You would have thought that The Grim Reaper would have had enough on his hands in Gaza, Israel, Ukraine, Sudan, Niger, Yemen and other killing fields; but it seems he’s been lurking around here as well for the past seven days. He’s stolen two of my friends from their partners and families, and has menaced a third one, all in the space of one short week. Meanwhile, two other dear friends have come through the annual and unwanted milestones of losing their beloved partners. We tell each other that grief is grief every day, and isn’t especially reserved for anniversaries, but they mean something all the same.

My late father and I used to have a weekly phone call on a Sunday, him living far away in Wales. During his working life as a sales agent the telephone had been one of the main tools of his trade, and he was good at the superficial, strictly business-oriented operation of it. Socially, though, it made him ill at ease, and he usually couldn’t put the receiver down quick enough. So every week we had what my brother and I came to call the Five Question Phone Call, which ran like this:
“It’s your Dad here.” (Yes, I knew that). 1. “How are you?” (Fine! How are -); 2. How’s Stuart? (Yeah, he’s pretty good -); 3. “How’s your weather?” (Well, you know, it’s -); 4. “How’s work?” (Pretty busy but we’ve been -); and then The Clincher, 5. “Do you want to speak to Your Brother?” Then he could hand the receiver over with relief. Said Brother, Steve, timed it regularly, and Dad’s record was three minutes and nine seconds before responsibility for making conversation could be transferred to someone else. It’s not that he wasn’t interested in me or fond of me. He just couldn’t be doing with telephones.

Steve would sometimes exhort him to be a bit more wide ranging in his subject matter so there was occasionally a Question 6 which invariably began “Eh, you’ll never guess who’s died …”. This was something on which he could converse. I hardly ever knew who they were as I’ve not lived in Wales for nearly fifty years, but he would relate them all to me diligently whilst I, shamefully as I recall it now, rolled my eyes from several hundred miles away. It used to give me a wry, often exasperated smile; years later, it doesn’t, and I now appreciate what it meant for him, as the losses inevitably pile up as I get older. Pace, Dad.

So for any of you who have lost, or are about to lose someone you love, I offer my sincere condolences, and a most heartfelt hug. Because although I’ve been tussling with this for years, I still don’t know the right way to express it in words.

My late mother had something to say about the process of dying too. “The shortlist is getting shorter,” she’d remark philosophically when hearing of someone’s departure, “and we’ve all just moved up a place.”

So because so many of you have been kindly asking, here is a brief update on the manoeuvres I’ve been employing in an effort to avoid arriving in the top spot any time soon.

I managed the second Lanreotide injection without experiencing many of the usual side effects. The main damage it has done is to punt my ability to control my blood sugar into orbit. I have been Type 2 diabetic for years, and for the last three or four years, a pretty smug one. It was all under control thanks to a cocktail of drugs and the regular oversight of our local – and absolutely wonderful – diabetes team. I was a star pupil. Not so now. I am now injecting insulin three or four times a day, and in true cyborg fashion, I have a subcutaneous glucose meter on my arm that takes constant readings and relays them to my phone (and simultaneously to the NHS) in real time. So I can watch on in alarm as my blood glucose careens around like a pinball machine, racking up ludicrous scores, whilst the local team valiantly endeavours to get a handle on it. To all Type 1 diabetics out there – if this is what you have been struggling with every day of your lives … RESPECT.

The various clinicians have been in communication with each other (and with me, hurray) and have decided that the Scary Spinal Surgery can go ahead. The endocrinologist can’t think of a reason why it shouldn’t, whilst the neurologist and the neurosurgeon can think of several reasons why it definitely should. So come February, that should be one area of existential dread confronted and dealt with.

The next injection is the end of November, the next consultation with the endocrinologist is just before Christmas, a hormone blood test to see if the Lanreotide is getting to grips with the various tumours. Then a scan in March.

Nobody knows what the Cold Wet Leg is about so we’ll worry about that some other time.

So that’s me for now, and I’m irritated with myself for being so obsessed with what’s happening with me when far, far worse is happening to others – to strangers and to the people I love. And yes, Ripley, the deep irony of professing to resent going on about myself whilst blogging it to the world is NOT lost on me – so wipe that smirk off your face.

