My Cancerversary

It’s been a year since I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

I realised my cancer anniversary was coming up last week, wondered if I should do something to commemorate it and then promptly forgot about it until this morning. It was two days ago and it slipped past as if Thursday was just a normal day. I woke up, walked the dog, worked, worked out and had dinner with The Boy at home like it was an ordinary day.

Which I find strange, because the date June 2 is burned into my brain. When people asked me when I was diagnosed I don’t hesitate on the number even though I have to stop for a second when someone asks me my age.

So I assumed I’d wake up on Thursday and I’d feel something.

I guess it’s not like a birthday where you anticipate it. Birthday’s are joyous celebrations full of presents, booze, fabulous dinners and more presents. I want to celebrate birthdays. But cancer anniversaries aren’t necessarily positive milestones. They’re often commiserated rather than celebrated.

Yet  I need to acknowledge it because it’s been a fucker of a year and I choose to celebrate where I am right now. The ground I’m standing on is not as solid as it was before cancer ripped through my life, but it’s safer than it was a year ago.

My diagnosis felt like the tornado that swept up Dorothy and Toto and transported them to a strange place where everything was terrifyingly unfamiliar and they had not choice but to set off on a course that was not of their choosing in order to get back home.

I didn’t want to do any of it. My yellow brick road was fraught with pain, danger and loss. When I thought about what lay ahead of me it all seemed too hard, too scary, too much.

And yet, here I am. Which is definitely something to celebrate.

Cancer doesn’t make you brave

We need to change the language that we use to talk about cancer.

Brave. Fight. Survivor. Battle.

The language of cancer is the language of war.

But for everyone who won their battle, someone lost.

For every survivor, there’s someone who didn’t make it.

The implication being the ones who didn’t win their battle didn’t fight hard enough. They didn’t want it badly enough. They weren’t brave enough to go the extra mile to be the victor. And I call bullshit on that.

Cancer is an unfair fight. It is so much more than David versus Goliath, of the underdog taking on someone bigger, stronger and more powerful.

We’re flying blind. Sure, we have modern medicine and doctors and seriously effective drugs, but none of these things can guarantee a win. They up your chances yes, but won’t deliver a definitive cure. That’s why cancer patients go into remission or are classified as cancer-free. Never cured. Doctors will guide you through the woods as best they can, but sometimes a path just won’t open up.

Recently my oncologist asked if I wanted to know my numbers of a recurrence. Of course I said yes. I thought I’d be high 90’s of making the 10 year mark, turns out I’m mid-80’s. So even with two surgeries, five months of chemo, five weeks of radiation and the five years of hormone therapy I’ve got to look forward to, there’s a chance they might have missed something, a shitty little cell lying in wait to strike again before my 42nd birthday.

It’s bullshit.

I have done everything I can to prevent this from happening ever again. Everything my breast surgeon, oncologist, genetic counselor, radiation oncologist and plastic surgeon advised me to do. They all agreed it was my best chance and I took it. I have given this my all; my time, my money, my energy but it might not be enough and this terrifies me.

Which is why we need to ditch the word brave when it comes to cancer, just like we need to lose the euphemistic journey.

I’m no braver than anyone else reading this, yet I’ve lost count of the number of people who have told me I am. Why? I’m just doing what I need to do to ensure I live a long healthy life, one where I get to start a family with The Boy, reach the stage where we’re an embarrassment to our children, make fun of him when he starts to go bald and be thankful that the reconstruction means my boobs don’t drop to my knees.

Being labelled as brave makes you feel guilty for feeling fear. That you’re not living up to expectations.

Having cancer inspires the opposite of bravery. It instills fear, terror and the desire to run far, far away, stick your head in the sand and pretend nothing is wrong so you won’t have to face it.

I did not choose to have cancer to prove my balls are bigger than yours. This was never a goal to be conquered, this was not my Everest. I didn’t dream of it, train for it, strive to overcome it.

