Next chapter.

I've only flipping gone and done it - I am officially, and voluntarily, unemployed. Soon to be self employed. This may be what's known as a midlife crisis. Eek.

People often ask me if having kids has changed me. I mostly say no, I'm still me underneath, just more tired and a even more bedraggled, if that was ever possible. But I'm starting to notice that actually I have changed. I'm not so sure it's down to having kids, or even braingate, so much as just getting older.

I often find myself not giving much of a shit about things that would have previously bothered me. Like sitting in a pub on my own. Or having clean hair. I mean *not* having clean hair... what's clean hair? But at the same time I have become weirdly focussed on things that I care about.

Nowadays, I care about my children and spending time with them. But a lot of what I really like doing with them is expensive. It's sitting around with our friends in cafes and pubs and groups where they jump around and exhaust themselves. It's getting pizza for lunch and going to the London Transport Museum. It's buying comedy mini clothing and brand name trainers. (Guilty).

So I need to work. Not just to pay for all that stuff, but also to keep me sane. I love being useful at things and adding value, but only some of the time because I really, really want to see my children at least three days out of the week. Ok, four.

Having initially found my employer wasn't too keen on me only working three out of five days, I focussed on finding a way to go it alone, as a contractor. My plan was to earn a shed load of money - full time if I needed to - on an astronomical day rate, then take some time out of work to dally around in the cafes of Camberwell. So I gung-ho-style handed in my notice.

THREE MONTHS down the line, and I have finally left.

I have always been the most risk-averse person I know, except for Dad, so I'm not quite sure how I managed to convince myself to do this, and why I'm not more terrified. I have changed. The things that matter to me now, matter more than anything has ever mattered, and that makes the risk worthwhile. I am more confident, more willing to go for what I really want and genuinely excited that things are about to be very different. (And I'm also a little bit terrified...)

Hit me up if you need any freelance writing or project / change management doing :)

Don't read the internet.

A few weeks ago, I managed to thoroughly convince myself that not only had my tumour come back, but it had grown at super-speed and to terrifying proportions. What started as a few migraines, and a calm, logical thought process, very quickly grew into major hypochondria and internal panic, denial and general ridiculousness.

It's taken a few weeks for me to come to terms with what happened (which was absolutely nothing) and take a good look at my response to it. It feels like there is a lot to be learned from the whole experience.

The migraines and vision problems I had were (I think) justification for getting checked out, particularly in the context of pregnancy - there is a suggested link between pregnancy hormones and increased tumour growth.

My last pregnancy was so entwined with the experience of having a brain tumour that I can't remember it in isolation. The emotional recovery, and physical appearance (goddamn short hair!) was apparent throughout, and I actually found myself at the beginning of this pregnancy expecting a craniotomy to start me off. Yikes.

I think this may have played a part, it was like I was just waiting for it to happen. I read the absolute most negative possibility into everything that happened. The aura that comes with migraine? Must be tumour pressing on my optic nerve. I could go blind. How will I look after a newborn, blind?

And the final straw that drove me to middle of the night Googling (never to be recommended) was a numb hand. My right hand, for no apparent reason. This was what alerted my GP to the original tumour, loss of movement and feeling down my right side (also a common pregnancy thing, but I didn't bother reading about that).

By this point I had already had an MRI, and I was waiting for the results. I analysed in detail the behaviour and every single word the scan man said to me. It was ominous, I told myself, that he urged me to chase an appointment to get the results. He already knew by then what the scan looked like. And was that pity in his eyes...?

So I went home, cue major denial and didn't make an appointment. All the while absolutely convinced that I had a tumour and trying to work out how on earth I would manage with a toddler and a newborn whilst recovering from a craniotomy. Or maybe it was more serious than that and they would have to get it out before the baby was born. Craniotomy during pregnancy? Or have a very premature baby in special care? I decided the best thing would be to ignore it. Surely they would contact me if there was anything to talk about.

All the while people were telling me this was normal third trimester stuff, and logically I can see that it was. But I just knew it was a tumour, so I didn't listen. I spent a few weeks just not really thinking about it. And then I finally rang them up. The team explained that the scan was clear, they didn't want to see me, no need, nothing to talk about. Within minutes it was over and the full extent of my self delusion was exposed. What an idiot.

For next time, I'm sure there will be one, I plan to follow these simple rules:

1. if worried, get checked out
2. don't read the internet
3. get results quickly
4. do not read the internet

Hi ho, hi ho. Sob.

I'm going back to work tomorrow, after almost a year on maternity leave. Before that I was pregnant whilst recovering from brain surgery. And before that I was off sick for multiple months. It's been an odd few years and work has not really been a priority.

I've been in denial for ages about it. It's not that I don't want to work it's just that I don't want to not be with Alfred. I will miss him, and I will miss out on him. I won't be the one that sees him develop and knows what he likes. It's selfish, but I like being that person. The one who knows him best.

I know he will be fine. Of course he will be fine. But I worry that he will think I have abandoned him, and I worry that he won't notice I'm not around any more. And I worry that nobody will care as much as me and I worry that I won't be in control anymore. And mostly I worry that I will hardly ever see him.

