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Pardon my 'swears,' but it's MY battle - and I'm all about winning ...

I named the tumours. Well, two of them. The third one was so tiny, the radiologist referred to it as ‘foci’ and nothing more was said about it. The two larger tumours were on the side of one of my breasts, an estimated two centimetres between them.

I imagined them, snuggled there smugly, horrifyingly close to my armpit (my lymph-nodes), colluding, planning to make a slow but menacing break for those nodes - if they hadn't already. Giving them brains, an identity of their own - and allowing myself to think the worst. Then berating myself for it. They are nothing. Nothing!

This is where I might lose you because … well, I’m going to swear. You see, I called the two larger tumours ‘Fuckity-Fucker’ and ‘The Little Shit of a Side-kick.’

I know, I know … if you’re thinking: “Oh there’s no need for that – How crass! That’s not very nice,” – I'm sorry; no, I'm not at all sorry. I was so angry, you see. Indignant, incensed! Horrified – and terrified. ‘Hate’ is a strong word, so I try not to use that too loosely. But hatred is what I felt. Hatred and throat-grazing fear. I surged with hate when I saw those tumours on the breast surgeon’s computer screen. I hated them when I was lying in bed, waking in the wee hours when everyone else was asleep. Lonely times, those; trying not to hyperventilate with fear and aching sorrow. Getting up and slowly pacing in the lounge, looking out at the city lights, making green tea, trying to empty my mind, meditate, breathe, breathe. Still hated those tumours, though.

I refused to call them ‘my tumours.’ They were ‘the tumours.’ To hell I was going to own them, let them ‘think’ they now owned a piece of me! They will not be a part of me. We will not give them time to grow and spread. This is my body, Fuckity-Fucker! You and the Little Shit can eff off! You will be cut out and cut up, exposed and examined, left vulnerable, left to shrivel. You will be destroyed – not ME.

I am strong, so strong!

Still reading? I promise I won’t swear again. Well, barely. This is going to be a story of strength and positivity and the immense loving kindness that has rapidly gathered 'round me.


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