(not quite) THE END

One. Year. Later.

You would think, by now, I would have experienced gratitude, an epiphany, some warrior-moment. I haven’t. Today, 1-year later I feel extreme loss. I feel ripped off. I’ve lost my hair, my partner, dignity, strength, self-esteem, oestrogen, fertility and sense of humour. Sure, I’m better at managing sadness and pain – and I was gifted a pair of ugg boots and a dressing gown but it still doesn’t seem like a fair split. Crazy thought but some days I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t mentioned The Lump to my GP. I would be none the wiser.

I feel this chapter has done its dash. It has been incredibly cathartic to write. Thank you for indulging me, for your patience and amazing kindness. You guys rock!!!

Wednesday, 19 July 2023
Unless you’ve been living under a rock – or you don’t know me – it is highly likely you heard about my breast cancer diagnosis last year. Yeah, that was shit. Many folks are asking, are you in remission?

Today is one year since surgery. On Monday I underwent scans – a mammogram and an ultrasound. I meet with the surgeon next Tuesday for the low-down.

Before I bring you up to date, here’s a wrap from last year:

2022 started excellently. I brought in the new year with my besties in Melbourne. On 2 January Simon and I flew to the UK. More amazingness. Body in good form, strong, could perhaps lose a few kilos. Being 50, there are the usual bumps, wrinkles, flappy bits – oh, and a painless lump under my boob. A few months into the year, I get scans, diagnosis. World comes crashing down. Somehow I get through surgery, chemo, radiation. I lose my hair. My body is wrecked. Radiation treatment takes me right up to Christmas, I am unable to travel o/s with Simon as planned. Simon leaves me behind – oh, and leaves me for another woman – who is ten years younger and doesn’t have cancer. Giles is no longer willing to look after Lucy, the old family dog, because “she barks too much and does not consider Kellie part of the pack”. I need to find a new place to live – somewhere I can have a dog (a 2nd floor apartment is not ideal digs for a Kelpie – even if she is now a couch-kelpie). So I need to find a place, pack, move – while undergoing chemo, radiation – my body weak, crippled and so so tired. Could the universe please give me a break? A friend said recently: sometimes you’re the pigeon, sometimes you’re the statue. Well, I’m sick of being the statue.

I exist in a fog. I’ve accepted that good things don’t happen to me. Or, if and when they do, they’re short-lived and something will quickly swoop in and crap on them. Ha! Do I feel ripped off? Bloody oath. Why me? Why wasn’t it the person to my left – or my right? Why wasn’t it some arsehole that doesn’t give a shit about people? Why couldn’t it be the woman who drives a black jeep cherokee and tailgates while doing 80km/hr on Canberra Ave? Why couldn’t it have been the skanky moll who talked her way into my grandparents’ house to ‘use the phone’ then stole my grandmother’s wedding rings? Why couldn’t it be that middle-aged white woman, who used to be a man, who is rude to service staff at the café in Braddon? Darling: becoming a woman didn’t improve your manners. You may have lost the cock but you haven’t lost the ‘tude. Oh, on second thoughts, it is unlikely ‘she’ will get breast cancer as she used to be a he and while men do get breast cancer, it is rare. Cue the woke brigade. I’m not fussed, just making a statistical observation. Yes, I feel ripped off.

Was it all worth it?

Tuesday, 25 July 2023
Calvary Hospital is no longer Calvary Hospital, the crucifix and the name have gone along with the rusty lawnmower art in the garden. The front door is no longer guarded by COVID police, masks are offered, encouraged but not mandatory. Dear Sunday is still working the front desk at the Specialist Outpatient Clinic. I am already crying when I arrive at 9:30am. Hate being back in this place.

The surgeon inspects his handiwork. He seems pleased – or disappointed – it’s hard to tell. He tells me the breast will remain hardened and warm for some time, a result of the surgery and radiation.

The surgeon is no-nonsense, straight up: I am officially NED (“no evidence of disease”) ie. no visible cancer to detect. Yes, I can use the word remission. The prognosis is “very good”. Based on the type, stage, margins, age, lymph nodes, treatment, including radio therapy, I have a “well over 80% of being alive, well and cancer-free 15 years from now”. Awesome. See you in July 2024.

