Typical day at the farm

I've been reading Bill Bryson's "At home" recently, and was awed by how little we really know about how people used to live on a day to day basis. It also occurred to me that, while I write a whole lot of interesting (or otherwise) things in my blog, no one knows what a typical day at the farm is really like. So, here goes. A description of a typical day at the farm ... from my perspective. (And just to be clear - this is a typical day now, post chemo. Before the whole cancer thing, life was a whole different kettle of fish.)

I wake up. Must be day, because there is daylight coming in through the ensuite window - one of the few windows where we don't draw the shutter at night. For exactly this purpose - so that when you wake up you can tell whether it's day or night. I jump out of bed, get a drink, take my homeopathic remedies, and jump back into bed. It's 7:30am. I lie in bed, thinking that maybe I still need more rest, but after 20 minutes I decide I am wrong.

I get up, get dressed and have breakfast. Very quietly of course, because the rest of the household, that is husband and Sabina, is asleep. If luck has it, they are still asleep at 9am, when I finally sneak out to ride my horse. I am back in the house (having ridden said horse), at 11am. By this stage, husband has had enough time playing with Sabina, and is absolutely busting to be set free. So off he goes, outside, engaging in farm maintenance and innovation tasks.

Sabina and I have a snack, and then I survey the situation I have been left with. Sometimes the guinea pigs need to be taken out, other times I might engage in a few small tasks such as throwing out a dead mouse and resetting the rat zapper, or cleaning a shelf in the pantry (yes, from mouse droppings).

At 12:30pm I start preparing lunch, which is usually ready at 1pm or so. Lately, husband has become pretty good with his timing, and is usually milling around the house by this time. On a good day he even comes in and sets the table. On a bad day, I have to get out the front door and ring the big fire bell.

By 2pm lunch is eaten. Sabina and I go for a 20 minute lie down, and husband cleans up after lunch. Then husband heads back to his farm tasks. When the alarm bell rings that our 20 minutes is up, Sabina and I usually have giggle and tickle time. Then we head out to ride Sabina's pony. Hopefully, I get to ride my pony at the same time. After riding, we feed the horses.

By this stage it's about 4:30pm at best. I gaze longingly at the garden, and see it screaming at me. I grab the required tools and dig in. Or slice in. Or saw in. At 5pm I realise that I should be heading inside to make dinner. Oh, but maybe I will just trim a little bit more. At 5:30pm I must finish. But of course I can't leave a mess in the garden, so I quickly clean up and put away my tools. By 6pm I rush inside. Dinner is now officially late, and I haven't even started yet.

I create a tornado in the kitchen, making salad, providing Sabina with a snack, slicing meat and preparing dessert simultaneously. We eat at around 7pm, then blissfully relax around dessert. Husband and Sabina head off to the bathroom while I clean up. At 9:30pm I dash off to the bathroom for my own shower, hoping that I can be in bed by 10pm. Quite often, however, I get caught up in some conversation with my husband, or some blog writing, and I end up in bed at 11pm.

I read a book for about half an hour, before turning the lights off.

Easter walk

It is our family tradition to do an Easter Walk on Easter Sunday, with the whole idea being that children find Easter eggs along the way.

Us adults? Well, we take our chocolate dark, melted and mixed with pure spirits (95% proof, yes). We drink it together with brunch, which is the first meal of the day, after an obligatory visit to church. Usually, we start our brunch with a solid swig of the said chocolate vodka, then proceed onto other delicacies such as hard boiled eggs, cold meats and salads. The brunch is finished off with a traditional Polish Easter cake called "Mazurek". (Think thin layer of short bread, covered with creamed caramel, mixed fruit and nuts. Rich.) After such a serving of food and alcohol every adult falls in a heap on a bed, any bed, and is rendered helpless, and often asleep, for about an hour. Maybe two.

When the adults finally stir, we go for an Easter walk. At last the kids get a chance to get their dose of chocolate. (Don't get me wrong. The kids do get a dose of chocolate at brunch. But this is very modest by modern standards.)

