Well, I’ve had the most super afternoon today! Yes folks, I’ve been for a two and a half hour information and pampering session, organised by Macmillan and on offer to all cancer patients in over 80 UK NHS hospitals. It’s called ‘Look Good, Feel Better’ (LGFB – American in origin hence the initial caps – whoops, time for more meds , nurse!). Anyway, sod the grammar – look at the state of mine these days – it’s fabulous, it’s a charitable organisation, and it’s totally FREE to the patient.
Although you might never wish to belong to this club, every member gets the VIP treatment – and this is just one of a myriad of lovely things you can access. (It’s almost worth getting …. no, scrub that, it’s really not.)
LGFB is designed for people dealing with the visible effects of cancer treatment, or are generally suffering from a lessening of confidence due to that. It’s supported by 40 companies who donate funds, products and actual make up professionals to the sessions.
Corr! What’s not to love?? I’d only found out about it recently when I was having a bad day with the Radio (I couldn’t get Woman’s Hour without a crackling on the signal) and the relevant ‘Ologist (that’s a Radiologist – I’m on fire! Literally!) pulled out some leaflets for me. I phoned, got myself booked in and here I am! Not quite LGFB – but, well, Scrubbing Up Better and Feeling A Bit Less Uggers!
Now, believe this or not, I’m not a lover of that kind of one to one attention where they get up close and make lots of fuss over you – in fact, I really don’t like being fussed over at all. I mean, I’d be a bit hacked off if either of my carers forgot to get me a birthday card (DID YOU READ THAT, YOU TWO?), but I don’t need or want presents; it makes me twitchy and embarrassed. I haven’t been comfortable with well-meant, but what I construe to be over-fussing (for me) throughout this whole process. But when the fussing dish on the menu is someone right in my face, poring over my open pores and trying to suggest helpful solutions for my thread veins – urghhh – anathema.
Soo…with that in mind, having booked the session today, it was with no small trepidation (OMG! That’s called litotes – exemplified by John Milton himself, in Paradise Lost! Still got it – sort of) that I entered the Chamber of Pampersville.
One of my biggest bete noirs about this type of stuff is a lasting, often terrifying recollection of my pre-wedding make up trial, just over two years ago. I’d booked that (because apart from slathering on the ‘scara, which I can’t do at the mo, I’m pretty rubbish at the rest). To keep my options open, I went for a session at a national, multi-make up stockist high street chemists. Let’s just call it Shoes.
Bear with. Amazingly, this has a point.
The make-up artist assigned to me had just left school. I knew that, because she appeared with all her crayons, pencils and potions in a Hello Kitty pencil case. She was, I’m guessing, about 53, but good on her for trying something new.
Anyway, she was super-lovely, effervescent, and very enthusiastic to get started. This was to be her first ever wedding make-up trial (- oh fab), and because of that, her supervisor was going to be observing (double fab). I explained that I was after a very subtle, classic, muted look – something along the colour palette lines of, say, peaches and cream. Not when they’ve gone off, obvs!
She set to work.
‘What about some of our new Damson Damsel shadow on those lids? Bring out the colour of them eyes?’ The supervisor is already busy clacking her biro into tick-boxes on a clipboard.
I am speechless, my brain drowning in the potential fuss of me making a fuss.
‘If you like it, we’ve got that on offer til Saturday, if you buy two other products from our raaaaaange.’ (clack tick, clack tick, clack tick).
‘Ooh that Damson’s lovely on you!’ (clack tick); it goes really nice with Scarlet Lady on the lips!’ (Perfect for a divorcee’s Church wedding, think I, while wondering about getting some earplugs from further up the shop a bit for all the ticking and clacking going on).
I just bloody gave up. It was the potential deafness that was going to get me, to be honest. What more could she do, clack-istically, that could be worse than this? Weary, I let her get on with my eyebrows (clack, tick) and dozed off, powerless.
Oh dear. Time for the big reveal! Finally, I get to look in the mirror. Ta daaaah! Holy Shit. My peaches and cream are actually overripe plums with strawberry sauce round the mouth – and crawling across my brow are two, very surprised-looking, very over-fed, slugs. Suffice to say, I clacked off out of there faster than I knew my legs could ever carry me.
This is quite a long post. It brings me back to today’s session. As you can see, I was slightly worried about the prospect of a makeover. There’s a couple of reasons why this was exacerbated on arrival at LGFB HQ, in the Macmillan centre, today.
Number one – and this ain’t going to sound nice – but, when I got into the room, with the other 8 women, there was already a ‘cancer-off’ going on. In my last post (not the one I put up, and then hoiked down within 12 hours, lol!), I riskily took the opportunity to highlight some helpful ways to talk to cancer patients, if you haven’t had the thing yourself. This, as I must continually stress, was only based on my experience.
But I’m afraid to say, patients themselves can be equally challenging and, well, less than considerate. Often, in fact, in my experience, they can be damaging – to your expectations, your hopes, fears, and your confidence.