I am not brave. I am scared.

And that’s OK, I’m allowed to be.

If only it was just cancer

It would be so much easier if this was just breast cancer; cut it out, treat it, (hopefully) fuggedaboutit.

It would have been lumpectomy, chemo, radiation and hormone therapy.
Instead, I have the BRAC2 gene mutation so things got a lot more complicated.

Sound familiar? It’s the Angelina Jolie gene. But instead of sharing the same chiselled cheekbones or long legs with the Hollywood actress, she and I dubiously share the risk of a much higher-than-average chance of getting breast and ovarian cancer.

Jolie made headlines when she preemptively removed her breasts and ovaries to lessen her risk.

But I’ve already got breast cancer, so there you go, I’m good. Yeah, I thought that too. But my risk of developing another primary breast cancer were still frighteningly high and that was when my doctors started talking about a mastectomy.

Which scared me, because I was quite attached to my breasts. Literally.

The other option was a yearly mammogram, MRI and appointments with my oncologist and breast surgeon for manual examinations. That’s four times a year I’d have my breasts checked, but I still didn’t feel safe knowing that the cancer was lurking dormant deep within my breast tissue, just waiting to come back. It was like having a guillotine hanging over me, knowing that although it was safely secured it could release at any moment, without warning.

I knew what I needed to do, but it wasn’t an easy decision to make

When Jolie explained her decision to remove her breasts, she was described as being brave. I just thought she was being practical. If you know that you will one day contract the same disease that decimated the lives of the women in your family, you’d do something about it so that you can be there to watch your own family grow up.

Now here I was, being faced with that same practical decision.

What tipped me over was talking to three separate women who had had breast cancer twice, about a decade apart. What terrified me most was that none of these women had the BRAC1 or 2 genes.

The thing about breast cancer is that there is more than one kind. Just because I had an ER+ tumor in my left breast didn’t mean I couldn’t develop an triple negative tumor in my right breast.

So six weeks ago I had a double mastectomy and reconstruction.

It’s no guarantee that I won’t get another tumor, but my risk is now minimal and I only need annual appointments with my breast surgeon.

The second part of a BRAC2 diagnosis is ovarian cancer, which scares me more than breast cancer.

It’s stealthier, sneakier and deadlier. Even with six-monthly exams, if they find something the chances are high it will already be stage two. If you’re unfamiliar with the stages of cancer it goes something like this; one is early, two is progressing, three is advanced, four you’re fucked.

Like Jolie, I will one day remove my ovaries, but I hope that won’t be for another decade.

Finishing chemo

After five months and six sessions, I’m done with chemo.
I had my last round three weeks ago and as my body is slowly getting over it, I’m starting to feel more like me.

The steroids are out of my system and that bloated puffiness is gone.
I can walk up a hill without having to stop halfway to catch my breath.
I got through this week without having to nap once.

These things may not sound like much, but to me they are huge achievements. Still working on growing back the hair, brows and lashes but hoping Santa comes good and delivers them by Christmas.

Although my breast surgeon had warned me I might have to do chemo, I was adamant that the surgery was enough and I wouldn’t need to. Turns out that positive thinking doesn’t always do the trick. So of course I cried when the oncologist prescribed what she called the Rolls Royce of chemo. Over the next few weeks I kept saying the word, chemo, to myself and others to get used to the idea.

Just before my first session, the doctor on duty came over and asked me to sign the consent form.
“So if I don’t sign it I don’t have to have it?” I asked, not really joking. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, deadly serious.
I looked at The Boy as I tried to get up.
He put his hand on mine and said “We’re doing this.”
I wanted to scream at him that “we’re” not doing anything. I’m doing it. Not him. Which is unfair because I know that if he could have, he would have taken my pain away in an instant. Instead he came to every chemo session with me, fetching coffees, chocolate brownies and magazines so he could be useful, so he felt that at least he was doing something.

