Regeneration

So. There's a bit of catching up to do. 

1. My weekend of child-free womanising was sublime. Many many tears were shed, and every one of them was related to can't-breathe laughing. My very ancient shoes disintegrated in the middle of Zara. A discussion about the frequency of refuse collection was particularly hilarious. We bought clothes that spark joy. We strolled and ate and strolled and drank and shopped and ate and slept. I was filled with love. You can't say fairer than that really. (Especially if you can't pronounce your f's or th's...)

2. I had a scan. Had I mentioned that? People love the drama of a scan, and I pointedly ignore it. I didn't want any result before I went away (but I did just ask someone to phone me if my lungs were likely to collapse on the flight). 

I got the result a few days after I got back. 

Once again, I aced it. At least a B+. My liver has grown back, clean as a whistle. The last little straggler of a met has stayed the same, hugging my portal vein like a lifebuoy. But we will prize the little bollix off it and let it drown in a sea of cytotoxins, before scooping it out and dumping it in the yellow pathology bucket. 

Or, in slightly less cryptic language, I am going to have more chemotherapy (I so nearly wrote psychotherapy. Freud would be beside himself). This is to loosen the little cancery chap's grip on my portal vein, which is an important piece of liver kit and isn't to be messed with. Then, all being well, another bit of fancy knife work from the surgeon and the whole lot will be hospital waste. Wouldn't that be a thing. 

3. I am speechless. 
As in, currently unable to speak. Having chatted to nearly all of the lovely people who generously attended my doctors' disco last night, I am bereft of voice. 
Turns out, though, that three hours of vigorous dancing is your only man for sorting out post-surgery abdominal adhesions. I did end up clutching my stomach to prevent a hernia, but I'm pretty sure I passed that off as some impressive air-guitaring. I wasn't, by a long stretch, the most committed dancer on the floor, and there was a bunch of lads and ladies a few years older than myself who out-stamina-ed all of the "young" ones. Inspirational. 
It was a bit overwhelming to see so many familiar faces, last seen over a decade ago, all gathered together to share a few hours and re-ignite old friendships. And all just because I asked. God, this cancer business makes a girl fierce popular altogether.
I had to giggle a little bit at the surprised, momentarily disappointed, faces who had expected to see an emaciated baldy version of the me they used to know. Sorry folks, no freakshow here. (I had to restrain myself from showing off my supersized scar though).
I'm pretty sure everyone had a good time, which was really the whole point, and as a feel-good altruistic side-effect we raised €6000 for the Mercy Hospital Foundation. 

I'm useless at thanking people, and at making speeches, so I didn't do much of either last night. However, I am truly thankful to all those that came from near (Blackpool) and far (Cleveland), and in between (Waterford, Limerick, Tipperary, Dublin, Bangor, Mayo). 
Thank you to the dancers, the sitters, the chatters, the bathroom-bouncers, the Coronation-chicken-munchers, the car-got-broken-into-ers, the chocolate-bringers, the cash-payers, the Amazonian high-heel-wearers. 
The DJ and the venue people did their stuff, fair play.
A big kissy thank you to my Trusty Companion, my indomitable husband, my partner in dance crime. (Hands off, Clonakilty.)

And on this Made-by-Hallmark Day, thanks to my father for being the solo putter-to-bed of our three children, while his usual babysitting wing-woman was unexpectedly held up on her travels. Not a bother on him. He even did the washing-up. 
What a dad.

Guapas

I am sat (seated? sitting? Sorry mum, I forget) on an airplane en route to Madrid. I am on my own, in that I have no one sitting next to me that I need to restrain or entertain or nourish or plead with. I have only got my own passport to constantly be worried about losing. My handbag has no nappies or wipes or crayons or cracker crumbs or in-case-of-emergency chocolate buttons. 

Dotted around the plane are three of my friends (we were too disorganised/stingy/happy with our own company to pay Ryanair to sit us together), basking in the responsibility-less-ness of independent adult travel. 

We are off to spend time together, with another friend, to celebrate our 40th birthdays. Two of them have turned 40 already, three of us are going to. One of us has a slightly higher risk of not making it to hers, so no harm to get the celebrating in early. 

There is a hen party two rows in front of me. Thirty somethings, pink sashes but not fully embracing the titsoutfertheladz vibe. A fella with a gold lamé vest (I swear) has found himself seated (sat? sitting? God it's hard) in 11D, slap bang in the middle of the laydeez. He has offered around his baby bottle of Jack Daniels and the one whose sash says "bridesmaid" has accepted, and had her picture taken while swigging from it (to make it a real event.  Otherwise who would know?) The fella is exceedingly pleased with himself. 

Behind the hens in row 11 and 12 we have another group of wimmin (in what would be row 13 if the world wasn't so bloody superstitious). These ladies are older. I'm not sure by how much, but their faces are lined under their makeup. They have endured more sleepless nights, and not the fun partying kind.  They have expensive watches and clean shoes. Some of them are chatting, some are just reading their magazines. There's a lot of head-shaking. I can't figure out their story. 50th? 40th but rough? Weekend away just cos?

I am reading Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman. It's brilliant. It's making me shake with laughter while I hold my scarred belly and frantically swot up on my pelvic floor exercises. I have fifteen women in front of me who are the living embodiment of all the good and bad things about our gender. They are comparing handbags, discussing confirmation outfits, sharing a Toblerone. 

I am going to spend the weekend with women who have been through enough shite by now to not particularly care if their bag matches their shoes (though most of them will manage this effortlessly anyway).

I am in heaven. 

Except I've spilled my drink and there's no wipes in my handbag. And I'd murder a few chocolate buttons.

Epilogue: The auld wans ended up being drunk and shrieking about Crystal Swing. The hens drank their Heinekens steadily and quietly. The gold lamé vest man took a very obvious "selfie" of his neighbour's cleavage.