How do I feel? Exhausted. Relived. It’s hard to be happy. 2022 was awful, just awful. It was raw, painful, terrifying. I feel shell-shocked, spent.

What do I do now?
BAU

There will be ongoing 3-month check-ins with the oncology and radiotherapy teams for the remainder of this year, then yearly thereafter. I am 6-months into taking Tamoxifen, a hormone blocker. I will be on medication for at least 5 years. I have essentially been chemically-plunged into menopause so I experience hot flushes, sleeplessness, occasional pelvic pain though I’m not missing the (painful) periods. I struggle with my appearance daily. My hair is yet to grow to a manageable length – it looks like Beaker from the Muppets in the AM, Crazy Cat Lady in the PM. I absolutely detest it. I feel ugly, unloved, ripped off and left behind.

I will continue to wake up each day, put one foot in front of the other, try and get to the end of 2023. I think that will do for now.

Love yous all.
The FBR

(Nearly) 3 years since shit-show started.

Saturday, 5 April 2025
While it’s been radio silence for the Full Bush Rat in recent months, rest assured she has not been idle. Still making noise, sharing her inappropriate opinions, generally getting up to mischief.

According to my hair, time has flown. The rest of me, not so much. Today was a reminder that I am only 3 years into the horror movie that is cancer: diagnosis, treatment, side-effects, mind-trip, self-pity, body-loathing, illness, pain, more treatment.

Repeat.

A beautiful nurse once told me I would never be the same person as I was BC (before cancer). I felt ripped off by that. Now I accept it. Accepting is part of the healing process.

Today I was back at Level 4 at the Canberra Region Cancer Centre for my 6-monthly infusion. Arrive 10am. Plugged in, bloods done, flushed, infusion, flushed, pay bill.

7 hours later, the side-effects are starting to kick in. Chills, joint pain, muscle aches, fever, nausea, fatigue. The beautiful thing is, one of the side effects of exemestane is insomnia so it kind of balances things out.

Ironically, as I recline in my stylish lazy-boy chair on the chemo ward, my work colleagues are participating in Relay-for-Life. Walking at the AIS – for 24 hours – to raise funds for research, prevention and support services for the Cancer Council. The first walkers kicked off at 10am this morning and will finish at 9am tomorrow. Sam will be joining them for the final laps in the morning (with or without me depending on how hung-over I am).

Sitting on the ward – with my buddy Ian and a takeaway coffee – I reflected on my neighbours. On one side there was a woman, perhaps 10 years my senior. On the other, a woman my age. Beyond that, a man – indeterminable age, no hair, alarmingly thin, drifting in and out of sleep. Next to him another woman, my vintage. None had a support person with them. Chemo – cancer – is lonely. In my last half hour, a young lad comes into the ward. 18, maybe 19. A beautiful, strapping, terrified young man. The drugs/cannular/infusion did not start well, and the curtain was quickly drawn.

I can still his young face, brave but scared. His father hovering helplessly nearby. This image has stayed with me for the remainder of the day. I am by no means young, neither am I old. I am planning on wreaking havoc for a few more decades. But … if I could, would I give those decades away to give this young man life? Absolutely. No question.

And that, my friends, is why we walk-these-walks, raise money for research, support families, carers. Give people – especially the young – a better chance at enjoying this wonderful world (sans Trump).

I will continue to take the awful aromatase inhibitor daily, receive infusions every 6 months, see my radiation oncologist, medical oncologist and surgeon every quarter, every year for another 3 years. At least. I want to enjoy this wonderful world for as long as I am able. Why? Because it’s a privilege.

Sending good Full-Bush-Rat vibes to you all (especially Jess, oncology nurse, Canberra Region Cancer Centre, 5 April 2025).

PS. Please make Trump go away.

More broken bits.

Wednesday, 12 June 2024
Well wouldn’t you know it. Another health drama.

