Tuesday 17 December 2013

ANIMAL MAGIC.

    Next year I am going to come back as a dog. I am not talking death and reincarnation here - or at least I hope not - just a new attitude to life.
    Sugar and stress are bad for cancer. I know this from one of the many self help books I ordered when first diagnosed. I was determined to be the most knowledgeable and healthy cancer patient the world has ever known - most of  these books lie untouched in their Amazon boxes but occasionally I get one out and dust it down and this is how I know about sugar and stress.
    The former I am not too worried about - I don't eat much chocolate and everyone knows that the sugar found in wine is good for you - don't argue with me - I live in one of the most famous wine producing areas in the world and that's the buzz around here.
    But stress - now I do worry about stress. I worry a lot, I worry about everything. I inherited it from my Father, I could have inherited many of his wonderful qualities but I ended up with the worry gene.
    But all that is going to be a thing of the past.
"Think of someone you admire...." I read in my copy of' 'How To De-stress in Thirty Days' - or in my case - 'How To Get Distressed after Thirty Pages.'
    "...think of someone you admire, think of how they cope and try to emulate them...'
 This required some serious thought - I got up to make a coffee and was just debating the merits of Mandela versus Mother Teresa when I spotted our dog basking in the sunshine outside. His long limbs were stretched out, his head nicely cushioned on a bed of freshly swept leaves, a slumbering, shaggy mass of perfect contentment. His name is Rory and he's a large, gentle, bearded beast. I smiled and then it suddenly hit me... this was who I should be copying.
    Sod Mandela and Mother Teresa, I had the perfect example of how to live a stress free life lying right there in front of me. The more I thought about it the more sense it made.
    Rory can lie for hours doing nothing whereas I can barely last five minutes. I was brought up to believe that one should always be doing something. The motto in our house went something like this;
"Make hay whilst the early bird catches the worm and Jack's idle hands make him a dull boy."
    I've sort of rolled them together but you get the general gist.
Right I thought - no time like the present and grabbing a large wooly jumper and an unopened copy of 'Meditation Made Easy' I made my way outside.
    I lay on the lounger with Rory on the ground beside me, opened the book and followed the instructions. I exhaled and invited calm into my entire being. I cleared my upper mind of troublesome thoughts. To be honest I never knew I had a lower mind let alone an upper one but you live and learn. After about five minutes one of the troublesome thoughts flew back into my mind and lest I forget it I decided to get up and write it down in one of my never ending lists. I sat up but was immediately struck in the chest by a large paw.
    Rory clearly had other ideas. His huge brown eyes gazed at me steadily until I gave in and curling back into my wooly layers settled down to enjoy the warm winter sun.
    My husband came out half a hour later to find me still dozing. He was stunned.
"Part of my new regime." I explained. "I'm going to be serene and calm. I'm never going to panic or worry again. When I go to bed I am actually going to sleep and I'll wake up ready to face the day with tranquility." He kissed me and said. "Sounds like you're going to be on sedatives for the rest of your life."
    Rory does not spend all his time doing nothing. Sometimes he is overtaken by a wonderful exuberance and runs around the garden leaping over chairs and rolling in the grass. He bounds into the river, regardless of the weather, for no other reason than that it makes him very happy. In fact he is one of the happiest beings I know.
   I too will not sit doing nothing all day, I may not bound into the river but I may roll in the grass if the mood comes upon me - which it might. Of course we need to be busy, we have a business to run and I have another book to write. But I will most definitely take some time each day to be bone idle.
    Having cancer has changed me, it's a life threatening disease and it would be weird if it hadn't.
It has taught me a few lessons. Family and friends have always meant a great deal to me but these last few months have heightened their importance. I have always enjoyed life - on many occasions maybe too much - but this disease has taught me to cherish the moment.
    I'm not going to spend all day cherishing each and every moment - that would be silly and take a very long time -  but I do have a tendency to rush through things and I am guilty of thinking too much about tomorrow.
   Rory doesn't think about tomorrow; 
'It Is Now and I Am Here' - that is his motto and mine from now on.
    And on that note I am going to fill a large glass with something vaguely alcoholic and propose a toast.
    "To my four legged friend, thank you for being by my side, thank you for never failing to lift my spirits, thank you for loving me and thank you for showing me the way forward....
Ladies & Gentlemen... I give you RORY."



