of young girls, smiling, singing, grinning and taking selfies.

I listened to interviews this morning with men who'd gone to collect their daughters last night and been greeted by unimaginable scenes of chaos, panic and horror.

How can anyone justify any of this in the name of any religion or cause?

In other news, (as if any other news really matters) a new study into the, now irrefutable, link between alcohol and breast cancer was announced. Even half a glass of wine a day significantly increases your risk.

I know this, obviously, and the timing is pertinent, as today I have a check up and ultrasound scan (eighteen months after my original cancer diagnosis) at the breast clinic. Oh joy.

Both the events of last night, and my personal trial this morning, remind me how our futures are so uncertain. In just a matter of moments - an explosion or a black mass on an ultrasound scan - our whole lives can change.

Which is why we have to remember, every day, to be phenomenally grateful for what we have - for our families, our friends and our health.

Love to you all, and particularly to those of you in Manchester. I hope you, and those you care for, are well and safe.

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