Yesterday (18 January) was the fifth anniversary of my first surgery (!!!). In an attempt to snap some kind of suitable self-portrait as part of my celebrations, this very auspicious shot emerged. It's not me in front of a string of multi-coloured xmas lights, no, no. It's me with a laser blasting through the bubblegum dustbunny. This might just mean that I won't need another surgery for oligoastrocytoma grade II in ten days' time, because I've already done it myself. This photograph stands as indisputable evidence. Triumph. I'm calling the hospital to cancel right now.
Five whole years, though. I am very, very lucky. The tumour will always come back, it might choose to get vicious, it might not. But five years, and with no other treatments? I feel spoiled and soiled for having ever complained about anything. Seizures? Is that all? So what, Frances. When I start wearing scarves next month, it won't be to cover burns and patches of lost hair. It will be to keep the wound protected from cold and/or from the itchy wool of toques when I go outside. And after that I just get to have a really fantastic high-art hairstyle for a while. I'm stupid lucky, and definitely not as hardcore as some of the other brain bloggers out there. Need to raise a glass to them.