Wednesday 27 November 2013

ANGEL DELIGHT.

    I stood under the brightest star imaginable the other night. It was about four in the morning and if it hadn't been for the fact that I was scantily clad I would have whistled for the dog and together we would have followed it to Bethlehem. It was also the only star in the sky - no word of a lie.
    A few days later I came downstairs to find a blackbird in our hallway. Showing no fear it put its head to one side, looked at me with beady eyes and hopped out of the door. The resemblance to my Great Aunt Mildred was uncanny.
    I can only assume that the back door had been blown open by the wind but I would like to point something out, our back door is wrought iron, it is very heavy and on the day in question there was only a light breeze. In my mind there was no doubt, they were both signs.
    As a young child I was always seeing signs and making bargains with the big man - if you make me pass my Maths' homework then I promise I will be good  - that sort of thing. I never ever passed my Maths' homework and therefore never ever saw the necessity to fulfil my part of the bargain!
    I told my husband about my signs. He gave me 'that look' - the one which he has recently developed and which says "There's no harm in humouring her, she's on massive medication and not thinking straight, just smile and wave boys, smile and wave."
    During my next chemotherapy session however, something happened that convinced me that I was right.
    They have recently changed my drugs. This means I get to wear a 'cold cap.' Back in September when the heat was intolerable I would have killed for a'cold cap' but sadly it wasn't an option then. Now however, now that I'm bald and the temperature has plummeted I have no choice.
    The cold cap is actually a helmet filled with a freezing heavy viscous fluid. It is used to promote hair growth once the chemotherapy treatment has finished. I became alarmed when nurse Audrey started to wrap the same thing around my ankles and wrists but she hastened to assure me that it was to stop my nails from discolouring. To complete the whole ensemble I have an eye mask for my lashes and brows.
    Nurse Audrey stepped back to admire her handiwork, patted my shoulder and disappeared. My husband also chose that moment to go for a coffee and I was left alone in my own private Alaska.
    I couldn't move, I couldn't see, I was freezing cold and I soon became overwhelmingly claustrophobic and scared. I reached blindly for the call button but succeeded only in dislodging my cold cap. The heavy fluid slowly flowed to the left hand side and settled in a solid mass. I honestly thought my neck was going to break.
    Then the door opened, soft footsteps approached the bed and strong gentle hands moved me back into position. My mask slipped slightly and I quickly caught sight of a tall man in a white coat. In silence he placed a stethoscope on my heart, held my hand briefly and then was gone.
    I spent the next fifty minutes wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and serenity dreaming of polar bear cubs and brown paper packages tied up with string.
    Nurse Audrey said that she was almost sure that there were no male nurses in the day hospital that morning. She and my husband exchanged glances before giving me 'that look.'
    Sighing with exasperation I reached over to the table to reclaim my jewellery and suddenly everything fell into place. Glinting on the bedside table was a sliver 'guardian angel charm bracelet' that my sister in law had sent a few weeks previously. I slid it onto my arm smiling to myself.
    I knew I hadn't been mistaken. I knew I had seen the signs.
    You see I do believe in angels and I believe in fairies, I believe that my husband is a saint (sometimes) and I have never doubted the existence of Santa Claus, most especially at this time of year.
    I believe... well actually I'll let Audrey Hepburn finish this blog - she hits the nail right on the head.
" I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles." 

Thursday 14 November 2013

HAIR TODAY GONE TOMORROW & THE BALD TRUTH.