And so I cried again when that first IV went into my veins and I realised it was really happening. I was getting the hard drugs because my cancer was aggressive, I was young and my body could handle it.

And for the most part, it did.

When people asked me how chemo was, my standard answer was “surprisingly bearable.”

Because for the most part it was. My frame of reference was movies and TV shows that showed emaciated patients vomiting into the toilet all day so I was pleasantly surprised that that wasn’t my reality.

But it was far from easy and now that it’s over, I look back on my simplistic answer and think that it was my way of coping. If I told people that I could handle it, I could make myself believe it.

But I’m not spreading positivity platitudes. I hate platitudes. When someone you know is going through something shit, don’t spout some bullshit about how getting through it will make them stronger, just tell them you’re sorry they have to go through it and supply them with chocolates/wine/coffee/magazines/flowers or whatever it is that will make them smile.
Some people want to be left alone, but I liked having visitors. It’s so goddamn boring being sick and I looked forward to lunch and coffee dates as an excuse to get dressed and go out.

On days where it was all too hard and I felt like the pain was never going to stop I resorted to the hard drugs because positive thinking wasn’t going to do shit.
Pain and positivity are not friends.
Much easier to be positive on a good day.

On a good day, after taking my dog for a walk, I was proud of myself. I got out of the house, got dressed and exercised. My body was strong. My body was awesome. My body was handling chemo like a champ. Then I remembered that the reason I had to go through chemo in the first place was that my body betrayed me. And then I would get angry at my body.

Its not as if something happened to me, I wasn’t hit by a car and break a leg,  I didn’t catch an infectious disease that had to be treated. My body turned on itself, causing perfectly good cells to transform into festering, cancerous cells that had to be cut out and then crop dusted with toxic drugs that attack the good cells as well as the bad.

The worst thing about chemo though, is that it’s not a cure.

At my last oncologist appointment I asked if that was it, if I was done.
Yes I was done, but they can’t guarantee that they’ve gotten it all, that there’s no rogue cell floating around my body waiting to pop up again. But it’s the best treatment they’ve got and for now that has to be enough.

How to fake eyelashes during chemo

You don’t realise how much definition eyelashes give your face until you’re lash-less.

Mine were never very long, but they were thick and dark enough that I could go without mascara when I was feeling lazy. Now I have just a few strands desperately hanging in there and when I look in the mirror I feel like my face has been rubbed out.

I had always put false lashes in the too-hard basket, but there’s nothing like not recognising your face to motivate you to experiment with make-up.

I was happy to discover it’s not so hard. It’s a little fiddly and I don’t do it everyday, but on the days when I want to head out with wig, heels, a fab frock and pretend I don’t have cancer this is a great confidence boost.

And because there are no real eyelashes getting in the way, falsies were a lot easier to apply than I first thought.

My current lash situation
My current lash situation

Go for a reusable half-strip for the most natural look, you don’t need a full-on glamour set. The key to getting it right is lining the lid first, otherwise there’s too much contrast between the bare lashline and the falsies.

A half strip of lashes
A half strip of lashes without liner looks too fake as the line abruptly stops

I prefer liquid liner, but you can use gel or smudge a pencil along the lash line.

Liner along the upper lash line
Liner along the upper lash line

Go quite thick with the line, this gives you room to play with when applying the lashes. There are special tools you can use, but because there are hardly any real lashes to get in the way it’s easy enough to pick up the strip, shape it over the curve of your lid and stick it down.

Eyeliner + false lashes
Eyeliner + false lashes

The final touch is colouring in the upper inner lash line with a pencil. If you look closely at the above pic, you can see that there’s a two-tone effect, a strip of flesh between the eyeball and lash. This would normally be hidden by real lashes.