We head out on our walk with pockets full of chocolate eggs, while Sabina sports an empty backpack. At the very entrance to the walk, on a fence post, she finds a golden chocolate egg. With huge excitement, she puts it into the backpack, and slows the entire walk down to a crawl as she scans the ground for more eggs.

We walk along patiently behind her, and as I am last, I drop an egg here and there. Fingers crossed that they will still be here on our way back.

The walk takes us into a rain forest with tall trees, and shady ferns. As Papa points out the trees to Sabina, a couple of eggs roll onto the footpath. Sabina squeals with joy, and adds them to her collection. Deer tracks, ferns, and the creek provide another useful distraction. Sometimes we just throw the eggs while walking along behind her. Every egg is greeted with unparalleled excitement, and a commanding "stop! Everyone stop!".

There is an added level of difficulty when throwing eggs at random. The track we are following has been recently visited by a couple of horses. So it's important that the eggs don't land in a pile of reasonably fresh horse droppings.

Eventually we turn back and while the egg hunt is now officially over, we still manage to find a few eggs. We even manage to find a chocolate bunny. Amazing.

Baw Baw Classic

So, my husband has decided to do the Baw Baw Classic, cycling race, for the third time in a row.

Last year we actively supported him, and drove to the top of Mt Baw Baw amid falling snow. It was very exciting, but the journey is long and winding. So this year, we piked. Well, we half piked. We asked for permission to not be at the finish line, and permission we got.

This morning we drove my husband to Warragul for the start of the race. Of course, as luck would have it, the week was full of sunny autumn weather, but last night it poured with rain, and turned nasty cold. So we braced in our coats and waved him good luck at the start.

The race went well and he managed to climb to the top of the mountain and finish. He even got a medal. Just like last year, it snowed.

Then he caught the bus back down. But the bus doesn't come past our place. They dropped him off in Neerim Junction, and he rode the rest of the way home. That's right. As though cycling 100km from Warragul to Mt Baw Baw, doing the toughest climb in Australia (correct me if I am wrong) wasn't enough. He then got out of the warm bus, into the freezing cold, and with his spare clothes bag waltzing like a matilda off his bike, he rode the 11km home in the dusk. The last 2km being on a gravel road. And it's not flat.

He deserves his medal.

Nails

It's now over 2 months since my last chemo, and some of the side effects are still with me.

Every time you have chemo, it leaves a mark on your nails.  So my nails are striped and indented (and in a couple of cases bruised), each stripe showing the depletion of vitamins and minerals.  Some people lose a nail or two during chemo.

I haven't lost a nail, and the stripes are now progressively growing out.  The nails are weak and brittle and need attention.  They need attention every hour!  Sound rediculous?  It is!  I can't touch fine fabrics because these endlessly braking nails are just so full of sharp edges that I would quickly ruin any fine fabric.  I'm in danger of ruining my more sturdy fabrics - that's how bad the problem is.

Now, you would think that if a nail broke off at 8am, and then again at 9am, that by 10am there really wouldn't be any more nail to break off.  Oh, but there is!  Heaps to break off.  Apparently.  And even if there is no more to break off, the nails still break off and splinter and split.  And sometimes I have to put a band aid on because the nail has broken off too much and the finger underneath is bleeding.

They are not pretty to look at, either.

Nethercote Falls

Having already hit the wall once this morning (on the bike), I must have been so exhausted that foolishly I agreed to go for a walk to Nethercote Falls.

The walk wasn't far, nor was it hard.  We didn't have to bush bash.

But 10 metres from the picnic table my leg muscles gave out.  That was it, couldn't make another step.  Felt like the whole show was just going to buckle.  I could still "shuffle", which I did to the picnic table.  Then I ate

and rested,

and enjoyed the view.