I first saw the film Alien when it came out in 1979, in a cinema somewhere in London. I can recall being thrilled by Ellen Ripley, the crew member that nobody listened to until it was too late, and the one that managed to blast the wretched Xenomorph into outer space; but only after she’d rescued the ship’s cat, Jones. Having set the destruct button on the Nostromo, she is heading swiftly for the escape pod when she realises she has left the cat behind; immediately, she risks life and limb to go back for him, at which point the cinema erupted on what I recall as gender lines, with the women shouting “Get the cat!” and the men shouting “Leave the bloody cat!” She got the cat, destroyed the alien and set course for home. What a woman. She’s been my cinematic heroine ever since, not even knocked off that perch by the truly wonderful police detective Marge Gunderson in Fargo.

One of my friends who is following this blog advised me to do what Ripley tells me to do. I didn’t need telling … look what happened to the ones who didn’t pay attention back in 1979.

Anyway, she has been my avatar and companion since August 2018 when I got my second bout of breast cancer. Whenever I was about to be engulfed by fear I would pause and ask myself “What would Ripley do?” and she would magically appear and tell me. She was the ideal companion for a wuss. Five months later I left Clan House after being irradiated and following my third operation since 2013, and Ripley departed, promising that she’d be back if I needed her. Followers of this blog will know that I needed her again in August this year when I was diagnosed with Neuroendocrine Cancer, and true to her word, she has appeared.

We headed to Scalloway Health Centre early in October for the first injection of Lanreotide, a drug which we hope will stabilise or reduce the tumours that have been deposited on my liver and pancreas. NEC is a relatively rare condition and the treatment is not a common thing – there are rules: the drug has to be out of the fridge for at least half an hour before use, and the injection itself must take at least twenty seconds to deliver. Otherwise, unpleasant swellings occur which are hard, if not impossible to shift. So I was utterly relieved to find that the practise nurse was used to giving this injection, which she duly did, with the compassion and professionalism that so many have afforded me since 2013. Job done, we headed home to await the side effects. Having consulted the online support group which I joined mid September, I discovered that no two Lanreotide users experience the same side effects; but the most common appeared to be diahorrea, nausea, stomach ache and fatigue, most of which “should” diminish after four or five days.

I am glad to report that I managed to avoid the ten metre dashes to the loo; sure, I felt queasy, experienced abdominal discomfort and wanted to sleep a lot but this all diminished after four days, so I was left feeling that I’d kind of gotten away with it. Not quite … the Lanreotide knocked my ability to control my blood sugar out of the park (this was particularly galling as I’d had my diabetes under excellent control for the past three years or so). Immediately the local diabetes team stepped in and we started tweaking the drugs and close monitoring, because naturally, I’d gone into panic mode … The result of this is that I’m now injecting insulin and wearing a subcutaneous blood glucose sensor that continually monitors the levels AND beams them simultaneously to the NHS. I am officially a cyborg. Gradually getting used to everything this entails … and hoping that the next Lanreotide injection – due on 31st October – doesn’t make things any worse.

But back to Ripley for a minute. I have often wondered why she didn’t show up when I first had cancer in 2013; but it seemed rude to ask. And then I remembered: Genghis, our large ginger cat (who has a significant internet fan base of his own) first turned up as a stray at our house in November 2013, a few weeks before my operation; and has been with us ever since. Is he … could he be … did she send him because she was too caught up to come herself? I’ve asked them both and neither of them are admitting anything. But still –

“It strikes me,” said Ripley, as we drove home from the Scalloway Health Centre, “that this is all about emphasis.” I had to agree. A lot has happened since you last saw us and I was facing the Great Banana Absence Crisis of September 2023. Mostly, it has been to do with managing panic attacks, but I think we are getting there. There have been several consultations with various clinicians which have been interesting, if not fully enlightening. It appears that we are still in evidence gathering mode, and patience is required. It seems like Neuroendocrine Cancer, or NETS, as we call it in the trade, is a very slippery customer.

Having really only heard three words of Dr Y’s consultation at the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary on 18th September (“metastasised”, “liver” and “pancreas”) I realised fairly soon after that there had been a lot I hadn’t asked her, and as I mentioned last time, some things I deliberately hadn’t asked her. In the two weeks since then, whilst awaiting the arrival of the medication, I’ve been trying to get a handle on NETS, including joining an international online support group, thanks to the advice of a friend. These folk are a very disciplined and focused brigade – if you’re there, you’re there to receive or offer advice, to receive or offer support, or to share experiences and knowledge; and although that has occasionally been a bit daunting, I’ve been very grateful for what’s been shared with me so far. (I am shortly to find out whether the injunction to ‘never be more than ten metres away from a toilet’ for up to five days after the Lanreotide injection applies to me …).