But my bag is packed,  my office appropriate clothes are washed and my lunch is ready in the fridge. There's no denying it now.

I don't want to go to bed as that means morning will come quicker.

It's that time again.

My next MRI is tomorrow. I distinctly remember the anticlimax of last year, I even wrote about it. It was no big deal. So why am I so worried?

I've been doing a lot of running recently, and one of the best things about it is time to think. I've not had much time to myself since the baby was born and so it feels like a real luxury to just think for a while. Inevitably at this time of year I've been thinking a lot about head scans, brains and tumours.

I'm not sure if I ever asked, or if I've just forgotten, but I don't know how a tumour starts. Like, why does it begin?

When I was 12 I skied off a cliff. It wasn't intentional; I was trying to avoid a tree. Obviously with a bit of hindsight it wouldn't have been so bad crashing into a tree - no helicopters, splints or head scans would have been involved. On the plus side, I actually own copies of my 12 year old head scans which is pretty cool. And there is no tumour.

So where did it come from? When did it start? Why did it start? Why has this not occurred to me before?

Last week I managed to think my way through a 40 minute run, comparing my tumour to the entire universe (the world does revolve around me, doesn't it?). Either, I thought, it was created by God one day, or... there was an almighty big bang in my head (the cliff THE CLIFF), and then the tumour existed. (I admit, there are some failings to this comparison).

Oliver thinks it was a cell mutation, which makes sense. But even if that's the case, it doesn't really answer my question. Why? Why did it mutate? And why that one, and right then, in that way?

The thing is, I could have all the information in the world about how and why and what to expect, but until anything shows up on a scan it is all theoretical. None of it is worth wondering about even, it's such a waste of energy and worry - until there is a scan to look at. And tomorrow, there will be.

What is also not helping is the fact that I've had three migraines in the last five days. Not really recovering from one when the next hits. The last time this happened I was shovelled into an ambulance and ended up having my head sawn open. Bodes well.

Another thing I've been thinking about is the person doing the scan. They can see the results as it happens right, so they know, like straight away, if there's a whopping great lump of something in your head that isn't supposed to be there. What a weird job to know that about someone and send them merrily off home again to wait for a few weeks until they called in. I don't think I'm going to be able to stop myself staring at them on the way out, to see if they have pity in their eyes.

Some exciting news.

I'm very excited to report that an extract of Henrietta is going to be published in the Guardian's G2 section! Am slightly (very) nervous about it - it's weird to imagine people reading my ramblings, in print, over their rice krispies. But also very excited, I love the Guardian.

It was strange, how it happened. We were in the car leaving Olly's office and I got an email from Twitter (which is annoying actually, Twitter has recently started emailing me all the time) to tell me I had a new follower. I checked her out in case she was a spambot but no, it was a genuine person who worked at the Guardian. That's all the information it had.

I turned to Olly and said "Imagine! She could be a commissioning editor and they'll publish Henrietta and we'll be famous and then hollywood will make us into a film and then we'll be rich and never have to work again!" after which we spent the ten minutes driving home debating who would play who (Anna Friel and Jason Statham. Of course).

So half an hour later, over lunch, when I got an email from the G2 commissioning editor wanting to publish an extract of Henrietta, it was all a bit weird.

They're sending a photographer round next week. Gah! What will I wear on my head? And what will I wear?

Just waiting for the call from hollywood. Any day now.

Not a good night for a car alarm.

After the excitement of being set free, I wasn't sure how I would feel.

Physically, I'd kind of got used to the tight feeling of the bandages (although I couldn't feel my ears), so when they came off, my head felt loose - like lopsided. It moves when I laugh, I'm not sure which part of it moves, but it definitely moves. And when I raise my eyebrows. And it feels heavier on the right.

I guess it will take some getting used to and it will start to knit back together soon. But mentally I also wasn't sure how I'd feel.

It was amazing to get home and see Neville and be among my things again. Mum had made the house really nice and washed everything that I might even think about using for sterility. It was incredible. Beka came over and we had a lovely evening just reeling in wonder. What a month! Then I went to bed. My first night without the bandage, how would that feel?

Turns out pretty weird. I can feel pulsing in my head, I'm convinced you could see it if you look hard enough, but lying down made the bone creak. It wasn't unpleasant unless combined with the pulsing - which made it... rhythmic...

In hospital I don't think I dreamt. As we went to bed I was extra cautious with my head placement (to minimise rhythmic creaking) and surprisingly dropped off easy enough. Only to wake up at half past two - in hysterics.

There was a car alarm going off outside that I had been dreaming was an alarm in theatre. I don't have specific recall of the dream but it was clear that something had gone wrong and it was to do with my head. Poor Olly. It's been years since I had a nightmare.

All becomes clear.

I can't remember the last time I was actually scared of something. It's not like starting a new job, or worrying where the cat's run off to. I'm actually, terrified. I'm not sure I have ever even been terrified before and it's a very strange feeling.

My heart is racing and has been for quite some time. I don't seem to be able to breathe properly. I keep bursting into tears. And it's annoying that I can't stop it. I think that's the difference - usually I can talk myself out of anxiety, or nervousness, or worry pretty easily - this is unstoppable.