Wind in my hair

This morning we rode our bikes, 9 kilometres, to breakfast.  It was wonderful to feel the wind in my hair.  (I now have some hair, and there is enough airflow through my helmet that I can actually feel the wind in my hair).  And the breakfast was fabulous too.  We went to the same cafe as last year, and I ordered exactly the same breakfast.  Delicious.

Then we rode the 9 kilometres back.  More wind in my hair.  Some tiredness in the muscles too.  And then my husband spied a shortcut.  What is it about my husband that prevents him from sticking to the well trodden, safe, easy path?  Every single time we go somewhere, anywhere, he manages to get us bush bashing.  It's just not a trip out, if we don't end up somewhere off the track at some point.

In this particular case, a sandy vehicular track veered off the main road and we followed it.  My thin tyres were sinking into the sand.  Then, we saw a steep climb up ahead.  My husband sighed, and turned his bike around.  He is human after all.  (Although, I bet if he was with his mates they would have ridden up it.)  We continued along the well trodden, a.k.a. easy, path.

About 50m from our accommodation there is a steep pinch in the road.  It goes on for about 30m, but it gets you into bottom gear, and out of your saddle.  I hit that pinch, and I hit the wall.  That was it - my limit.  Of course I still rode up it.  Mrs 70% went out the window.  If I wasn't breathing and concentrating so hard I would have heard my naturopath going "tsk tsk" in the background, arms folded across her chest, fingers tapping.  But ... my muscles were crying.  Not just hurting.  Crying.

Holiday riding

We get to horse ride pretty much every weekend.  And we ride for however long we want.  And whereever we want.  We have access to unlimited trails in a state forest.  So when we go on holidays, you would think that we would do everything other than riding horses.  You would think that.

But, no!  We are on holidays and we have to go on a local trail ride.  And it's not some high country adventure ride.  It's the usual, one horse after another, plod-a-long.  Actually, for Sabina, it's perfect.  She gets the challenge of riding a bigger, stronger horse than Tornado.  I in turn, get to observe how she tackles that challenge, and what are her biggest issues.  In this case, the horse finally figures out that it's stronger than Sabina, and when we go through a field of lucerne it stops to graze.

For my husband and I it's nice enough time out, although we could have got the same out of riding our bikes or kayaks.

Back on the bike

I decided to finally brave the bike and ride down to the local shops.  To the chemist to be exact.  I got dressed in all my lycra, and off I went.

It was, oddly enough, just like riding a bike.  What was probably more interesting, was my visit to the chemist.

I parked my bike right out the front of the chemist shop.  I had forgotten to bring a lock, so I kept a very close eye on the bike, while waiting for my prescription.

One man appeared to be very curious about my steed.  He gazed at it from every angle for about 5 minutes.  I half expected him to go for a test ride.

Then, another man also waiting for his prescription, struck up a conversation with me.  "You should read Lance Armstrong's book", he sidled up to me.  Now, I am not sure whether it was just the lycra that caught his attention, or whether he figured out I was still recovering from chemo.  (I still had my helmet on, so you couldn't immediately tell I had mega short hair.)

"I have", I responded.  "Very inspirational."

The conversation didn't end there, and I was quite glad when my prescription was handed to me, and I could get out of there.

On the way home I was still enjoying my riding.  What bothered me is that I had no idea how much I could push it.  Would riding up that steep hill be too much?  Is this a "good" distance to ride, or is it the tip of the iceberg?  How far do I have to ride to feel happily tired?  (As opposed to stuffed.)  I used to know all these things about my body.  Now I'm lost.  It's all become a new frontier.

Creatures of the night

We're off on our annual family holiday to Merimbula.  We have chosen to drive up tonight, rather than during the day.  It's a bit of a trade-off.  Sure, at night you have to keep vividly awake at a time when you would normally be asleep, but during the day?  During the day you have to cope with endless caravan of grey nomads, boat enthusiasts and holiday makers, who all seem to be on a sightseeing tour rather than focussing on getting to their destination.