Here is a summary of what we know and don’t know so far:

Yes, NETS is cancer, but it’s useful and helpful to consider it more as a chronic condition which you might be able to manage. Some people live with it for years.

No, we are still not sure where the primary is, although the small bowel is coming under suspicion.

Yes, Lanreotide is an anti-cancer medication but not ‘chemotherapy’ as most of us understand it. It is specifically targeted at the gut hormones that are currently running amok in my abdomen, and at the crap they have left behind on my liver and pancreas.

No, I don’t yet know whether it is Stage 3 or Stage 4 and I’m not sure it’s that helpful to know at this point, as the treatment would be the same – Lanreotide, injected monthly – and the advice would be the same – get on with it.

“Emphasis” is all, right now, as Ripley and I have agreed. We are going with Chronic Condition Management whilst we await more information (another CAT scan due on Friday if I can be parted from the bathroom long enough). Emphasis, and putting it all into perspective. Our bottom line on this (the puns just keep coming, don’t they?) is that NOBODY gets out of this world alive and that there are so many ways in which it could be worse. There really are – I’ve started a list, and it’s made me feel better already.

As today’s inaugural injection drew near, I have to admit that I was being – not to put too fine a point on it – a bit of a wuss about it. But as Ripley pointed out to me, this was to be us landing the first blow of our fight-back and that was something to be welcomed.

“What do you reckon, then?” I asked her as we drew up into the health centre carpark earlier today. “Same as I reckoned last time you had cancer,” she muttered, giving me That Look. “Lock and load.”

So lock and load it is. As long as I can see the bathroom door at the same time.

“Honestly Ripley, you don’t need to come with me this time,” I told her as I was getting on the plane on Sunday evening. “They’re probably just going to do some blood tests and stuff. Nothing dramatic.” We’d had plenty of drama with the ultrasound guided endoscopy (see previously, Wet Leg) but the Tektrotyd scan had been a much quieter and less traumatic affair. I got the injection of the radioactive isotope the morning of the 6th, then had coffee and a sandwich with a friend whilst it worked its way around my system. Then back for a new type of scan (for me) – a bunch of gamma ray cameras working their way slowly around your torso until they magically produce a 360 degree image of your innards. This goes off to be checked out to see where the radioactive particles might be having parties on your organs. I’d get the results ‘some time soon.’ Ripley had sat silently (and invisibly) next to the radiographer but had to admit she didn’t know what she was looking at. (She’s a bit wary of screens and scans after watching what happened to Dallas on-screen in Alien …)

I had no idea why I had been invited to the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary’s Endocrine Investigation Clinic yesterday, other than the fact that I’d been required to starve from midnight, so blood test probably.

As things turned out, there was indeed a blood test. But there was also a long talk with the consultant, a friendly young woman, along with a nurse who turned out to be a crack shot with a needle (got blood out of me FIRST TIME. I was impressed).

You’ll have to bear with me a bit for what happened next as I’m still processing it and there was stuff I forgot to ask (and there was stuff I deliberately didn’t ask). But as I understand it, my NETS (Neuro Endocrinal Tumours) have metastasised and deposited cancer into both my pancreas and my liver. They are also busy belting out some undesirable hormone at about twenty times the rate at which they should be. Dr Y was calm and measured as she set out what will happen next. (I’m sure I looked like a rabbit in the headlights, although I was trying desperately to adopt my ‘attentive adult’ persona).

Dr Y is proposing a series of monthly injections (DIY ones) with the intention of stabilising or even reducing the tumours. If they are having too hard a time doing that, there are other, more radical treatments down the pipeline, but I’ll be scanned at 3 monthly intervals to check progress.

I really should have asked Ripley to come with me – she would have at least asked some intelligent questions. But anyway. At least I have A Plan now, which always beats playing the “not knowing game”.

Before I get started on the injections, i have to undertake a 24 hour urine collection to measure baseline hormone levels. But before I can do THAT, I have to eliminate the following from my diet: bananas; chocolate; coffee; tea (and a few other weird things like walnuts and avocados) – for three whole days! Now that’s what I call a crisis.

More soon, once I’ve regained my equilibrium, and my bananas. Love to y’all.