Typically we only harp on when there’s something really good or really shit to report. We don’t bother writing about the mediocre, mundane. Case in point, there has been no startling news from Full Bush Rat HQ. Work is BAU. My office buddies, MG, ML, NS, JP are legends. One recently turned 40. Yee-haw!!! My car got a pink slip. Did not renew my comprehensive insurance this time – given some (unknown) fucker recently ‘nudged’ the back of the wagon leaving a significant dent. This dent joins the dent that some mofo left on the driver’s side a few years back. This dent joins the cracked frame of the driver’s side mirror compliments of a (known) raving lunatic from Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs. Thankfully she chose to only bust-up the mirror, not take a key to the four drivers-side panels …

The dog is on the decline. Wakes 2-4 times each night. Disoriented. Barking. Looking for me. When I’m home she sits 2 inches from my face, whimpering. She eats the last of the green tomatoes off the vine – even though there are ripe, red ones within reach. Her evening circle work has become manic digging – and now, biting – of the fitted sheet I’ve put across the top of the bed. In the evenings she gets her entrée @ 5:30pm (beans and a cucumber); main @ 6:00pm (190gm kibble); dessert @ 7:00pm (1/4 can sardines). Twice a week she gets to sit in the back of the wagon and bark at the steers grazing at the front of the property. She is now all but completely deaf. Sam pulled up on Saturday, did not even hear the car coming. Gone is the cheeky, bouncy kelpie. She now waits for me to take the lead when we walk, searches the house frantically to find me when I’m working from home. Sleeps long and often, plagued by hectic doggy-dreams.

The boobs are good. The head is good. The weather is cold, bleak. The cottage is freezing. I still manage to get out in the garden for a few hours each weekend. If I could recommend a single thing to people who are going through a shit time, it would be: plant something. Some beansprouts on the counter, a small succulent from Bunnings, some bulbs thrown randomly across the garden at the end of autumn, the act of planting a plant, tending to it, seeing it grow (… or not!) is primal. Good for the soul. This weekend I cleared the spent bean stalks and tomato vines (helped my Lucy), lettuces that had gone to seed, pruned back the sage, pulled out the pumpkin that had succumbed to the frost, dead-headed the roses. I threw everything in a pile, mulched the shit out of it with the lawn mower, then put it back on the garden.

For a few months now, I’ve been experiencing a sharp pain in my right hip. No, it’s not from line dancing or Pilates. There is no sciatica. Rather, it is a deep pain, spasm that can fiercely occur at anytime (much to my work mate’s alarm). My oncologist requests a pelvic scan (bless you Dr P). You will have to forgive me, once upon a time I remembered every appointment, person, nurse, technician, doctor but there’s a point at which it becomes so frequent, so routine, you no longer commit these times, people to memory. The scan identifies two irregularities, “please see your GP and arrange referrals for an ultrasound of uterus and liver”. Ultrasounds booked. The one for the liver requires fasting, the one for the uterus requires a full bladder. Always a joy having The Probe inserted up the fanny then pushed, rotated. Brings on waves of nausea. And bleeding.

Only 1/3 of the cost of the scans are covered by Medicare so nearly $500 out of pocket. But want to get best outcome so I’ll forgo 2 x front tyres … they can wait another 1,000km. How are you supposed to weigh up the value – heath vs road safety??!

As of today, I have not heard back from GP regarding liver scan result – no news is good news right?! Crack open another beer. All good.

My GP’s clinic has (automatically) booked me in for an appointment, 2:15pm, Wednesday 12 June 2024. Curious. Ominous. Dr M will be seeing me in my GP’s absence. I choose to take the appointment via phone, save 90km round trip and $20 petrol. We discuss the weather. The Dr M gets up to speed on the (uterus) scan results. Normal uterus lining = 1 – 4mm. Mine = 32mm. Lots of talk about cystic changes, endometrial hyperplasia, endometrial cancer. Yippee! I have now parked the breasts to make way for the uterus and the surrounding labyrinth: mons pubis, labia majora, labia minora, clitoris, cervix, vestibular bulbs, fundus (not as fun as it sounds), vulva vestibule, Bartholin’s glands, ovarian ligaments, Skene’s glands, urethra and finally … the vaginal opening. Reminds me a bit of IKEA … ie. a massive roundabout way to get to the exit.

