depressing…

NOT SURE YOU'LL WANT TO READ THIS BUT ITS WHATS IN MY HEAD RIGHT NOW.. APPROACH WITH CAUTION.. REALLY.

I know you all keep saying how well I'm doing with dealing with all this… cancer shit…. but honestly – I don't think I am at the moment. Well, at all, truth be told. I am just becoming more skilled at the art of masking it, otherwise I'd be in a flood of fucking tears the entire time.

The reality is more like this. Yesterday, after the thrills of tea with Olga & pumping up the car tyres I sat down and wrote out the list of stuff I need to plan for when I die. So its sorted and filed away for when its needed, then Hawksey just has to take it out and do the stuff that's on there. Like run through the list of the 9 lucky people I've nominated to tell the rest of you in all your different social groups that I've died.

And to make a list of stuff I need to sort to make it go as smoothly as poss – from the major jobs of the bloody Will, through to trying to remember to remind him of what's where, anything from the photos on my desk at work to the few quid in my never-used Abbey account. How the hell do you write a Will when you've no idea who you're going to outlive or not – never thought I'd be in competition with my 80 year old mother and 84 year old uncle on the survival stakes, but here we are.

And to think about what kind of funeral & burial I want – with my hockey friend TBag being buried this week, plus the stories I hear from others about how tough it can be to make even the seemingly small decisions when you're in mourning for someone, it seems right to try and sort these things out now. I've been putting this off and off but need to do it, as when I'm back on drugs and my head gets fucked again, let alone my body, it'll be too late. Helen Vickery, if you're reading this, you're on my oh-so cheery hitlist for help with the music.

Do I want to be buried? Cremated? God I don't know – I was hoping I'd never have to think about it.

Lots to do. Not looking forward to any of it. Terrified that the day it'll be needed is closer than I think it might be.

All topped off by coming into work, big deep breath as ever, pretend all's well and that the 'problem's' gone away – ho fucking ho – to read a post on the Myeloma UK site about yet another young person – this time a 47 year old mother of 3 – who's died from MM. After only 2.5 years. So much for the 'oh there's lots more treatments out there these days that can keep you going for a while' bullshit. Only a very few people get 'lucky' with surviving more than a handful of bloody years. Neil died after less than 5 years. This poor woman got half that time.

And when I got diagnosed I was already at Stage 3A/B on a scale that runs… oh yes, only up to Stage 3A/B. Not exactly quids in on the 'we caught it early' stakes.

I am bricking myself and think I should probably go home. But there's crap to do, and quite frankly, it's not going to look a whole lot better by tomorrow, or next week, or next month. In fact it just gets worse, as the 'partial remission' window gets narrower and shorter by the day.

Fucks this sucks. I can see now why Prof very early on told me a story about a guy who committed suicide as it seemed better to him than living with the sword of Damocles over his head. Not that I have any intention of following suit – as flaming if, I want to squeeze every drop I can from this life, but the daily endless bloody fear is a total and utter dragging, relentless fucker. The half day back in Parkside last week brought it all back and I hate every nano-second of it impinging on my life – and all of yours too. I just want to bring rudeness & alcohol into your lives, not the smell of death.

And poor Hawksey gets to live with all of this – not too much, as we try and just 'live' when we're together, but its stinky tough on him, being away in Belfast a fair bit and having lots on his shoulders too. Good job I'm such a catch that I'm worth it heh (???!)

Right – time to head into a meeting, here comes Mrs Fake Smile..

Love to you all – and in a truly American finish (one for you Margo) – 'go hug someone you love, right now'

S xx