“Well that’s weird,” said my GP as she studied my right lower leg a year ago. I had to agree. It had been feeling cold and wet, even though it was warm and dry. “I’ll refer you to a neurologist” said she.

Seven months later, lovely neurologist looming large on a video screen: “Well THAT’s weird.” Me: “Yup. Is it diabetic neuropathy?” “Nope.” “Is it MS?” “Nope. It’s WEIRD. I’ll refer you for an MRI scan.”

A month or so later, lovely neurologist on the phone: “The good news is that there’s nothing wrong with your brain.”

Me: “Many would disagree, but thanks anyway.”

Him: “Your neck however … I want you to see one of my neurosurgical colleagues.”

Me: “Can we have an MRI scan of my lower back, just in case?”

Friday before the coronation – MRI scan no.2. Three days later, lovely neurologist on the phone:

“Your back isn’t causing your weird leg. It’s just … weird. But there are some nodes erm, consistent with cancer in your lower abdomen. Going to refer you for a CAT scan.”

One week later – CAT scan, following a brief but fierce scrum to cannulate me.

One week later – appointment with adorable neurosurgeon in Aberdeen. Him: “Your neck’s scunnared (I paraphrase, naturally). We need to operate, but it’s scary and you should think about it first. And anyway … those nodes … And by the way, your rubbish neck is not causing your leg issue. That’s just -” Me: “WEIRD”. Him: “Yep.”

One week later – appointment with smashing local surgeon. Her: “These nodes – look at them!” (We both peer at the screen. The nodes peer back.) We try to work out how to get at them – the wee scamps are lurking around a number of vital organs and major blood vessels. She decides to give me a gastroscope to rule out infection as a cause. I panic, as I can gag on an aspirin. Two days later, thanks to her, her theatre staff and a wonderful anaesthetist, it goes without a problem. No infection. Smashing local surgeon refers me to Aberdeen for an ultrasound guided endoscopy so that they can try and snip one of said nodes and get some tissue. (Bear with me, this IS going somewhere …).

SEVEN WEEKS LATER. Ultrasound endoscopy undertaken in spite of me fighting back and a small group of paratroopers assisting in the theatre. Tissue samples nabbed.

Three weeks later – fabulous new surgeon at the Gilbert Bain Hospital tells me I appear to have “a rare and unusual condition”. Yes, friends, it’s cancer back for the THIRD time – neuro endocrine tumours, or NETs for short. These indicate the presence of a primary in an as yet unknown location. We’re going after it with something called a TekTrotyd scan (no, me neither), which is not something used by a villain from Doctor Who, but a chance to glow in the dark, having been injected with a radioactive isotope and then scanned with a gamma camera from scalp to toes. 6th September.

Right – now you know as much as I do. It felt easier to revive this blog than to send scores of emails and messages. Can I suggest we keep the health update stuff here, and leave my Facebook page for cat memes, political diatribes and cartoons? Thanks! Also – my top tip: I’d be grateful if we could avoid “Stay strong!” (I won’t, I promise) and “Keep a positive attitude!” (why would you?) – but all hugs and offers of cake gratefully accepted.

And my leg is still WEIRD.

Time to put the call out to Ripley … ah. She’s already here.

“Are you going to ring the bell, then?” asked Ripley, as we headed up to the hospital for the penultimate radiation zapping. She was referring to the ship’s bell in the radiology reception that you are invited to ring following your final treatment.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Too superstitious I guess. After all, I’ve been here before.”

I didn’t ring the bell five years ago, which is just as well, as that turned out not to have been the last treatment I would ever have.

“I don’t want to draw its attention to me,” I explained to Ripley. “It’s a bit like when you were in the shuttle and you realised the alien was in there with you, and you had to climb into your spacesuit without making a noise in case he heard you.”

“Yeah, but I blasted that bastard into outer space afterwards.”

She did – and I was SO proud of her. Maybe the surgeon and the radiology team have done the same with my alien.

So last Tuesday rolled around, and with it my final glamour photography session with Truebeam. He won’t miss me. Women were queuing up for him in the waiting area.

“Are you going to ring the bell?” asked a nurse. “No. The devil might hear me.” And anyway, I thought to myself, like my friend Helen C says, there are so many who don’t get to do it because they didn’t make it. Call it a gesture of solidarity and respect.