I did not expect this. I feel sad, ripped off. Despite our best thoughts, wishes, intentions, sometimes the universe does not deliver. Fuck it. I’m getting bloody sick of my female bits packing up. My dignity is shot. How do you reconcile it when the parts that make you a woman are broken? Parts that are not only amazingly beautiful, sexy, erotic but also grow and nurture life. It is awkward, embarrassing and makes me feel ugly, less-of-a-woman.

Referral has been sent to the Gyne ward at Canberra Hospital. Hopefully I will get a consult in 30 days, 90 at the latest. Right now, I just want my uterus gone – along with its now redundant, support squad.

Will keep you posted peeps.
Love yous all,
The FBR

Spring and scabby threads.

The Full Bush Rat has been MIA.

I feel the need to provide an update on the last few months. I have lots to moan and complain about.

Monday, 31 July 2023
Today, one of my work colleagues described me as a Rock Star. I am embracing this 100% and might even get a new tattoo.

Wednesday, 2 August 2023
I’m pissed off with the universe. Today, the wife of one of work colleagues was diagnosed with breast cancer. A beautiful woman, a mum, a wife, daughter, sister. Generous, kind, clever, strong – she seriously does not have a bad bone in her body. Why why why?? Why do shit things happen to good people? Tonight they will tell the children. My heart is breaking. So many memories of being scared, sad, confused, overwhelmed while trying to stay stoic, cool, upbeat.

Right now, the universe can go and fuck itself.

My Name
I’m thinking of changing my name. To a single, easy to spell word like Madonna or Prince. Not a symbol because that would be wanky but if I did it would be the dodgy donkey I drew in Pictionary all those years back … which successfully lost the game for my team mate and me. The upside being, I was never asked to partner for Pictionary again.

The Hair
I should be grateful I have hair right now. For some, the hair never grows back. And as many men have reminded me, they have been battling receding hairlines forever and received no sympathy whatsoever. A poem:

My Hair Journey
scabby threads
romper-stomper-esque fuzz
tinkerbell comb-over
beaker
50 shades of grey
elfin punk mop

I now sport an Andy Warhol meets Boris Johnson shambles. No, I am not artistic or homeless. Nor do I own numerous cats.

Good Things
Did I say good things don’t happen to me?? Yes I did. But two good things did happen. A friend invited me to see Jamiroquai at the Harvest Festival in Adelaide. It took me a microsecond to say ‘hell yes please’. And because I’m a random type of gal, I decided to add some more good-time vibes by swinging through Melbourne on the way to see my Willy peeps.

Willy
Oh. My. Goodness. I cannot begin to tell how happy these people make me. Even though our kids are now all grown up, it’s like a day has not passed between us – still the same warmth, humour, love. As the author Karen Salmansohn said, “If you wanna find out who’s a true friend, screw up or go through a challenging time … then see who sticks around.” The pitch to return to post code 3016 did not go unnoticed.

Jay Kay
It’s been over 40 years since I visited Adelaide. I was impressed! The small part I saw was vibrant, welcoming, colourful. Funky laneways, art, design, bronze pigs, great food, massage joints, strip clubs. Our lazy Friday afternoon started with a pizza and beverage in a wonderful old hotel on Hindley Street – previously the brothel capital of Australia. Fascinating. As we drank in the evening, a short walk away we came across a gentleman perusing items in the window of The Map Shop. It was none other than Mr Jason Kay aka Jay Kay. We exchanged pleasantries with the Space Cowboy before leaving him and his kebab-eating security guy to continue their cartography study.

Back to Reality
That’s the end of the good things.

My dog is sick. I took her to the vet last Wednesday then another vet yesterday for a second opinion.

She is weak and definitely uncomfortable. Munching grass like a mofo, hurling it up, eating it again, throwing it up again. It’s a mystery. The vet gave her a jab to stop the vomiting and she is now on a daily probiotic and an antacid. She has been lying at my feet in the study today … there have been some rather disturbing smells emanating from under my desk this afternoon … maybe things are starting to ‘move’. Poor girl.

31 October 2023
1 year ago today, I had my last round of chemo. Yeah, that was shit. But good. But shit. It was one of the most weird, awful experiences in my life. Willingly pouring a cocktail of poison into your body, becoming a bald, shuffling, wreck to make yourself well just seems nonsensical. It worked.

