7 Kisses Goodnight

I look at you in wonder, my beautiful blonde haired boy.

Your perfect little nose, your expressive brow. The wrinkle that appears when you laugh from your belly. You almost always laugh in your sleep at least once. Its both terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Your breath which is rested and contented. Lulling you into sweet dreams.

Your lashes which could make a supermodel envious. You’ll create waves with those lashes, your very own breeze maker.

Your cupids bow still puckered, that wonderful little baby pout which you’ve never lost.

And the air around you, still, silent and comforting.

We always nod off together; head in lap, your hand on your chest with the other touching me, making sure I haven’t gone far.

That comfort and reassurance help you drift off to slumber but you’ll never realise its you comforting and reassuring me.

When I know you’re in a deep sleep, I move you up so that I cradle you. Your neck in the crook of my arm, your long body draped across my legs and your hand instinctively grasping at my ‘spot’ under my chin.

I take you all in. You could have been a monster ALL DAY LONG (trust me, it happens), but those sweet moments I get to hold you without you struggling to run away or blowing raspberries or squealing from tickles, are some of my most happiest minutes.

Time could stop and it wouldn’t matter.

My whole world is in my arms.

I nuzzle your cheek and feel your soft skin and I give 7 kisses. 6 little kisses then a big firm kiss at the end.

I could kiss you all day long and I am always asking for one from you, but the 7 kisses goodnight are the best.

I could be swamped with chores or needing to get out and run round the block, but I never leave without my 7 kisses.

They are a Mother’s kisses to her boy. Her baby. Her love.

7 Kisses Goodnight.


21 months

On the 23rd October 2012 I had an MRI which unfortunately showed that I did indeed have a fuckwit and actually, it was a big bugger.

On the 8th July 2014 I had another MRI that would show that fuckwit (and any other hangers-on) had gone and left me with (after extensive treatment) a designer va Jay Jay.

Today Dr Powell, gave me the chance to look at that first scan. And then I was able to see it beside my most recent scan. It helped prove to myself that I’ve overcome so very much, actually, huge amounts, in such a short space of time. That means so much to me, in a period in my life where I’m doubting everything (and I mean everything) I do from the how I’m living my life to how I deal with an email.

I have accomplished something along with an amazing medical team who saved my life.

21 months is nothing. I’m baby terms it is the precipice of the terrible twos. In project terms, it’s the crux of hard work, culminating.
In Cancer terms, its mammoth. It’s a big hairy, wooly mammoth. It’s proving you got through that ridiculously bleak time and through to the other side.

But as I go through each review, I truly feel that the real treatment for the Cancer that destroyed so much is actually happening now. At times, I actually wish I was having the daily trek to radiotherapy or the underlining nausea from that platinum chemo as I dealt with that way better than the dealing with the compelling urge to carry another child or the fact that my Cancer can return.

21 months? Smashed it. Life? Let’s try again. And again. And again.

I’ll spare you a picture of the inner workings of my vagina, but if you did want to see what I beat, let me know 😉

Thank you so very much for all your support, as always, and for the pictures and texts and messages. What a lovely bunch you are x

Here we go again…

Another year is about to end, with the promise of a shiny new one about to descend.

No denying it has been a tough year, but I’ve been very lucky also.

The last couple of months have been especially trying. I’ve felt like I have needed to prove myself in every aspect of my life.
Married life.

I honestly don’t know whether I am coming or going. I could sit here and wax lyrical on everything that is wrong with me. I feel like I should write it down as if to justify my behaviour.

Part of me wants to do that, get it out there and let people know. List everything down. Outwardly I might be fine, but fuck me, am I a mess inside.

Part of me wonders why on earth I have to write anything at all. Do people not realise what I have been through this year?

Part of me wants to hide. Hide in a very dark place and wait for Spring.

Part of me knows I should try to move on as much as I possibly can.

Part of me…well you can see from above why I feel at such a loss.