A few days in a hotel with Stuart and I’m home again, much to the relief of the sheep and the apparent indifference of the cats. I have a lot to thank CLAN for, staff, residents and volunteers. But one particular thing has been invaluable: to be in a quiet place for three weeks where I could clear my head and revisit my old dilemma – to take Anastrozole/Arimidex as prescribed (see earlier blog entry) or not. Last time I wrote about this I had just about talked myself into doing it. I’m a conformist at heart and if a consultant says “take these pills” (for ten years …) my natural inclination is to obey. But this time it’s different. The side effects are really unpleasant, not to say dangerous in some ways, and most people get them. Set against that is the fact that it will squish your oestrogen, and Tiny Tumour was oestrogen receptive. No guarantees here, but it could well reduce the likelihood that cancer will return, at least via my oestrogen. But cancer is only one of the things that hang over me, the other being approaching old age and Type 2 Diabetes. Do I really want to spend whatever years I have left feeling like crap?

Well, no, actually, I don’t. Right or wrong, I am going to take my chances with the oestrogen. If cancer comes riding back in on it like Slim Pickens riding the nuclear bomb in Doctor Strangelove then the joke will be on me, and we’ll meet again in the blogosphere where you can all say “I told you so.”

So this is the last blog (I hope), as my current adventures are over, and I hope that different ones beckon. Ripley has departed, called off on a new mission, although she says she will always know if I need her, and somehow she’ll get to where I am. She disagrees with my decision on the anastrozole, but I think she was quietly impressed with my stubbornness. (Not much else about me has impressed her, believe me).

So thanks, Rip – you were the best companion, and an antidote to any temptation to sink into self pity. Thanks to everybody at the NHS – let’s not lose this, folks, or allow it to be stolen from us – and at CLAN. And thanks everyone, who read the blog and who phoned, sent cards, and electronic messages of love, encouragement and support throughout. Thanks to Susan for the flowers; to Izabel who flew up from the south of England to visit, to Helen who came from Crieff and to Wilma and her daughters who drove from Auchterarder. Thanks to Craig for taking me out for posh afternoon tea, to Shetlanders Christyne, Bethany, Heather, Lisa, Kathy and Tom for meeting and visiting. Thanks to Linda RW for the lovely organic potions, and to Jan for the Welsh cakes by mail (and the chocolate sheep lollipop). And thanks to my extraordinary husband, whose life has also been turned upside down by these ‘adventures’.

A week or so ago I shared a video on Facebook of a mother duck leading her brood of tiny fluffy ducklings on their maiden voyage from the nest. She gets to a bridge, leans over and then leaps down into the water below. It’s a big drop. One by one the fluffies take the risk and jump down to join her. The last one hesitates, just for a second, then he jumps too. That one is me.

So here we go …. aaaand jump.

Twelve down, three to go, and I’m sitting here in the CLAN conservatory, quaffing coffee and biscuits kindly provided by a crack team of CLAN volunteers. Resistance is useless. They have all been trained in the Mrs Doyle/Father Ted school of hospitality.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No thanks, I’m fine!”

“A cup of coffee?”

“No really, I’m ok …”

“A glass of water?”

By this time I am waiting for them to poke me in the arm and say “Oh gwan, gwan, gwan!” The wonderful thing about this, apart from their kindness, persistence and being the source of a seemingly limitless supply of Jaffa Cakes and Party Rings, is that they are the only sentient beings of whom Ripley is actively afraid. She has taken to sidling in to the lounge, dodging behind the pot-plants, crouching behind the piano and creeping on all fours from the rear of one sofa to the next, until she can dive into an armchair and pretend to be asleep. Curiously, this very satisfying and amusing (to me) behaviour also reminds me of the episode of Father Ted where the group of refugee priests are trying to escape from the ladies’ lingerie department in a large store. “Leave me here … I’ll hold them off. Good luck!” (Note to self: apply to UHI to do a thesis on the parallels between Alien and Father Ted.)

CLAN is a marvellous facility. Provided by a charitable organisation it is a place where cancer patients from the North Isles and from the North of Scotland can come and stay when they have to have extended or daily treatment, and can’t get home afterwards. Partners and family members or friends can also stay, for the cost of a very modest donation. There are comfortable, clean bedrooms, all ensuite, a dining area and kitchen with every sort of oven and gadget, a DIY laundry facility and a big lounge with a television, newspapers, cards, jigsaws, board games etc. Sometimes I have to pinch myself that this is available to me. It also provides daily support, advice and therapeutic activity to locals who have, or are affected by cancer. The conservatory lounge is situated in the ‘daycare/drop-in’ part of the building, and I like it because it’s quiet and relaxing (once the redoubtable Varengian Guard of volunteers have made sure that you are caloried up).

