I'm blogging from my third day of a looong awaited holiday, where I promised myself no work (which includes blogging) but I've unexpectedly reached the pinnacle of tactlessness and my sensitivity threshold has been breached and if I don't write it down I might implode. It was during a massage you see...
I've tweeted about how a few solitary comments from slightly, let's say mentally compromised well wishers, took my fragile post treatment state, smashed it on the floor and directed raging bulls from Pamplona to the studio in N1 where I was shooting that day, to trample over it. Since then I seem to be an inadvertent collector of shit-scary comments.
The first went like this via email: 'oh, you have the same kind of cancer as me, what a relief to find someone else in that 5-10% bracket of people who won't get better and lead a normal life.'
Eh? I should be more intelligent than to take on board the ramblings of an insensitive nut job, over the medical professionals who have thus far omitted that important information. But I've already blogged about how intelligent goes out the post- treatment window in favour of irrational and jelly-like.
Having deleted the rest of the email, finished up a private breakdown in the studio toilet and tweeted my angst to receive countless cheery responses (thank you thank you), I bolstered myself back up and set off for the wonderful Katie Selby's wedding weekend of joy.
Granted it was an emotional day, so maybe I was already a bit taut when one drunk guest came to tell me how she 'nearly shaved her own head' (tip: this is along the same irritating lines as 'I have perfect vision, unlike you speccy four eyes, but I'm going to wear those plastic dummy frames because they are cool'. But x 1000). 'It's because my mum had breast cancer like you, and just finished radiotherapy like you, and thought it was all clear like you, but it wasn't and now it's secondary so all very tragic.' Um, yes, VERY tragic, but in what realms of possibility does this sound like a conversation I want to partake in? She was drunk enough to be forgiven, and not even notice my abrupt departure mid sentence, which just left DadJokes to pleasantly deal with the tail end.
My next collectors item was procured at the Look Good...Feel Better Beauty Editor day at Selfridges. An otherwise amazing experience, this year somewhat dampened by a hijacker, who hadn't paid £20 to have a time slot with me, but came to tell me she had breast cancer in her late 20's, nowhere near as bad as mine and was I on Tamoxifen? (Yes), well be careful of Tamoxifen, because the side effect is cervical cancer. OK thanks for that. I think this must be what it's like for pregnant women, I bet they get all sorts of motherly strangers feeling their bumps and proffering stories of horrific childbirth.
So then came my holiday. The culmination of all this shittiness, my reward at the end of treatment, my treat where I'm testing out the powers of the miracle bikinis, the chance to escape from reality and rest properly for the first time in ages.
So while I was looking forward to my first Cypriot massage, I didn't expect the 50 minute barrage of jabbering advice, and horror stories I was presented with.
My therapist was a loon of epic proportions, and since I was doubtless a captive audience, it made perfect sense to relaaaaax me with tales of lymphodeoema and her own mums mastectomy and subsequent demise ('it's the operation; as soon as you let oxygen at it, it'll take over your liver'). She finished with an impromptu 'clinical' lymphatic massage which frankly terrified me and bloody hurt too.
I think I'll avoid putting my intimate medical history on those spa forms until I'm a bit more on the mental mend. The view from my sun lounger is certainly helping, as is the lack of wifi and email avoidance. No offence dear emailers, 99% of my inbox is amazing, so at the risk of sounding a bit Dear John, it's not you, it's me!
Unless you're one of the aforementioned idiots of course...
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