The ‘cancer-off’ reminds me so much of a classic sketch from way back beyond. Two old codgers are reminiscing about their respective upbringings. It goes, in sentiment rather than authenticity, something like, ‘you grew up in a shoebox in the middle of the road?? You were lucky! I had to use that shoebox in my sandwiches every day! You had sausage and mash for tea? We were so poor we had to eat my dad with no mash either!’
So the cancer-off has begun. But it’s coming from one, very new, very loud patient.
‘Your tumour was only 8ft long? You only had 15 boobs cut off? You’ve had 57 years of chemo? Is that all?” You get the picture. This was not a nervous girl, I really think that’s true. But the trouble, or rather the discomfort, was that she was holding court over 8 people who really wanted a bit of guidance this afternoon. Some of us had no hair; some of us bald patches – suffice to say, 8 out of 9 of us were not in possession of the full set of fluffy stuff, on head or face, that the good lord intended us to maintain. And also, you’ve got to stop and think; if that’s the case, some of us must be well along the treatment conveyor belt. We’ve possibly had nearly enough. I know for sure I’m bloody knackered, which is nothing compared to some of the other women in that room today. I felt that sort of talk was disrespectful to those women, with no hair, no energy, who’d come for a bit of confidence-boosting.
I just wanted to show you the other side.
❤❤❤
Edinburgh may have come and gone, but trust me, I’m aiming to get back on the case.
Sooo – we’re all settled in the room. Unfortunately, the racontreuse herself has plonked herself down next to me. Awks.
Along comes a swarm of therapists, some of whom are former C patients. This is nothing but good. Calling the room to order is an extremely – and I mean, EXTREMELY made up woman. (Notice the lack of the word ‘well’ in that sentence). I’m struggling to ascertain whether this is her real job, or she’s appearing as Widow Twankee in rehearsals for the upcoming panto season. I do know for sure that she’s not an ex-patient – she said so.
After the welcome, she tells us a funny story about being confident in make up (‘I’ve had my eyebrows tattooed already, ” overtalks the racontruese. “Even though you don’t lose them in chemo!”, she barks to an eyebrowless, chemo-ragged room.)
Back to the kind host.
“It’s so funny. Nowadays I can put my make up on in the dark!”
This is extremely obvious to all present in the room.
“In fact, once, I did!” (Really? Just the once, you say?)
“I’d gone on the bus with my grandson to the pictures. We were at the end of the film and I thought, well, I’d better reapply my lip liner before we go back out. We’d got the bus home and it was only then I realised I’d used black eyeliner on my lips by mistake!!! Lovely little Troy – he never said a thing on the bus!”
(#pissinghimselflaughingatnanny).
Next, the make up artists are circling, looking for three apiece to assist. I’m furthest away from Flossie the Cinema Cosmetic queen; but still, as we are close in age, I’m very aware she’s homing in on me and my disintegrated eyelashes, brows and hair. Panic.
I’m so uncomfortable about the whole thing by now, what with the gobby racontreuse next to me, (blah clack blah tick blah tick clack blah tick clack); memories of fat slugs (careful, Viz fans), I reckon I’m about 30 seconds away from saying I need the loo and running to the hills. Forever.
Then – a tiny but nonetheless, compelling, light falls from two directions upon my table.
Number one: just as I’m about to leg it, a beautiful young woman, wearing a badge saying Clinique – yes, that one, not the bloody clinics I’ve been attending for nine months – seems to be near to my end of the table. With brushes. And, oh, is that a massive bag of your employer’s make up I see beside you, Red Riding Hood??
Flossie approaches more earnestly. I need to act.
Well, accidents do happen. Like the one JUST AT THAT MOMENT, when the beautiful Clinique goddess was moving away from me and – whoops! – my empty plastic water glass seemed to fall off the table by her feet, causing her to stop, assist me, and then, well, kindly offer to do my makeover for the afternoon. How kind. (Im a v v badly behaved patient: have I told you about my other, terrible misdemeanours? Hmm… just like the radiotherapy chapters to date, I promise it will be worth the wait.)
And behold – as Flossie sought, nay, beat her way to my ageing face with her failsafe black eyeliner remedies – the second light revealed itself. The other host for the proceedings announced that we’d all be given a make up tutorial using our very own bag – worth £350 – of Clinique, Lancôme, Chanel – and we could take it home!
Now as a girl who’s completely guided and informed by her strict moral and ethical code (just parped myself I was lolling so much!), naturally, I felt terrible about grabbing this and legging it as fast as I could to the car park. Oh! I meant accepting it and staying for the make up tutorial!
Anyway, like all the other women in the room, I did; we each had a fantastic makeover, and fab lessons in how to look a bit better when we all feel a bit shit. And that’s why I’m such a huge supporter of Macmillan: the patient actively, physically feels the benefit of its work.
So, a busy, but amazing day.
Radiotherapy lols coming very soon, I promise.
Tick tick clack x
Sent from my iPad
Who's going to get the chicken? 