See Below

Katie gave me this book  few months back, very optimistically sweet of her, but I've been holding my breath till I could feasibly illustrate with and dedicate a post to the subject, so I'm more than happy to do it now. Over the moon, dance in circles, laugh out loud happy.

Actually, that is the way movies portray this kind of happiness. In real life- now that I have first hand evidence - it's more like lots of tuneful sighs (you know, the ones that are loud on the way out), and slouched shoulders (at last! an opportunity for muscle relaxation) and my mums hand surgically attached to my shoulder or kissing my dad more than is necessary. Ahhhhhhhhh (that is how the sighs look phonetically).

OK so I had to sacrifice a boob (or a Nit, as Claire has coined it - a non-tit, see?), and I can't have babies for the next five years, but at the moment, the next five years are a gift of epic proportions themselves, so hey ho!

On the other hand I cultivated a fine and upstanding Dream Team, which is worth a lot more than a Nit - and I must admit have all helped me be OK about that particular scenario too. They have also been loudly sighing since yesterday when I got the news that it's all out, hasn't spread and so now, (after a few more obstacles), everything is going to be OK.

Forgive the schmaltz - OKism provokes large amounts in me...

My embarrassingly large hospital entourage consisted of DadJokes, Mum, Dad and Katie. They were insistent on seeing me through the smurf-esque operation attire, woozy and emotional wake up (where I told them off for not being there sooner), and the next 24 hours which I can't remember very well but involved flowers, paracetamol and being escorted to the toilet. Also the first Nit glimpse, which I got through OK thanks to Katie being perfectly blase, and DadJokes being perfect.

My Telephone Support Sister, Amy, has proved that extreme Hypochondria is in fact a useful ailment. It is common in the Beresiners, but her case means she is Internet educated to PHD level, so can confidently tell me when I'm being stupid, and also break the not so nice stuff to me in an easy to take sisterly fashion. Plus her daughter Poppy keeps me entertained with drawings of my hair separate from my body, her brutal child honesty ('Auntie Betsey, you look like a boy') and general three year old isms.

My home-from-the-hospital visitors, Claire, Katie and Debbie made sure I didn't even have time to read my book let alone dwell on my forthcoming surgery results (I don't even like writing that word these days). They came all the way to Surrey to sit and look at my permanently PJ'd form and make it through dinners with the parents - no mean feat depending on the level of hyperactivity in my lovely Dad.

Now I'm out the other side of the results fear and operation apprehension, I overly love everyone here, and am only on paracetamol so can't even blame it on the drugs.

My mum summed it up perfectly over a girly lunch following a trip to The Royal Marsden, 'And there we were going through life thinking we were a normal family, but look how strong we all are'.

That's my Dream Team that is, and they make me dead proud... (including me! including me!)



My Everything's Going To Be OK shoes - any excuse...