Chemo finished, hair growing and a poem to celebrate

Yep. It's all over. No more three-weekly poison and tea at the lovely local onco unit. Am still feeling pretty tired and will for a while longer, but at least I can see light at the end of the tunnel. I just hope it isn't an express train heading straight for my face. Now it's back to the daily anastrozole plus Herceptin, we hope, as my local area NHS here in the UK aren't coughing up for BC early-stagers but the pressure is mounting. Especially now that a recommendation for it has been issued by the European Medicines Agency.

And my hair is growing back with vigour. In a recent press article I noticed that Aussie singing star Kylie Minogue (who if you didn't know has just finished chemo and radioT for breast cancer) now sports her head in an elfin crop. Were I not a lot older and fatter than her I would do the same. On her it looks cute; "chez moi," it would look like a greyish-blonde scouring pad on top of an extremely large baking potato. Ah, such is the harshness of middle age.

For now though it's stick with the wig, pictured here with me looking none-too-pleased with it. Ozzie the dog keeps eyeing it up and no doubt is looking forward to the day I donate it to the doggie toy box. So am I.

And looking forward to my next (single) mammogram in September, here is another cute poem about them which I don't believe I've posted before. Author unknown, so thank you for sharing it with us whoever you are.

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The Boob Poem

For years and years they told me,
Be careful of your breasts.
Don't ever squeeze or bruise them.
And give them monthly tests.

So I heeded all their warnings,
And protected them by law.
Guarded them very carefully,
And I always wore my bra.

After 30 years of astute care,
My gyno, Dr. Pruitt,
Said I should get a Mammogram.
"O.K," I said, "let's do it."

"Stand up here real close" she said,
(She got my boob in line),
"And tell me when it hurts," she said,
"Ah yes! Right there, that's fine."

She stepped upon a pedal,
I could not believe my eyes!
A plastic plate came slamming down,
My hooter's in a vice!

My skin was stretched and mangled,
From underneath my chin.
My poor boob was being squashed,
To Swedish Pancake thin.

Excruciating pain I felt,
Within it's vice-like grip.
A prisoner in this vicious thing,
My poor defenseless t*t!

"Take a deep breath" she said to me,
Who does she think she's kidding?!?
My chest is mashed in her machine,
And woozy I am getting.

"There, that's good," I heard her say,
(The room was slowly swaying.)
"Now, let's have a go at the other one."
Have mercy, I was praying.

It squeezed me from both up and down,
It squeezed me from both sides.
I'll bet SHE'S never had this done,
To HER tender little hide.

Next time that they make me do this,
I will request a blindfold.
I have no wish to see again,
My knockers getting steamrolled.

If I had no problem when I came in,
I surely have one now.
If there had been a cyst in there,
It would have gone "ker-pow!"

This machine was created by a man,
Of this, I have no doubt.
I'd like to stick his b*lls in there,
And see how THEY come out

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Until next time! SUZE