What is most affecting about this marvellous place are the many, many instances of individual heroism shown by some of my fellow residents. There are cancers I have never even heard of before, and some pretty terrifying treatment regimes. They, and their equally courageous partners/relatives plough on through whatever is fired at them or injected into them, with a humour and tenacity that is humbling to behold. I can’t express how much I respect them. All I have to put up with is fatigue, and a slight pinkening which, when combined with the remains of the turquoise stain from the operation, makes my right boob resemble something akin to sunrise over Gulberwick bay.

But I am so ready to come home. I almost wished I hadn’t gone home last weekend as it was such a brief 48 hours and I truly didn’t want to leave on the Sunday afternoon; will admit to a wobbly lower-lip moment. Even Ripley looked sympathetic (very briefly). Still, it was necessary. The sheep were already writing to their solicitor, and the cats were claiming that Stuart NEVER fed them. Naturally, there was nothing in the fridge. Perhaps Stu has been snacking on the catfood too.

Meanwhile, I have been learning the ancient language of radiotherapists. As you lie in your glamour photography pose staring up at the calm face of Truebeam, the staff are shuggling you around, murmuring “I’m a bit soup here.” “Ant over here.” “Still soup … soup …”. “Just a tiny bit ant this way.” At first I glanced at Ripley in alarm – she sits quietly in the corner, having a go on the various bits of machinery. I caught her eye. “Ripley! What’s Ant Soup got to do with anything?” She gave me one of her pitying looks and mouthed: “ANTERIOR … SUPERIOR. It’s target practise talk!” Oh. Right.

So. I am steering inexorably towards the end of this phase of the adventures. Stuart arrives next Tuesday, having deposited Ghengis into chokey, and we’re off to a hotel for a few nights. It’s his sixtieth birthday so he deserves a treat.

I’d better be off. One of the Varengian Guard is homing in on Ripley. She may have been able to evade the Xenomorph in a space craft, but this is entirely on another level of hazard. Kath to the rescue, for once. Love to you all.

Greetings from Aberdeen, where I am exactly one third of the way through my nukeing therapy. Three weeks really does go quicker than you think it will at the start.

Every day I amble up to the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary from where I’m staying, or if it’s raining I get the minibus kindly provided by CLAN (more of which later). Ripley thinks I should jog to and from the radiotherapy department whatever the weather, but that is just one of the several things upon which we disagree. She makes a big deal about leaving just after the minibus departs and being there, looking not even out of breath, by the time we arrive. Thankfully, I have no pride so am immune to being shamed.

Here is the daily ritual. Arrive in the radiotherapy department, barely acknowledging a smirking Ripley leaning next to the door. Put your appointment card in a wee plastic box, from where it mysteriously disappears during the following ten minutes, spirited away by one of the many trained ninja nurses that work there. Sit and wait for a bit, reading someone else’s newspaper until they call your name. Confirm your name, address and date of birth and then it’s in for your tryst with Truebeam.

When I was here five years ago, as I think I mentioned in the last blog, my three week torrid affair was with Truebeam 3. This time, my daily dalliance is with Trubeam 1. He looks very similar, and if I could only work out how to upload an image on WordPress I’d send you a photo of him. Try and imagine a large, friendly monster who leans his head over you, with his arms on either side, in a very protective pose.

But first it’s off with the clothes from the middle up, after which they offer you a ‘modesty sheet’. This is a large paper serviette, with which you are meant to cover your boobs and spare your blushes. As I said, I have no pride or shame, and I never quite know what to do with it (it usually falls off halfway through anyway) or why I really need it. This team has seen the human body from every which way up – I don’t think I need to be coy about mine. If you’ve seen one beached whale you’ve seen ’em all. Many years ago at the Gilbert Bain Hospital in Lerwick I was having my bum x-rayed (don’t ask) when I realised there were nine folk wandering around holding clipboards, sheets of A4 etc. I had to halt the process and ask someone to nip out into the corridor on the off chance that there was somebody there who hadn’t seen said bum yet … bless them they took the hint and the room swiftly emptied of all but the most necessary individuals. So I can look after myself when feeling vulnerable, which I don’t here. But it’s sweet of them to offer the paper serviette anyway.