So we drive when no one else dares.  Well, that's not entirely true.  The boat ensemble seems to be out in full force.  The bigger the better.  We marvel at their size as we pass them one by one.  And in the end we all rock up at the same petrol station in Bairnsdale anyway.  Although I must admit that with our rooftop load of two kayaks and two bikes we are somewhat cautious.

In Bairnsdale we change driver, and hit the forests.  The road winds, the fog descends.  We wind with the road, left then right.  Sometimes we slam on the brakes as the fog is too thick to make out which way the road will turn.  Then we turn and keep going.  No crowds, just the road and us.  No limits.

A smigin after 3am we arrive at our destination, greeted by three roos on each front lawn.  We unpack the essentials and hit the pillow.

Friend or foe?

Mum and I drive up to the farm. We pop a few things in the kitchen, then I put my riding boots on and wander outside.

I'm in that wonderful fuzzy world of my own, thinking about what I need to do when a sixth sense stops me in my tracks. Motionless. I've got no idea why I've stopped. Slowly, I climb out of my little internal world, and proceed to look around.

Carefully I gaze at the path, and notice a scaly abnormality. A snake. Lazily strung out across the path and part of the garden. My husband has seen him (or her, I guess) around here before. I take two large steps back and look for something to throw. I find a flimsy piece of bark. I throw and just manage to lightly touch the snake. He stays put. I stomp my feet. I find another piece of bark. Eventually, with all the time in the world, he moves along.

I run inside, boots and all, and show the slithering scaly reptile to my mother. I get an earful about keeping the grass short, and keeping the kids out of the grass. Even if it is short.

A community of women

As I have been going through my cancer operation, treatment and now recovery I am forever amazed by the support of people around me. Primarily women.

They comment on my status updates on facebook, they read my blog, they send emails, they send book vouchers, they send sms's, they offer words of strength and encouragement, they bring soup, they pick up my daughter from school, they take me out to lunch.

The odd guy is part of that community, but they are few and far between. Mainly it's a community of women. But they don't only support me. Should any woman in that community post a slightly distressing status (on facebook, it's the communication of choice), all the women rally around her with, at the very least, warm words of support.

And to all those women I am eternally grateful. For they have shared the journey with me.

Mrs 70%

So it's been ages since the last chemo and I am still feeling ... well ... I'm not one to easily use poor language ... but ... I'm feeling crap.

I went to the naturopath and whinged, and told her all my woes. She looked at me sternly, then proceeded to line up a little bottle, followed by a bigger bottle, followed by an even bigger stapler.

"If you use up 100% of your energy every day", she said, "then you will have the energy of the little bottle. When you go to bed at night, your body will be really busy recuperating, but because it's starting at zero (because you've used up everything), it will only be able to recuperate and become the little bottle again. So the next day, you will feel like the little bottle."

"Aha", I commented vaguely.

"But", naturopath continued with stern gaze, "if you only use 70% of your energy, then when you go to bed your body will be starting at 30%. So it can recuperate to become the bigger bottle the next day."

"Oooh!", I exclaimed. This was sounding good. I really want to become the bigger bottle.

"And if you consistently keep using just 70% of your energy, every single day", she went on, "then one day you can become the stapler. I want you to become the stapler."

"A-ha" moment. If I had been working at 100%, I guess things wouldn't be so bad. But the truth is, that I commit at least 110% to pretty much everything I do. And I am a performance fanatic. Which means that I can manage to pack a huge number of things into my day, with one task separated from another task by mere nanoseconds. Each task being done to about 110%. Hello? Who are we kidding here? Let's stop beating around the bush ... it's mad!

So, I now have to go from being ultra performance machine working at 110%, to just being Mrs 70%. It's hard. Really hard. I mean, when I'm folding the washing, and I've got through 70% of it, I just have to stop and say to myself "oh, I'm too tired to do the rest". Feels very foreign to me.