I made an appointment for my Doctors for the 23rd December; I need to stock up on my patches but also, I need help.

Psychologically, I need some assistance. Not necessarily through meds (but I am open to that option) but maybe some therapy.

When you finish your treatment for Cancer, if you are lucky (like I am) you don’t see anyone (doctors/nurses etc) unless you need to or at scheduled appointments. For me, it has felt like you’ve been cut loose from the pack and you are out there to defend yourself.
And that was fine in the beginning, you are given a new lease of life, you’ve beaten something and for a moment, you are invincible.
But now its a bit farther down the road, and you’re still doing well, but the novelty of conquering cancer is waning.

I found myself looking in a dark hole. I was looking at a girl I used to know.
A girl who was paranoid about every tiny thing.
A girl who just wanted to please everyone and not upset the dynamic.
A girl who, at one point even considered leaving her job, just to make it so that her colleague was happy.
A girl who cried herself to sleep because she had forgotten to reply to a text and the recipient was upset because of that flippant forgetfulness.

I realised I had changed. I’ve written about it before, and although this whole bloody situation has made me stronger, it also took away some of my softer side.
I don’t suffer fools gladly and you can’t walk all over me anymore. And the other day, I realised that what people didn’t like about me anymore. They couldn’t take me for granted and weigh me down, because I simply don’t let it happen.
Someone recently told me that I was cold-hearted now, that I didn’t care as much as I did before.
To a certain extent that is true. Although I care about the bigger things now, the people and things that are important to me instead of fretting about the small things.

I think it is because I am being told I need to move on. I need to get over that fact I can’t have my own children anymore. I need to stop playing the cancer card. So I’ve just stopped it.

I guess I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve anymore. I think I used to make myself too vulnerable to people (why do you write a blog then?!) but I have shut that down now. I rarely talk about my personal life in work (apart from James because he is farking hilarious and EVERYONE should know about his antics) and actually I go to work for a rest from my ‘real life’. I get an eight-hour break from having to deal with the shit storm our family had to go through.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my little family. They have got me through the worst time imaginable, but it pains me that I/we have lost so much along the way.
I can switch off at work and forget what I have done to our family and just pretend to be someone else for a little while.

I can pretend to be Frannie, who gets her job done (and works bloody hard to do that) and flirts with people and can talk about stupid inane pish without letting any of the other hurt in my life get in the way.

But all that has changed recently.

The crushing anxiety which feels as though someone is sitting on my chest is creeping back in. The shaky hands are there, which is becoming noticeable when you pass something to someone. The paranoia that people are talking behind your back is ever-present, as is the nausea that follows it.

So why am I writing all this down, on the cusp of the New Year, which is to symbolise a new beginning? Because I want to leave all this shit in 2013. I don’t want it to drag me down in 2014.
I will never regret this year. This year I BEAT CANCER. I was on DAYBREAK for crying out loud.

But on the 23rd December I was meant to go to the doctors and I didn’t.
I bottled it at the last-minute.

I know I need help. I can admit that much. But I don’t want to go back to how I was. I like the bolshy, takes no shit, Fran. She’s pretty fucking spunky. But I do love some of the old Fran. She was kind and amazing.
How do I get both. Is it even possible?

So, here we go again. The constant loop inside my head.

Gut Punch

You’re aimlessly sifting through junk. You’re sorting through your dressing table and trying to assemble some semblance in your life to make everyday life a bit easier. Clear tables, clear mind and all that jazz.

Knicker drawer is next. You’ve purchase new undies to make you feel a bit lovelier so it’s time to shift the Granny pants.

It’s cathartic to sling the old life nuances and bring in some delicate prettiness.
You feel like you’re finally letting yourself be Frannie again.

But there, tucked in the drawer, folded neatly, ready to be used again is something that stops your heart.
It’s the most ridiculous item to set you off. All of a sudden you’re weeping. Tumbling tears are unstoppable.
A fucking SPD support band, which you kept ‘just in case’ is the culprit.
You sniff it and it still smells of Sanctuary Mum to Be bath salts.