Then you lie down on this long black plastic thing that looks like a giant iphone. A wedge is popped under your knees and Truebeam 3 gazes down on you affectionately. You have your arms up behind your head in a dubious kind of Playboy centrefold position (in my case, more like Readers’ Wives). There then starts a process of expert shuggling as the team manoeuvre you into position. This is a crucial process – they have to be accurate if the beam is to be directed to the exact location. You have already had tiny tattoos printed on the target boob, and the team have to line Truebeam’s aim up exactly with these marks. It’s a demanding task and they do it wonderfully. They then retreat behind the protective screen and Truebeam does his work, rotating around your torso, first photographing and then firing his raygun at you, twice, for about fifteen seconds. And that’s you, cooked for another day. Miraculous.

As my treatments are at 9.36 every morning, that means the day stretches out ahead of me. The senior citizens’ bus pass is getting a thrashing as I go into the city centre in search of the three c’s – coffee, cake and cinema. I have to say that as yet, none of the first two has hit the standards set by Jeemsie at the Peerie Shop Cafe or Jonathan at Fjara. And as for the third one … how I miss Mareel. What a soulless experience the multiplex is. But I have to keep up on all three so the quest continues. My friend Izabel came up to visit me from Dorset for my first weekend (she sprung me out of CLAN for a few nights) and we made a military style strategic assault on John Lewis’, which included trying out all the beds. Ripley was mortified but the staff were great.

I’m hoping to go home for a few days this weekend, weather and planes permitting. The sheep have been behaving abominably for Stuart, and I may need to do some emergency mediating. Also need to check up on the status of Genghis’ diet regime. Some adventures planned for the rest of this week and next so I’ll be back online to share them, and to tell you about the wonder that is CLAN. Cheers xxx

Hello again. I’m parked here on the launchpad, T minus seven days and counting, awaiting the start of my radiation treatment. When I last posted, I was all in a swither about whether or not to take Anastrozole (Arimidex) and had declared my intention to discuss it with the world and his brother. (Speaking of brothers, my brother, who is a writer, is now determined to name one of his characters Anastrozole Arimidex – “He Fights Crime!”).

I can now safely say that I have bored the pants off anyone who could be forced to listen (just my GP to go now, she gets her big chance to be bored on Thursday) and I’m very grateful indeed for all the advice, which ranged from “Take Tamoxifen instead” (my oncologist), “It’s probably for the best” (most Anastrozole takers), “Anastrozole has a better side effect profile than Tamoxifen” (my wonderful sister in law, a retired oncology pharmacist) and “JFDI” (Ripley)*.

As I think we agreed last time, nothing is without risk; even getting out of bed can be dodgy some mornings. And I think I’m going to take the pills. Firstly, because I am so grateful to be offered something that might prevent cancer from returning. But secondly, and much more influential on my decision making process, in the last few months I have encountered several folk who are going through hell and high water with some pretty punishing treatments and conditions. Suddenly, it feels very churlish and not a little narcissistic to be obsessing over a few side effects that may or may not occur.

So yes, Ripley.

* JFDI. Just F—ing Do It. As Kathy N pointed out to me, Ripley is SUCH a know-all. But she’s my know-all.

So last week I scampered off to the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary to be prepped for radiotherapy. This involves a go in a CT Scan simulator, some businesslike nurses measuring your boobs up like quantity surveyors, decorating you with biro, and then giving you tiny tattoos in the exact spot where the radiotherapy team will direct the beam. I’ve been through this before – my friend Susan reckons I should soon be able to join the dots and reveal a roadmap of somewhere or other.

It was five years ago that I had my last torrid affair with Truebeam 3 (these machines are absolutely extraordinary, believe me), but we broke up after 18 liaisons: I was fed up with always being the one on the bottom in the missionary position, plus, he was doing the same thing with hundreds of other women at the same time. Thankfully, my husband took me back.

So it’s time to start packing again. Big shout-out to Jennifer Manson for solving the faded/weary-looking knickers problem (friends are THE BEST), and thanks to CLAN Haven for providing a bolthole whilst I’m away. Looking forward to catching up with other Shetlanders who will be there, and to making new friends. But mostly, I’ll be thinking about Carl, Jean, Lesley and other friends who will be going through much worse than I’ve got to go through. Bless you all.

Also looking forward to updating my old league table of Aberdeen coffee shops – all suggestions welcome.