Shouldering the blame

Over the past 10 years I've had a problem with my shoulder. The muscles in my right shoulder get really tight, and the result is pins and needles in my the fingers of my right hand. At it's extreme, I also get excruciating pain in my shoulder, my fingers and anywhere in between.

I've always thought that this problem belonged in the physiotherapy domain, and would have never thought of mentioning it to my GP. Over the years I have managed the problem with various stretches, chiropractic care and physiotherapy massages.

As I subjected myself to the care of Dr Gruba, it dawned upon me that my shoulder problem is the result of what I have and have not eaten. Furthermore, despite the chemotherapy, the problem started to actually go away. Until today. But allow me to explain.

Yesterday, my horsey friend and I went to our favourite pub to have a drink for Gally. Well, one glass of chardy for Gally. One glass of chardy for Bandit - Bandit was a wonderful horse we were lucky enough to own. Well, Chris owned him, but we're really good at sharing. I realise that over time that list (of horses) will just get longer. Anyway, back to the shoulder.

After those two drinks I was exhausted, my whole body felt like bits of lead, and I spent the rest of the day drinking water and resting. Even dinner was an easy affair as I just reheated something. I did absolutely nothing.

Well, this morning the shoulder was all stiff and my pins and needles were back with a vengence. I had trouble typing this morning! I put the entire blame on those two glasses of wine. I don't regret them, don't get me wrong. But now I've got my culprit. My years of drinking like a sailor are well and truly over. I think I'll be thinning my champagne with mineral water in future.

Vale Gally

Before we bought Gally, my husband, my coach and I discussed what we wanted from my next horse. Gally fitted the bill perfectly. And so I bought Gally - a present to myself for my birthday. I was in heaven.

As Gally settled in at the farm we discovered that he was playful, cheeky and very very bossy. Very soon he became the boss of the paddock and left marks on backsides of anyone who didn't tow the line. (Mine included - although the mark is now gone.)

Life with Gally wasn't all chocolates and roses, but if I was willing to listen, he was willing to share some deep horsey secrets with me. Initially, I wasn't listening. I had no idea that a horse could teach you things. That mistake had me on the ground five times. Then I started listening, and this is what I learnt:

• Respect your horse. 
• Scratch your horse - the more he complains, the harder you should scratch - until he stops complaining. Find all the spots where he enjoys a scratch. You may be very surprised in what you find.
• Make sure your horse respects you - your space, and your requests.
• Be firm.
• Never, ever, get angry.
• Ride in the sweet spot.
• Keep your legs still, unless you're using them to ask for something.
• Keep your hands still, unless you're asking for something.
• Ride with the horse (don't get behind or in front of the action).
• Balance.
• Seperate "play time" from "work time".
• Use "approach and retreat" when dealing with scary things.
• Enjoy your horse. If you are doing something that is too hard, or not enjoyable, then simplify it. Go back a step or two. Enjoy.
• Relax is the reward. Relax. Reward.
• Reward frequently.
• Ask for the best. Ask.
• Follow your intuition.

Most scary moment with Gally - We were warming up for cross country at Wandin, and Gally was spooking at everything - especially other horses. I had already fallen off in the warm up for dressage, and now I was just shaking in my boots.
 
Most bossy moment - Gally - I was standing in the paddock with Gally and Sabina, looking far too goofy. It was winter and I had a hood and beanie on. Gally grabbed at my hood, ripped it off, and sent it flying across the paddock. Sabina started shouting at him that he is naughty and can't do that.
 
Most bossy moment - me - I was lungeing Gally and he stopped and refused to keep going. I cracked the whip, and he faced it, defiant. I came a step closer and I cracked it again, and again, and again. Finally he trotted off in the required direction.

Funniest moment - There were three buckets lying in the paddock. Gally picked up each bucket in turn to show me that they were empty. Gally loved his food.

Best ride - The last ride, when we went into the state forest and I was all relaxed, and we used approach and retreat to ride past the dam.