Eyeliner + lashes + upper inner waterline
Eyeliner + lashes + upper inner waterline

When you colour in the waterline, the liner, false lashes and waterline all blend together, giving you a more natural result

Caring for your body during chemo

Before you start chemo, they present you with a very long list of potential side effects. Most of them contradictory. As well as losing your hair, you could get diarrhea, become constipated, get dry eyes, develop watery eyes, break out, get dry skin, have hot flushes, lose your nails, develop mouth ulcers, swollen fingers and toes and lots more.

I wrote a story about how to care for your body during chemo, covering skincare, nails, hair and oral health for The Daily Telegraph. But I was restricted by a word count, so here’s a – very long – post that combines the story plus  are a few other things that have helped or are currently helping me.

Feel free to comment on what works for you.


Hands and nails

Sally Hansen nail expert, Alison Bowhill-Hayes says side effects can include lines or ridges, brittleness, discoloration, frayed cuticles and even nail loss. Skin openings in frayed cuticles are also prone to infection.

“Keep nails short and don’t use scissors or clippers, just a disposable emery board or file,” Alison says.

“Wear gloves when doing chores and invest in really good hand creams and cuticle oils, moisturizers are the best protection. Avoid professional manicures, pedicures and definitely no acrylic nails.”

If they fall off, nails usually starts to grow back a few weeks after the final chemotherapy session and take about six months to reach full length.

While you can’t prevent nail loss, Alison recommends wearing black nail polish.

“It is great at protecting the nail from UV light, reducing the risk of infection. Also as nails can become discolored you may feel more comfortable covering them up,” she says.

I’ve just had my second round of docetaxel and the side effects ramp up with each session, my fingers are swelling, my hands are a lot more sensitive, my fingertips have started to crack and my dry skin is peeling. I keep hand cream in every room of the house, plus various handbags, so I apply whenever I remember.

I also apply cuticle oil several times a day to prevent them from splitting.

I’m using dark nail polish as well, to protect them from UV light.

During docetaxel, they give you ice gloves to wear. This helps numb the nerve endings in your fingers and help save your nails. I found it’s a lot easier if you keep one hand in for two minutes and then swap. Much easier than chilling both at once.


I’m getting the same swelling and sensitivity as my hands, so using moisturiser with peppermint to help cool them.

Avoid long walks on hot days, I took Scoo for a two hour walk on a 30C day and couldn’t walk the next day. Once the swelling went down, I counted 11 blisters.


Dr. Spiller skincare expert, Sue Dann, says chemotherapy can result in a range of skin issues, including dehydration, discoloration, bruising, infection, itchiness, dryness, peeling and acne.

Skincare should extend to the whole body, including the scalp.

“It is important to switch to a good moisturizing body cream, one preferably with shea butter, because it sits on the skin and acts as a protective shield. In case of extreme dryness a body oil is beneficial,” she says.


Registered nurse and co-founder of skincare specialists, The Clinic, Kaye Scott recommends preparing the skin before chemotherapy with lots of hydration and antioxidants.

Swap your regular moisturiser for a paraben and preservative free formula that contains calming ingredients such as sea buckthorn, chamomile, Vitamin E and aloe vera such as Cosmedix Rescue+ and Aspect Dr Redless oil.

“Avoid harsh products and active ingredients such as Vitamin A as skin is compromised, with a high tendency towards dryness and irritation,” she says.

To add insult to injury, corticosteroid drugs such as dexamethasone which are prescribed to combat nausea, can cause breakouts.

“You must be very careful to avoid alpha hydroxy acids and salicylic acid which are found in acne treatments as the skin is fragile. If you experience a large amount of breakouts, speak with your oncologist,” Kaye says.

My once oily skin is now dry, irritated and tight so I’ve had to switch my skincare regime.

I use a thick, creamy cleanser in the mornings, layer anti-redness and hydrating serums and a thick layer of skin balm rather than regular moisturiser.

Sunscreen is also important, your skin is more likely to burn during chemo.

At night, I use a cleansing oil to get rid of sunscreen and make-up. It’s thick, soothing and doesn’t strip my skin.