You let yourself think you were ok and then you get gut punched again.

But it’s ok. Gut punches remind us we are only human. It’s ok to be overwhelmed and to have a cry.
It’s ok to keep these things too. Let it remind you that it helped you in those last 6-weeks of carrying Cub.
A tiny piece of material can evoke such emotion. But it won’t always be this way.

I promise.

Next stop, your shoes and bags.


Wake up

I am walking down the street. James is about 4 baby steps ahead.
He turns to me and smiles. ‘Mummay, get me, get me’. ‘Mummy is too tired to run’. ‘I’ll get you Jim Jam’, shouts Pete.

We reach the park and I fall into a heap in the soft grass. ‘Mummay, get me, get me!!’. ‘Mummy, just needs a minute sweetheart’

Swings and roundabouts, climbing frames and slides. Being thrown in the air to that point where you think you’ll never get back down to earth again.

A slow slope down the hill where cold drinks and crisps await.
We reach the top of the stairs, it seems like I’ve reached a summit. An accomplishment each time I reach the front door.

You take a step in and it happens.
‘We need to go to hospital, there’s not much time. Lets drop James at Giu’s, like we rehearsed’
‘Really? You sure?’

Time flies passed as though it’s going to a soundtrack. Hours are condensed to 3 minutes.

Sweaty beads are mapping your body, pooling in crevices.
‘C’mon, 3 more and she’s here’

She’s is indeed here. A carbon copy of her brother. The wrinkle in the hand that comes from 9 months immersion in water. The puffy pinkness of skin next to your own tender, weary flesh.

A look up and glimpse of a big brother charging through the ward, coming to assert dominance and query love.

But before he has chance, people are rushing, he’s picked up in a sea of people.
Frantic, everyone is frantic.
Alarms are going off, the girl is grappled from me by an unknown face.
‘There’s been a mistake, she is not for you’
‘She is mine, I’ve had her, SHE IS MINE!’
I’m pulled back by wires all of a sudden, as if I’m being attacked by electrical appliances.
‘Tell them she’s mine’ I beg ‘I need my girl’.
But instead I’m flung on the bed which is now being dragged backwards and it all fades to black.

Moments later I’m hovering, I’m watching myself.

A body, scarred by child birth, cancer, overindulgence.
It takes a minute and I realise. I need to wake up.

Wake up


The rapid shallow breathing, summon dizziness. Those pool of sweat are real.

Another night.
Another nightmare.

And so it goes.

Dance with Mummy

There is this thing we like to do. We put the iPod on, put it on shuffle and cascade our way through the playlists.
Most songs are skipped because Daddy has just too much Genesis; some songs are only listened to for the nostalgic chorus and some songs, well they just make you want to get up and feel the music or at least to attempt to dance.

‘Mummy, up’
‘Ok, one more time, Mummy’s back hurts because you’re a heavy lump’

I place you on my hip, you wrap your arms around my neck. We’re head to head. I belt out that tune as best as I can. You laugh and you grab my face and do that grimace that shows how much you love something.
I jump around as much as I can with a 28lb child strapped to my waist.
I’m sweating, laughing, trying to breathe; you’re clinging on to me and squinting with joy.

The music changes, I attempt to put you down but you’ll have none of it. So we go through it again and again until I am so red in the face that I’m worried I’ll combust.

Soon, you’ll be too big to dance on my hip, but we’ll dance hand to hand.
After a while, you’ll be too cool to dance with Mummy.

I hope that day never comes.

Mummy is grieving, grieving so strongly for a future that was meant to be very different. I’m most definitely going through the 5 stages.
I’ve been (still) so very sad. I’ve been (still) very angry, I’ve been (always will be) depressed. I’ve been in denial and I’ve bargained with every faith possible.

Acceptance is something that will take a long time to be granted.

So until that time comes, indulge me.

Dance with Mummy, like we’ve never been hurt.