Other moments of note - Letting my friend Chris ride Gally into the state forest.

There are many other memories that will always bring a smile to my face. In some ways Gally and I were like peas in a pod. I thank him for all the things he taught me, and all the fun we've had together. I hope that his spirit will gallop, play and graze with his herd forever.

Gally - you will always be in my heart.

The tragedy

Last night we had the most terrible storm. It took us twice as long to drive up to the farm, which included driving through floodwaters. (Big "no no", I know). We got to the farm very late, the eves were leaking in a couple of spots, our gumboots were full of water, and our back patio was a swimming pool. I heard a neigh, but since Dingo had been neighing out a lot recently, I chose to ignore it.

This morning, with rain primarily continuing, I ventured outside. I checked on the ponies in the power pole paddock, and saw a lonely figure lying down behind the fence line. My heart sank. The horse turned his head to look at me. Gally. A flame of hope still burnt in me that it wasn't too bad. Cautiously I approached the fence line - on the one hand not wanting to scare the horse, on the other hand trying to delay the inevitable.

I peered across the fence - it was worse than I had expected. It was worse than I had ever seen in my life. The back leg was broken. Half way between the hock and the fetlock. The bottom part of the leg was merely attached by skin and a piece of muscle. My brain fought hard at finding some way to fix things. I felt totally helpless.

I ran across the farm, screaming for my husband. The place felt totally deserted. I felt like grabbing a horse and just riding out, riding far, not returning for hours. Except that the horse I really wanted to ride way lying in the paddock. I wanted to scream, but was too scared in case Sabina would run out in a panic. I wanted to cry, but couldn't.

Finally I found my husband, and while he made a certain phone call, I chopped up carrots. I made up a tasty feed and took it out to Gally. He ate it gladly - he always loved his food. Then I covered him up with a blanket to keep him warm. I sat with him for a while, stroking his neck and singing him lullabyes.

After lunch I was milling aimlessly in the house. My husband called "Do you have any horses in that paddock where Gally is?", he asked. "No". "Well in that case, Gally is standing up." I threw my soaking coat back on and ran outside. Gally was standing up, head held proudly, ears pricked forward, a curious spark in his eye.

And I stood there in awe, etching this beautiful horse in my mind forever. His strenght, and his belief in me and that I could help him. Thoughts of calling the vet and having a prosthesis attached to replace the broken leg, rushed madly through my mind. In vain. I said my last goodbyes to Gally.

Guinea Pig dramas

No, the guinea pigs are not drama queens. We've had a couple of close calls with our guinea pigs. Sabina's guinea pigs.

The first close call was when we had the guinea pigs in their portable outdoor enclosure. The enclosure keeps them contained, but is totally open above them. So we cover it with an old fly wire door. But that only covers half the enclosure.

Anyhow, that's how they were when Sabina and I were walking a horse back to his paddock. We looked up and saw an eagle. We marvelled at his wings, at his head, at his tail. We marvelled at his beauty. Then "Sabina! The guinea pigs! Quick!", I shouted. The little girl didn't need a second prompting; she arrived breathless at her guinea pig enclosure and kept them company until the eagle flew away.

The second drama occurred just before dinner time. This time around the guinea pigs were in "Fort Cavy".

Sabina and I were inside preparing dinner. An odd sound caught my ear. Sort of like dogs barking. "Mama, I think I can hear dogs barking", said Sabina. I dropped everything. I don't even know if I left something on the stove or not. Without another word I bolted out the back door, to find "Fort Cavy" surrounded by two keen Jack Russell terriers. Words flew, dogs started running, and I kept chasing them till they were well down the driveway, tails tucked under. They were very lucky I didn't have a whip handy.

The guinea pigs were just fine.

I want my hair back

Yes, I want my hair back. Not on my head. That's just fine. Maybe it's not the norm, but I have my assortment of hats, as well as the wig, and I am pretty happy.