Then I started breaking out, lots of little red pimples that wouldn’t come to a head so it looked like a red rash across my cheeks and forehead.I thought it was because I was over-moisturising, but it was the steroids. Not much you can do about it. My skin was too sensitive to exfoliate or use acne treatments, so I just had to roll with it.


My complexion has two settings at the moment, red or yellow.

Redness is best covered with a mineral powder foundation that you buff into the skin. I haven’t found anything else that works as well. You could do a two-step system where you use a green colour corrector under foundation, but that’s a lot more work.

For powder foundations, be careful that your skin isn’t dry or flaky as it gets stuck in broken skin. Not a good look.

I’ve lost my olive skin, it’s been replaced but a somewhat jaundiced yellow hue so I have been using highlighters and luminizers to bring my skin back to life. It needs glow.

When it comes to make-up, keep your layering consistent for the best finish. If you are using a liquid base, go a liquid or cream blush, bronzer and illuminizer so you’re applying like on like.

I like Revlon Skinlights, it’s cheap, comes in a few shades and is easy to blend on its own or just mix into your moisturiser for an all over glow.

Powderwise, I Bobbi Brown’s Shimmer Bricks and I’ve heard good things about Hourglass Ambient Lighting Powder, but haven’t tried it.


Special needs dentist, Dr Sharon Liberali from the Australian Dental Association says the tissues of the mouth and saliva can be affected.

“With less saliva, your mouth may feel dry and uncomfortable, making it difficult to eat dry, spicy or acidic foods” she says.

“Some chemotherapy drugs affect white blood cells which fight infection, increasing the risk of bacterial and fungal infections and ulcers.”

Sharon recommends a mouthwash that contains chlorhexidine, such as Curasept, which is alcohol free and is antiseptic, antibacterial and antifungal. Difflam oral rinse contains benzydamine which helps with inflammation and pain, while Biotene is alcohol free and help dry mouths. Salt water and baking soda rinses are also great.

“Salt is a natural antiseptic while bicarbonate is alkaline and effervescent. Dry mouths are often acidic so neutralising the mouth’s acidity will decrease the risk of bacterial overgrowth and thrush organisms. Flat soda water is also effervescent and the bubbles give comfort while removing food stuck on teeth,” she says.

I’m thankful that so far I haven’t lost my sense of taste. I love eating and the idea that I could lose that pleasure was just too much.

But I’m not out of the woods.

I survived FEC ok but my mouth is super-sensitive the week after docetaxel.

I can’t drink coffee, it just dehydrates my mouth.

All alcohol tastes metallic, so drinking is out.

Acids and chilli also irritate.

For the first week I’m all about soft bread, pasta and creamy butter, foods that soothe and calm my mouth. Chocolate is also good, it’s all about a rich, creamy, fatty coating on my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

I saw a dentist before I started chemo who put me on a strict oral hygiene regime, which included a sensitive electric toothbrush, fluoride toothpaste, tooth mousse and piksters rather than floss.

I rinse my mouth with warm water and salt or bi-carb after each meal, or if I’m out I have a small bottle of Biotene, a moisturising mouth wash.

Moisturising mouth strips also help.

I couldn’t find Curasept in a local pharmacy, so have ordered it online. The key ingredient, chlorhexidine, can stain your teeth and although you can find it in other brands, Curasept contains an anti-staining agent.

I read about oil pulling, an ancient ayurvedic treatment where you swish coconut oil around your mouth for 20 minutes first thing in the morning to remove toxic build-up. I ran it by my dentist who said it couldn’t hurt. Rather than ridding your body of toxins it’s moisturising your mouth first thing in the morning, when it’s driest, which helps protects your mouth, teeth and gums. It’s not the most pleasant experience at first, but you slowly get used to it .


Losing your hair is one of the most traumatic parts of chemotherapy and getting a wig can bring some normality to your look. A lot of hospitals have wig libraries, where you can borrow a style for the duration of your treatment but options are limited.