1 November 2023
3-month check-up with radiation oncology. I don’t bother with the offered ‘modesty’ slip now. My breasticles are no longer loved, precious or of interest to me. They are merely droopy bits of tissue that require daily support. The region that was operated on then blasted with nuclearfication, is still discoloured, raised and hardened. The doc says it may remain like that for … ? Like chemo, radiation damages normal cells and tissue which can disrupt all those complex ‘connections’ ie. muscles, tendons etc. He recommends keeping up with the physio exercises and massaging the area to get the lymphatic system moving again. Thank you. See you next year.

2 November 2023
Surprise! You nearly missed an appointment. It’s time for your 6-monthly zoledronic acid infusion. Need to get bloods done in advance. 10:30am, Level 4, Building 19. I am not ready for this. How did it drop off my radar? I scoot down promptly – reception, masked, tagged, waiting. I almost break out in a cold sweat when I enter the treatment area. The sound of the machines (pumps) beeping is almost unbearable. Matthew, the RN tends to me and the world is just a little bit better. Matt – if you ever read this, know you, Mike, Hannah, Lois – and all your colleagues – are fucking legends. The stream of patients is constant. The chairs are always occupied. When one patient vacates, the chairs are wiped down ready for the next. All are treated with the upmost care and professionalism.

If anyone needs a reminder to be grateful for your lot, stick your head into one of the pods on level 4.

I found out later a work colleague’s wife was in for treatment on the same day. For stomach cancer. If I’d known, we could have shared a cheese-slaw sandwich and a coconut and jam slice (handmade and delivered by volunteers – more beautiful people).

4 November 2023
The loneliness is unbearable. What I would give to have someone hold me, offer me comfort.

When you, your loved ones are impacted by an illness, not a day goes by that you aren’t confronted by an arm-chair expert providing some rationalisation for your disease, lifestyle choices. Even my mother said “cheer up, could be worse”. Yes, it could be. But you’re not the one living it.

It’s just statistics people (note: if you didn’t pass Statistics 101, please check yourself in for a refresher).

Based on the feedback from my (amazing) health care team, there is little – to nothing – I could have done to not be where I am now. If it wasn’t me, it might have been you.

Give thanks to the amazing health care we have in Australia, the nurses, doctors, researchers. I have no interest in god or jesus, he/she has done bugger all to protect my best and dearest and self.

Yesterday and last night I experienced the fallout from the zoledronic acid. Restlessness, headache, shakes, sweats, low-grade temp, diarrhea and worst of all, sharp streaks of pain in my bones.

It makes me cross to write this post so I’m going to sign off. I’ve heard well-meaning people say, “everything happens for a reason”. Please tell me what that reason is because right now, I’ve got nothing.

Love yous all,
FBR

Distractions.

Distractions

The ‘D’ Spot
ADHD has become very trendy these days. Which kind of pisses me off. I’m pretty sure I’m well on the pointy end of the spectrum. Which end I’m not sure – I have no intention of getting a formal diagnosis. I’m pissed off because now my normal is described by a string of words, ending in the elegant word, “Disorder”.

Before I knew such a space existed, I considered myself confidently different. My dress was simple, my thoughts were galactic. Considering – in the same second – how to dry garlic, build a combustion engine and make lipstick, was normal. As was reciting Monty Python skits while sliding down well-polished banisters, dressed as a bumble bee at high school. Today, I am socially selective, preferring the company of folk who ponder such things as why the Fibonacci sequence is seen in pinecones, why energy can be neither created or destroyed, why Birkenstocks have reached mainstream fashion or why homophones are allowed to exist (cruel and unnecessary).

The Dentist
I have a morbid (but entirely rational) fear of the dentist. Going to a small rural school in New Zealand, you lived in fear at getting The Call to go to the in-house dental nurse, aka the Murder House. I’m not sure what qualifications these ‘nurses’ had but there was very little care and nil pain relief for any procedure. I break into a cold sweat at the very thought of metal implements picking and scrapping inside my mouth. The drilling thundering through my head, the pain searing through every nerve in my body. I would rather amputate my own arm with a blunt, rusty saw than sit in that chair.