The lack of eyebrows doesn't bother me too much. Although one does look weird without eyebrows.

Arms and legs - love not having hair. I waxed once and I've been sporting smooth legs ever since. Under arms - same.

A thing or two could be said against the permanent Brazillian, but I can live with it.

But I do want my eyelashes back. Not having eyelashes (or very few eyelashes) means that every spec of dust and every breath of wind irritates your eyes to tears. In addition, the very few eyelashes that are left tend to get into my eyes and cause further irritation. So I use mascara - it fixes the eyelashes in place and keeps them out of my eyes. But of course the dust in the air still irritates my eyes, so I am constantly blinking the tears out of my eyes, which in turn smudges the mascara.

But, that's not the worst of it.

I want my hair back in my nose! Yes, inside my nose. All that dust in the air, and believe me, there's a lot of it, settles inside your nose as you breathe in. Normally, it settles on the fine hairs inside your nostrils, and all is well. But, when that fine hair is gone, it settles on the ultra sensitive membranes inside your nose, the membranes react by producing mucus, the mucus dries up, and the result is very uncomfortable! Add to that the effects of chemo, and you get bloody mucus. Arrgh!

The farmer wants his dinner

I am busy perparing dinner when I get a phone call from my husband. He is somewhere on the farm, finishing off something, as per usual. These were his words. "Listen, I am in cow shit. The cows from the neighbour's have broken out. They are all over the road. I have just rang the neighbours, but they need to go into town this evening. So they can't fix the fence. We have to round up the cows into our paddock."

I turn down the simmering pots, and head outside with Sabina. Keep in mind that I am still recovering from chemo here, and a walk to the road is a big effort. When I get there, I am very pleased to discover that he was only metaphorically speaking when he said he was "in cow shit". Phew!

Then we spend the better part of half an hour rounding up the cows into our paddock. Mainly it's a pretty passive and quiet task, as the cows take their time to decide - will they, won't they go through that gate?

And where does that leave our dinner? Well the potatoes got a bit too roasted, but somehow, everything else turned out fine.

Kilos and shots

Recently I have been whingeing about all this weight I've been stacking on, while still claiming I could do a well posed shot. Check out the said shot.

I admit though, it would have looked better with that blonde wig.

Christmas and the wig

The wig has had it's many sceptics and supporters.  Either way, everyone meant well, and all the comments were valid.  It wasn't a cheap venture either.  And I can't say that I wear it every day.  The performance fanatic in me is screaming "extravagance".  But in the end, I think it was worth it ... even if it is for just this one Christmas shot.

Chemo 6

I rock up to Day Oncology as per usual and the nurse picks me up, weighs me - 66kg (gulp!) - and sits me in my chair. Dad gets me a magazine, because I've forgotten to bring a book.

Really, the chemo is uneventful. The nurse finds the vein in one go, and the drugs drip in, right on schedule. I don't even feel too bad. No desire to jump out of my skin and "popcorn".

I enjoy the lovely lunch provided by the hospital (that's in addition to my own sandwiches), and then Mum and Dad pick me up and take me back to their place. Here I am treated to another lunch, because of course I must be absolutely starving after sitting in a recliner for a few hours. Then comes the obligatory snooze. Well, I wake up at 5:30pm!

Mum and I chat for a bit, and then it's ... you guessed it ... dinner time. You never go hungry at mym Mum's.

When I get home I find a lovely surprise at my doorstep - some flowers and a frozen food soup from my horse riding buddy, Christine. I'ts a great way to celebrate the end of chemo.

Wait! The end of chemo? Yes. But not the end of treatment. Oh no. That would be far too easy. I seem to do everything that's endurance. I still need to have ongoing, 3-weekly treatment, via drip, at the hospital. Yep. You read that right. It's a drug called "herceptin" that targets my cancer directly.

The upside - very few side effects. So the hair should grow back, and I shouldn't feel too tired. The downside - well the need to have treatment until December 2011!