Wigs are made from synthetic strands or human hair. The former are cheaper, but you can’t style them with hot tools and while the latter look a lot more natural, they can cost in the thousands.

Whatever type you choose, stylist Anthony Nader recommends going lighter than your natural shade and, to make it look as real as possible, getting it cut to suit you.

“Your complexion fades during chemo, so you need to adapt your hair colour,” he says.

“Wigs are hard to manicure, so find someone who has experience working with them. The key is combining jagged, textured edges, blending every line and tailoring it to make it look natural.”

I was fixated on the idea of a wig before starting chemo, it was my security blanket, but I found I haven’t worn it as much as I expected.

In an Australian summer it’s just too hot. Plus, as you get used to being bald, it becomes less of a thing.

I prefer a faux fringe + headscarf combo.

Saying that, I’m glad I had it for the first few weeks and that my hairdresser cut it to fit so that it helped me feel more like me.


On the first 30C+ weekend in Sydney I broke out with red welts all over my legs and thought I had been bitten by something at the beach. Then I saw the same welts on my waist and inner arms.

Turns out it was heat rash, something I didn’t think about because I’d never had it before.

Your core body temperature rises, so keep cool in natural, breathable fibres such as cotton and linen. Polyester is not your friend.

And swap your regular body moisturiser for a body oil. Your skin will just soak it all up.

Brows and lashes

Just because your lose your hair doesn’t mean you’ll lose all your brows.

If they’ve thinned, Amy Jean Eye Couture’s founder and brow expert Amy Jean Linnehan recommends drawing them in with a brow powder, which gives the brows volume. If there’s no hair, an extremely sharp pencil applied in feathery strokes gives definition.

“There are stencils on the market that you can simply hold over the skin and colour in the shape,” she says.

Lashes can also thin and fall out.

“There are newer false lash strips available with an invisible line to adhere to the skin, so you don’t need lash hairs. They are lightweight and can be reapplied by peeling off the old glue,” she says.

“I’ve seen some incredible results with lash growth serums and many post chemo clients regrow their brows between 50-75 per cent of their natural capacity. For sparse brows, we can etch micro hair strokes into the skin using our feather touch tattoo technique and results last up to two years.”

Losing my lashes and brows has been one of the hardest parts of chemo because my face used to be 90 per cent brow. That’s what you get from being Italian.

Now, I look into the mirror and don’t recognise myself.

They stuck around during FEC but docetaxel is taking them away. Yet my hair is growing back. Go figure.

At the moment, there’s not much I can do apart from drawing them in. I’m avoiding mascara, I find I lose too many lashes when I remove it, but smudgy eyeliner helps disguise the lack of hairs.

You’ll also need to keep tissues handy, a lack of lashes means watery eyes. Who knew they actually had an evolutionary purpose?

Tissues are also good for runny noses. A lovely side effect of losing nose hairs.

I’ve had two personal recommendations for lash serums, Revitalash and Priori Lash Recovery serum. I’ll give one a go, and cross my fingers, three weeks after my last chemo session.

Extra stuff

  • I started chemo in July and didn’t realise how much warmth your hair holds until I didn’t have any. My head was cold and the cashmere beanies from were a godsend. Super soft, they had no seams so didn’t irritate my scalp and kept my head warm. I bought two, a double layer for daytime and a single layered beanie to sleep in.
  • The selection of wireless bras here was also great. I had my lymph nodes removed, which  ups my risk of lymphoedema and meant that post-surgery I had to throw out all my underwire bras. Finding pretty, supportive lingerie without underwire in anything bigger than a C cup isn’t easy but these fit the bill.
  • This was part of my post-surgery kit. It’s not the most attractive bra, but it ticked all the boxes for post surgery; no underwire, cotton, strong compression so that your breasts don’t move and irritate scars, thick straps, supportive plus front and back clasps so it was easy to get on and off. The compression is so good, we’re talking no bounce, that I still use it as a sports bra.
  • These stretch lace, soft cup bras aren’t the most supportive but they made me feel pretty and feminine after having my chest hacked.