So why would I go through this torment? Well, another bonus of receiving treatment for breast cancer is the knock-on effect of the treatments themselves – yay!

Every 6 months I return to Cancer HQ to receive an intravenous infusion of zoledronic acid. Zoledronic acid is a bit of a wonder-drug. It reduces the damage caused to bones – not only by the cancer but by treatments such as chemo, radiation and hormone therapies. It works by helping the bones to heal where damaged, increase the strength of the bones and prevent fractures. It also slows the amount of calcium that is lost from the bones and can reduce the risk of cancer spreading.

However …

There are two (rare) side effects of zoledronic acid – thigh bone fracture and ONJ. The thigh bone can – completely randomly – just fracture. This can happen with no trauma ie. you can literally wake up in the morning with a fractured femur. Amazing. Another side effect is a condition known as Osteonecrosis of the Jaw (ONJ) where jaw bone tissue dies and fails to heal. More amazingness. Hence the need to get a complete dental exam done before treatment.

Cancer. The gift that keeps on giving. In so many ways 😊

Bill Bryson
Tremendous talk by the talented Mr Bill Bryson at Llewyn Hall in February. Extra special having Adam Spencer and his dicky eye hosting the talk. While it was a loosely veiled plug for his re-released book, the memoires were entertaining and the scientific banter engaging. Did you know it would take over 11 million years for a car (assuming it travelled at the speed limit and didn’t take the scenic route) to travel one light year? Or maybe that’s just my car. Regardless, it’s a bloody long time. Astronomers rex they’ve discovered an earth-sized planet only 40 light years away that sits in a zone where water and even life could exist. So what are we waiting for, let’s go!!

Supermarket Trolleys
I live in post code 2620. I’m certain it is home to THE MOST stolen, discarded supermarket trollies in the whole of Oz. Fact. The most curious one I found across the road was from Bunnings. The nearest Bunnings is 7 kilometres away. That takes some effort. While I appreciate the vaguely artistic value of these placements, there is a bigger question: why aren’t our cities providing decent public transport infrastructure so people can make dignified trips to and from the supermarket? Or Bunnings. Sure, some of the trolley-thieves are pissed-up Jackasses taking a joy-ride – or amped-up junkies collecting cans but some are folk on low-incomes that don’t have a car and need to get their shopping – and their kids – home. Yup. Instead of being judgy-judgy, perhaps we should look at how we, as a community can reduce steel-wheel art installations by offering someone a lift home with their shopping. I did. She lived over 2 kilometres away, was grateful for the ride and one more trolley made it back-to-base that night.

Birkenstocks
Once upon a time, there was a humble German cobbler who established a very sensible-shoe making business. A few generations later, a German-American woman brought a pair of these sensible-shoes to the US. Fast forward 50 years and the sensible shoes, once confined to the likes of unabashed hippies and lesbians, are now celebrated on catwalks, worn proudly to beach, cafes and mother’s groups. With or without socks. Despite feeling like you’re walking on damp concrete, the sandal with its thick leather straps and orthopaedic soles, softened by years of sweat, tinea and toe-jam is now a Fashion Statement. Behold, the Birkenstock. Quite possibly, the ugliest piece of footwear in the world.

And I now own a pair.

They are beige. I’m not proud. They’re a compromise between a Havaiana and a Croc. I hate the fact they take 4 seconds to get on, you have to shuffle your feet under the straps – it takes ages. I’m also worried about the darkening leather sole … it feels like the unwashed armpit of a leather jacket.

The Boobies
26 May marks 4 years since I had The Scan. To be honest, I’m still pretty scarred by the whole thing. Today’s ravings are most definitely a feeble effort at avoiding the upcoming anniversary. You can look forward to some hard-core beating in the next few weeks.

As we approach Year 4 since the dud-boob diagnosis, here are my reflections (in no particular order):
· women are bloody strong
· our men, are good men and our boys are going to be even better
· there are a lot of people in pain
· animals matter (and snakes aren’t so bad)
· being honest about your feelings won’t scare (good) people off
· your body is an incredible machine
· your body is yours – and it is beautiful

Love yous all,
The FBR