    Yesterday I went to the hairdresser to get my wig cut. Sounds surreal but I kid you not, it's amazing how quickly they grow.
    As I skipped out with my shiny new hair I was reminded of the last time I was there getting my  whole head shaved. Now that's a sentence I never thought I would hear myself say.
     It's amazing how quickly everything has happened, six months ago I had no inkling of things to come - thank God.
    And talking of things happening at speed, when your hair starts to fall, boy does it fall fast. It comes out in handfuls. Sweeping it up is a non stop operation from the moment you are awake.
    They advise you to use a sleeping cap to lessen the distress of seeing it framing the imprint of your head on the pillow in the morning. We live in South West France, it was mid September when all this was happening and it was still bloody hot. I had chosen a white muslin cap thinking it would be cool -  ('cool' as in not hot - not 'cool' as in trendy) it wasn't and as I also looked like a cast member from 'Little House on The Prairie' the cap lasted less than five minutes.
    It is of course not only from your head that your hair disappears, it departs from other areas too. I won't go into too much detail, suffice to say that as well as a sleeping cap the marvellous Macmillan's cancer website ought to consider recommending the use of sleeping knickers too.
    After several days of hair absolutely everywhere except where it should be I was ready to throw in the towel and I headed off to the hair salon to get the whole lot shaved. My normal reliable cliche of a camp hairdresser complete with tiny dog was away, so a trendy young stylist was assigned to me. Ignoring my pleas to use the clippers she attempted to fashion my few remaining clumps and I walked out looking like a cabbage patch doll.
    A few days later, accompanied by a mate for moral support, I marched back to the salon. Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes my hairdresser tried to tell me that the stylist need the practice. That much was obvious, but why? How many baldy chemotherapy clients was she likely to come across during her career? Anyway, finally out came the clippers, that is not a euphemism for anything, and I got the number 1 shave I had requested.
    Back home I went upstairs to the bathroom and l slowly took my headscarf off.  I stared back at an alien and I use that word deliberately. Forcing myself not to cry like a baby just because I looked like one I took a cleansing wipe and removed every trace of makeup and scrubbed my face clean.
    I used a magnifying mirror to examine my head and face in minute detail, manoeuvring it so that I was able to see myself from all angles. After a while I put the mirror down and stood staring at myself for a very long time. I closed my eyes and traced my face and head with my fingers like a blind person learning to recognise someone for the first time and I tried to picture 'me' in my mind's eye.
    And when I finally opened my eyes I cried. I cried like a baby, but they were tears of relief because I had done the thing I was dreading the most and it was OK. The woman staring back at me was still me, a strange me, a very different me, but definitely still me.
    I wouldn't go so far as to say it was like baring your soul but it comes a close second. Standing there without any artifice, without any adornment, no stray curl or sexy strand to soften or hide your features is actually quite liberating. The layers had been peeled away and I felt raw and vulnerable but also strangely powerful.
    And I realised another thing, I realised that I had quite a good shaped head, no lumps or bumps but smooth and nicely rounded..... like Sinead O'Connor but sadly without her voice, or indeed her amazing bone structure or her eyes, so OK not really like her at all, I'll shut up.
    Having said all that I still don't feel brave enough to face my public without any headgear and frankly I'm not sure they'd want that either.
    Now this is going to sound bizarre but to be honest I would rather wear a wig and be naked from the neck down than the other way around. Strange but true.
    I'm not sure why but the idea of stripping has always held an odd attraction for me. It doesn't run in the family, or not that I'm aware of, and it was certainly never mentioned during any careers advice at the all girls High School I attended but maybe I should have followed my instinct. I would have undoubtedly earned more money than during my acting career -  or indeed any career to date.
    I wonder if it's too late?
    I'm no 'poulet de printemps' but maybe there's a market for the more mature bald striptease act.
    I bet there is, there's a market for everything these days!

Coming soon to a town near you.... Janie Millman performing 'The Bald Truth.'

Thursday 31 October 2013

Hair Today Gone Tomorrow & the Benefit of Baileys!

