November

Some people make a big deal of their "cancerversary", celebrating the anniversary of the day they were told they had cancer. I tend not to bother, mostly because I cannot stand any kind of twee abbreviations or cutesy wordplay (hollibobs, hubby - puke) but also because it's not all that much fun to relive a very traumatic experience over and over. 

Last year it was 10 years since I was diagnosed - my "Tincerversary", if you will - but I didn't pay it a huge amount of attention. I was in the middle of more chemo for a liver recurrence, and it felt like I had taken a few steps backwards after being a champion cancer-slayer for so long. 

This year as I approached the 11-year mark, I felt a bit more proud of my unstoppability. I have had another recurrence and I am on more chemo, but I feel like I am slaying away again like a Slay Queen. 

Speaking of recurrences - I have written before about how I fail to capitalise on my cancer in so many ways. One of the biggest mistakes is not to count out my different tumours as individual cancer events, so that I can say "I've had cancer 4 TIMES - and I am still beating it!" A very Daily Mail headline. No one ever seems to point out that if you were so good at beating it, getting cancer four times seems like a bit of a flaw in your assertion. I have only ever had the one cancer, it just pops up in different places every now and again, like an un-cute gopher. And we whack it on the head with a shovel, and hope for the best. 

November also happens to be a very popular time for Events and Balls and Things You Dress Up For. 

So when I went to look at photos which would catalogue each year since I was diagnosed, I found a lot of pictures of me in fancy outfits. Except for a few Covid years (see if you can spot them), I always seem to be going out on the town at this time of year. 

I guess I have been subliminally commemorating the Day My World Could Have Ended, But It Didn't.