Things often happen all at once. Just when you’ve accumulated a giant steaming pile of shit, another elephantine one seems to be added to the melee. The more the merrier, after all.

My MIL came out of remission in the middle last year. She’s an utter trooper. Beanie to cover the chemo hair loss. Cashmere, naturally. But in the face of adversity she has been eternally stoic, even when it’s been frightening. And that’s something to have tremendous respect for and be proud of.

Then my mother got diagnosed with breast cancer. Which was obviously a bit of a surprise. We sat there with our minds being blown, because she was walking around and it was like nothing was wrong, acting like her usual, if not slightly deranged, self. A ticking time bomb. There is much needed levity in that she only went for the screening so Mozza the cat didn’t get orphaned. Little ginger bastard.

The uncertainty is crippling.

Every time you see someone, will it be the last time? A seemingly inoffensive Dr’s appointment takes on entirely new significance. That blood test you wouldn’t have even thought twice about? Doom inspiring. Preparing for the worst and get still trying to be a hopeful Duracell Bunny takes its toll in the end. Crying seems futile when you have no control of any outcome. Numbness abounds.

I find myself forcibly thinking about other things. My online 4am lipstick purchases have gone through the roof. Going balls deep on Wikipedia about the occult when Mum was in her big surgery was a high point. Finding out one day at 2am that Robbie Williams’ confirmation saint (Maksymilian Kolbe, in case you’re interested) is the same as mine probably one of the lower ones.

In the middle of all of this, I have repeatedly been hospitalised with stomach problems. My days are ruled by my pill minder, which is stuffed to the gills with lots of meds which stop the symptoms, but as yet the cause is unresolved. Somehow it’s bringing order to the chaos.

I’ve managed to not stress eat, which is in part due to being paranoid about making my stomach worse. And also in part because I’ve been stress buying vintage Valentino and YSL. I’d be gutted if it stopped fitting.

Above all, I wish that life were a bit simpler and I’d like the cat to not shit on the utility room floor. Every. Fucking. Day.

Genuine x