Ripley is still making her mind up about coming with me, but I think she will make an appearance at some point, if only to berate me for my cowardice, self pity or whatever. She’s an ace berater!

I’ll be back, as Arnie would say.

Chums, you find me sitting at the table, pondering a booklet that glories in the title “Anastrozole (Arimidex) – Factsheet”. It seems that I am to swallow this substance for the next ten years, so I’m looking at what it might do to me and trying to calculate the risks of taking it versus not taking it.

Apparently, Tiny Tumour was receptive to oestrogen, so to reduce the chances of said hormone ferrying cancer cells around my person, we must squish it down as far as we can. This does not come without risk, and I am now kicking myself that I never learnt chess when I was younger so that I could think strategically more than two moves ahead. I spent a fair chunk of my adult life as a probation officer assessing risk, managing risk, thinking about risk, but I’ve never until now had to apply the process to myself. It’s fascinating and alarming all at the same time.

Let me be clear at the outset. I am not someone who believes that medicine is a magic wand and that we somehow have a divine right to be cured of what ails us. None of us are getting out of this world alive and something is going to get me in the end (I currently have my money on Type 2 diabetes). But this cancer business is a steeplechase of risks and calculations – you jump one lot and the next lot rises up in front of you before you know it.

I am currently awaiting my start date for 3 plus weeks of radiation. Now THERE’s a risky business straight off – radiation is, er, carcinogenic and the effects, other than blasting any lurking cancer cells around the site of the former tumour, may not be experienced until years after, if at all. You are concentrating that beam scarily close to your heart, lungs and sternum, and they may not thank you for it at a later date. I was invited to be part of a clinical trial to assess the effects of NOT having radiation after surgery as a matter of course, but have declined. This is a risk field that I have actually chosen to enter, and the laugh will be on me if it bites me in five or ten years time.

But the Anastrozole presents a different set of hazards. Again, I know that even the most harmless medication comes with a list of potential side effects that are off the scale in their unlikeliness to occur. But this one talks about ‘common side effects’, which is when I sit up and concentrate.

It seems that pre-menopausal women get Tamoxifen, and us older crones get Anastrozole, both aromatase inhibitors. Apart from knocking your oestrogen for six, it may also gift you: pain/stiffness in your joints; headaches; skin rashes; nausea; hot flushes; mood swings; tiredness, and – here’s the doozie – thinning of the bones. These are, I repeat, listed as common. I am willing to take the risk on nearly all of that, but the last one is troubling me. I was a lucky woman; I emerged from the menopause with no reduction in the density of my bones, important for me as I am a serial faller-over. I can fall over for Britain. If there was a UK Olympic team for falling over, I’d be the captain. If I could just get the hang of WordPress I would upload an image from last July that would illustrate this claim, but I can’t so you’ll just have to use your imagination. Anyway, the point is, as I wander through my life falling over the least obstacle, I rarely break anything, thanks to my chunky bonios. And I’d like to keep it that way.

Set against that, though, is the risk of contracting metastatic cancer. Yup, that’s a big one. Set against THAT are the women I know who took these drugs and STILL got metastatic cancer. It’s enough to do your head in.

I have talked it over with my husband, and with members of UYCWSH (Up Yours, Cancer, We’re Still Here) and I’ll talk it over with Dr Sharma when I see him on 7 February (although he’s most likely to bat for the tablets side to be fair). Let’s get the nukeing done first.

On a lighter note, a package from Grampian Healthcare dropped through the door the other day … oh joy, it’s the latest bowel cancer screening kit! The old fashioned ones promised hours of fun, capturing a turd once a day for three days, using your cardboard wands to extract a piece ‘the size of a nut’ (Hazelnut? Brazil nut? Almond? Shelled or unshelled?), from different areas of said turd and smearing it on a piece of film which you then send off to the lab. Remember: however bad you think your day has been, some poor sod in the hospital laboratory has got to start the day by opening these gifts. Just think about that for a minute. Anyway, the new, improved method is a lot easier, and it comes with illustrative photographs and diagrams, so no excuses – get it done. I know three people whose lives have been saved because of the bowel screening programme; get a hold of that jobbie and get that wand working its magic.

I will carry on assessing the pros and cons of thinning bones versus potential metastatic cancer and will let you know once I’ve come to a conclusion.

As I write this, Ripley is sat across from me, her head buried in a spaceship manual.

“Ripley,” I ask, “What would YOU do?”

The briefest of beats. Then she answers.

“Whatever it takes.”