Cancer steers your whole life off course

A wedding at Arthur McElhone Reserve, image via via Google Images

I was supposed to get married this weekend.

Instead, I’m having my fifth round of chemo.

It’s the second dose of docetaxel and because I know how bad it will be, I’ll be apprehensively waiting for the pain to kick in.

Instead of the last minute frenzy of making sure the flowers will be delivered, I have something blue and stressing over whether it will rain – to add insult to injury, it will be a perfect, clear 28C Sydney spring day on Saturday – I’m making sure that all my drugs are well stocked and ready to go; endone, ibuprofen, paracetamol plus epsom salts for long baths.

I was never big on getting married. While other girls fantasised about the big white dress, I dreamed about travelling and independence. I wanted to get out and see things, collect experiences, do stuff and I always thought a husband would get in the way.

In the fairytale version of girl-meets-boy, my relationship would have made me see the folly of my ways, but for the first few years of my relationship my view didn’t change. This was never going to last, he wasn’t my type, he was just going to be a chapter in my life.

There was never a lightning bolt moment, just the slow realisation that I loved him and I wanted to be with him. He also wanted to see things, collect experiences and do stuff, so why wouldn’t do it together?

A few months in, before those three little words were exchanged, a girlfriend asked me why we were still together.

“He grew on me,” I said.

“Like a fungus?”

Yeah, slowly and stealthily until I realised that I didn’t want a life that didn’t include him.

Fungus isn’t the most romantic way to describe your partner, but I’m not talking about your run of the mill button mushroom. He’s a truffle; rare, hard to find, what everyone is searching for; kind, supportive, good cook, great cuddler and smells fabulous – even without cologne, but add Spice Bomb into the mix and it’s a whole other level.

We’ve been together for eight years and although we talked about the big, life building stuff like kids and buying property, neither of us was too fussed about marriage.

But then our friends started getting hitched and watching the brides dance with their fathers shifted things for me. My dad has metastatic cancer, there’s no cure, it’s a matter of months or years rather than decades and the sheer force of his mortality hit me.

I want to have the father daughter dance, I want him to walk me down the aisle because I know that it’s important to him and I want to have that memory of us.

I gave the celebrant clear instructions that under no circumstances was she to mention the words “give away.” I am not an item to be shifted from one man to another, I moved out of home at 21 so I would have been appalled if The Boy wanted to ask my father for permission or wanted to have the traditional phrasing. Hell, I wasn’t even planning on taking his surname.

There was no big proposal, rather a series of conversations where we decided that this is what we wanted to do.

The plan was a casual reception in one of our favourite parks, maybe with a Dr Seuss reading, and a party rather than a formal reception. And we wanted it to be in our neighbourhood, so it was a celebration that felt like us.

We locked everything in before we announced it, an afternoon ceremony at Arthur McElhone Reserve overlooking Elizabeth Bay then a reception at Mad Pizza in Surry Hills for 90 people. Don’t laugh, it was a great space, good food, lots of booze, room for a DJ and you could party until 1am, they wouldn’t kick you out at 11pm. We’d planned a round of espresso martinis for all at midnight to keep everyone kicking on and instead of a cake, they were happy to create a tower of ricotta cannoli, my favourite. It was exactly what we wanted.

One of the prettiest parks in Sydney and part of our dog-walking route
One of the prettiest parks in Sydney and part of our dog-walking route. Image via via Google Images

But then the venue called. Their landlord was cancelling the lease and they wouldn’t be open in October. We were devastated, it was a crisis of epic proportions.

And then I was diagnosed with cancer two days later.

Life may be what happens when you have other plans, but it sure has a fucked up sense of humor.