    I am a girl who likes the odd tipple, indeed have even been known to occasionally topple whilst tippling too much, so imagine my delight when I discovered an alcoholic drink that did not give me heartburn or make me violently ill whilst on chemotherapy.
    I love the French Health System for many reasons, their efficiency, their care, their compassion but most of all for their healthy attitude towards alcohol.
    When I asked my oncologist about the wisdom of having something stronger than tea he looked at me as if I had landed from another planet. Right now, with my bald head, I do actually look like an alien so I rather resented that expression but forgave him as soon as I heard his response.
    "Well of course you must have an aperitif to stimulate the appetite and then once the appetite is stimulated you must have another glass with your meal."
    Obviously to get the full benefit you have to imagine this said in French accompanied by the gorgeous Gaelic shrug.
    So what is this wonder drink I speak of? It is of course - as the title suggests - Baileys.
It's creamy, it's comforting, it soothes and settles the stomach and I have become addicted. 
     I am reliably informed by my niece that there is a cocktail involving Baileys & Cointreau which is called an 'Orgasm.' I think this may be step too far. I'll just settle for the warm glow in the stomach that precedes a climax.
    And the marvellous thing is that you can have a drop any time of the day or night. I find a splash in my early morning coffee works wonders. As I tend to get up early these days my morning coffee (after the dull but obligatory green tea) is often around 8.30am. It feels wicked, sinful, naughty and debauched.... and it is! Oh yes, it most certainly is all of these things... and I don't care.
    One of the joys of being ill, and trust me there are not that many, is that sometimes you can do just what the f**k you like!
    I don't know why it is not more widely talked about in cancer circles, or indeed talked about at all. So in may own small way I am going to remedy that... here I go ... I am shouting it from the roof tops like a town crier...
   "Oyez, Oyez, all you cancer sufferers out there, the Irish based creamy concoction most commonly known as Baileys is good for you - you heard it here first."
   Ok so perhaps 'good for you' is stretching it, but it certainly offers solace in times of need. I may even try spreading it on my head  - who knows, it may promote wonderful hair growth and if not then the dog can lick it off.
    So Mr& Mrs Baileys, or anyone connected to the family however tenuously, I hope you are listening because I am singing your praises here and in return I'll take a case of the glorious stuff.
Many thanks,
Janie.
    

e


Wednesday 23 October 2013

Hair Today Gone Tomorrow !

I was diagnosed with breast cancer about two and a half months ago.
    I have had the operation to remove the tumour, I am nearly halfway through chemotherapy and yet still it does not feel real.
    I am and always have been incredibly healthy. When I was six I had my tonsils out and thirty years later I had a skiing accident and that's about as bad as it has ever got.
    The words "rude health" have often been used to describe me, other words have been used too but I'm not prepared to share them just yet!

It happened very quickly. One moment I was all singing and dancing and looking forward to a significant birthday and then suddenly, almost without warning, I was sitting on a bed naked from the waist up with my arms locked around the neck of a gorgeous young oncologist called Nicolas.
    I want you to know that I had been deliberately placed int that position, I am not in the habit of throwing myself willy nilly at young doctors no matter how bloody good looking.

The lovely Nicolas examined my left tit with a clinical and detailed precision that was vaguely reminiscent of an unsavoury episode with a bloke called Dave at a rugby cub disco in the early eighties. God I thought I'd got over that.
    Doctor Nicolas finally disentangled my arms arms and his bright blue eyes, filled with kindness and  compassion, gazed into my terrified brown ones. I felt like a deer who, with an uncanny sixth sense turns his head to look directly into the face of the hunter about to pull the trigger.
    Now I have never actually been hunting and far from being the hunter Nicolas was going to save my life, but you get the general idea.

As our eyes locked we shared the briefest of moments, but that was all it took.
     I knew that I had cancer and he knew that I knew. He smiled gently and squeezing my shoulders whispered the words "bon courage" - I live in France, he wasn't being pretentious.

I got dressed slowly and with exaggerated politeness thanked them all - did I forget to mention that there were four consultants altogether in the room with me?

I returned to the waiting room where my husband was pretending to read a magazine.
    One look at my face told him that a very large glass of something very alcoholic was needed as fast as possible for both of us.