My siblings and I decided to see a George Michael tribute act near to where I live.

It’s a logistical challenge getting us all together. Obviously, circumstances dictate – they have to make the effort, not me. Losers ..

The evening started off very .. well .. shit. As the title suggests, he was more Porge than George Michael. Half time and we all downed half a pint of wine. We self medicated through the second part.

Instead of resuming our evening sat on old school chairs amongst the living dead, where “George” had belted our “Everything she wants..” (apparently us shouting ‘refund’ was not the correct answer) we stood at the back and danced our tits off. It was hillarious.

And that actually is the hardest time to have cancer. I sang and wobbled my floppy bits with my amazing siblings, I was very happy. Then it hits you in the stomach that this is probably the best I am ever going to feel. How long will I sing, dance, look OK(ish) and enjoy just being a knob. I may live a couple of years, but living ain’t lying on the sofa off of my head on opiates, watching Jeremy Vile.

Perhaps I’m being a bit hasty there…

Since my last blog, I’ve had a few situations where I’ve been amongst other shitty titty members. For various reasons, but I won’t go into the details.

GDPR scares the shit out of me anyways.

The first time, it was in a setting of approximately 20 women. We were asked to give our background. I went first.

Age 35, 2009, diagnosed grade 2, stage 1, ER/PR+ Her 2 Negative breast cancer, left breast.

I had a lumpectomy and nearby lymph nodes tested to see if the cancer had spread.

Cancer cells were found in the nodes and I had vascular invasion – so I had another operation a few weeks later to clear further lymph nodes.

Followed by 5 weeks of radiotherapy daily.

I refused chemotherapy. One medical expert was trying to convince me ‘because of my age’.

“Claire – I have to tell you – if you were my sister, I would want you to have chemo.”

My response “A.. that’s not very scientific and B. I have no idea how much you like your sister”.

I was then given tamoxifen. The only treatment for premenopausal girlies.

Age 38 – 2011 -the cancer literally grew back under my scar. At my local hospital I was offered a single mastectomy using skin from my back to recreate a reconstruction.

I was adamant – take one breast, take them both. My original hospital refused to remove a healthy breast.

Time was not on my side to find an alternative. I googled and there was an operation called a DIEP. It was practised in America, but not so much here back then. I had to privately source a breast surgeon, plastic surgeon etc to perform the operation and make sure they were all free to perform the op. It was 13 hours on the table and I had a further 30 hours in additional operations to rebuild my rack.

I chose the implant size and the plastic surgeon gave me a stern look.

“Look Claire, I’m afraid that big is going to make you like a porn star”.

I said “Well. .I’m afraid I won’t. ”

We settled on 32 DD.

Forward wind a few years later (end of 2017) my tumour markers started to rise. Scan after scan could find nothing, but the huge leaps each time, indicated it was back.

Finally January 2019 – I was told it was back in my upper spine and ribs.

I saw the colour drain from the rest of the ladies faces. Ah. Shit. Bar one other lady, these

ladies are early stage. I.e they are having treatment and they hope to God they are not me one day. I’m their worst nightmare. I spent the rest of the day over compensating with how wonderful I feel and I’ve got many years of living to do.

Which is bollocks.

A week later, I was sat with another group of ladies. I got chatting to one – swapping cancer stories and I gave my background (this time it was a place for just stage 4/secondary, so I knew I couldn’t scare them)

Me: “Blah blah .. bones.. spine.. ribs.. chemo tablets.. menopause blah blah”

Lovely lady : “Wow … that’s the exactly the same as me!…”

Hey .. a cancer buddy!!

“But now it’s spread to my other organs … ”

Shit. I had just met my nightmare.

A week later, I was amongst another group of ladies. I arrived late .. so thankfully missed the introductions, but it soon became apparent that this group were again, thankfully, early stage, as I listened to the conversations.

“I dread to think it might come back .. it hangs over me like a cloud and I think about it when I wake, till when I go to sleep”

“What if all of this treatment is for nothing and it kills me anyway?”

“I’m taking a year off of work to recover mentally and physically. I feel now the treatments over, I’m a bit abandoned medically. I can never have a cough or headache again without wondering if it’s cancer”

I keep my mouth shut. Trust me, I’m a gobby cow, but I know when to shut the hell up.

A lady turns to me, probably because I’ve sank so far in my chair that Australia is in view and asks..

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is there actually anything wrong with you?”

I could scream “Are you kidding me!!! I would give my right arm to be in your position!! I actually hold the sickest person in the room award by a looonnnngggg way”

Instead, I smile and tell her I thought this was an AA meeting but I couldn’t find the right room and had paid for 2 hours parking, which is the equivalent of 2 bottles of wine.

I’m not sure if she believed me.

I just didn’t want to be someone else’s nightmare.