Living in a Box.

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It’s my daughter’s birthday tomorrow. No, not that daughter. Not the one we’ve just visited in South Korea.

The other one. My Bonfire Night ‘Remember remember the Fifth of November: Gunpowder, Treason and Plot’ baby. The one whose twin boys find their way into my posts from time to time. The one whose husband died of cancer not seven months ago. This will be the first birthday in years that she can’t share with him.

She could do with him by her side more than ever at the moment, because she too has now been diagnosed with cancer.

Her blog has the byline ‘Recently widowed. Swears a lot.’ If that’s going to bother you, don’t read it.

But I suggest that you do look at it, and get an insight into what it might be like to be widowed, young, and have cancer.

Fanny the Champion of the World

Who in their right mind looks forward to cancer treatment? Me. I need a break. I can’t physically find the time to fit everything in, and the idea of lying in a hospital bed waiting to get my cancerous bap sliced open and stuffed with silicone, saline or pig fat is suddenly not without appeal. I’ve come a long way in a few weeks – before, the idea threw me into a blind panic, but I’m so tired, and so ready to accept offers of babysits, dog walks, and help around the house, that I give up. I’ll trade anything – even my left breast – for a good night’s sleep and some time off work and away from the boys, who are in the throes of grief for the third year running. They’re sapping every last scrap of energy I have, and testing my patience to its limits. I adore…

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