I'm not scared of being alone, I think that must have been an easy cop out for me yesterday. It's pretty obvious now (duh, I feel like such an idiot). I'm scared of someone drilling open my head. They're going to actually open up my head - that is just. Ridiculous.

I bloody knew it would all come out now.

I had a shower earlier and thought I'd wash what hair I have left for the last time, with nice shampoo. Half way through I suddenly realised that my head is never going to be the same again. It will be different. Scarred. Bumpy. With metal in it. How on earth had I not realised this before? I felt really bad that I haven't taken more notice of the shape of my head, as now it's too late, it will be different. Sorry head.

I'm going to have a massive scar when I wake up and bandages and a drain coming out of my head. That's a terrifying thought. I wish my heart would slow down.

A bed for the night.

Right then, the bed manager has spoken and my bed awaits. It feels a bit too real now and I've got the shakes. Luckily Neville is lying so completely across my arms as I'm typing that I can only move the end of my fingers, so I can't actually shake.

I have been busy today, bought some new pyjama bottoms and a travel toothpaste for the occasion, and have been studiously ignoring my list of important things to do. Except the council tax bill, I did that.

But the time has come. I need to have a shower and pack. And then get myself to King's. Here we go.

I wish I didn't have to.

I have no free will.

The trouble with deciding not to worry is I don't actually have any free will so it isn't something I can control.

[I urge you to watch this, it took me a few goes to get but completely affected me, I loved it. I had always been a spot embarrassed about my taste in music / art / culture (I am not what you might call cool) but this whole lack of free will idea made so much sense to me and took away the responsibility I felt to like what everyone else likes. It was months ago now and I'd forgotten it's impact on me until yesterday, and seems just as appropriate now. This is the second Sam Harris plug I've done but I really recommend watching it.]

Random thoughts are popping into my brain, and it's not me who puts them there. What if this is the last time I can cut up my own food. Jesus. What did you think that for, dude? Stop crying already.

It's getting tedious.

But it's ok, it'll be daylight again in a bit and everyone else will soon wake up. My melodramatic what if's should recede to manageable levels once more as I get embroiled in last minute tasks I've saved up for today, to panic over specially.

• Pay the outstanding council tax bill. Probably should have fast tracked that one.
• Cut nails (What if.. SHUT UP BRAIN not listening)
• Buy dressing gown
• Pick up latest sick note from the doctor's
• Tidy bedroom just a little bit as its quite embarrassing and people might see it if I'm away for a while
• Decide on music and entertainment to take in with me
• Join library and get audiobooks out
• Pack hospital bag
• Practice drums
• Go to hospital

That's what my today looks like. Might just skip to the drums, that should wake everyone up. I can blame my unsociability on lack of free will.

Thinking about going under.

I feel like I've pretty much processed everything now except for one thing: the operation itself. And the timing is good as I'm going into hospital tomorrow. Now would be a good time to get this processed.

It's simple, really. I'm very scared. I haven't gone much beyond that in my thinking so I need to work out what I'm scared of so that I can just park it. That worked really well with thinking through the possible side effects and I think it'll work here too.

I am being admitted tomorrow (Tuesday), so they can monitor me overnight and do whatever it is they need to do, but the surgery itself will be on Wednesday (hopefully - there is a chance I will get bumped last minute for an emergency. I'm ignoring this just now as it's just a variable too far).

The anticipation of the operation will be the worst, and so I'm very worried about Tuesday night in hospital.

I don't want to spend the night awake in hospital, terrified, alone, with dark scary thoughts going round my head. I will be alone, and I hate that. Visiting hours must end at some point, and then I'll be alone. I know I'll be ok, it's just I don't want to be alone. But I have to be so... I'll just have to deal with it as there isn't anything else to do. (I fully plan on demanding drugs to knock me out).

What else?

I think once I've made it through Tuesday night, Wednesday will be fine. I'm pretty sure by then I'll be like, bring it on. It'll be daylight, there'll be people there and I'll just want to get it over and done with. Not actually too worried about Wednesday. Wheel me away, give me anaesthetic and then I just do a spot of time travel.

It will be strange to wake up, will I know what's happened? Will it hurt? Will I know if Oliver's there? Will I be able to move? What will it feel like?

Can't answer any of these, and nobody can. It feels like a useless exercise even thinking about it actually. I'm just going to have to wait and see. I don't want to be in lots of pain, but I know they can give me relief and I'll still be very sleepy so I think that's probably not worth getting too worried about.

So that's it. Turns out all I'm really scared about is being alone. It seems simultaneously a bit of an anticlimax, but understandable.

Right, I'll get back to building a drumkit then, that was easy.

Thunderbolt of panic.

Ah, and there it is.

Always expected but never anticipated, who knows where it comes from. I made a will today. I've been meaning to for absolutely years and this has just given me the motivation to finally get around to it but it does feel a bit morbid. And it's scary seeing your "last will and testament" bound on a table. Sheesh.

I think that probably didn't help.

But the panic just hit out of the blue. One minute I'm on the sofa, niece playing on the floor, really lovely day and suddenly I'm in tears, imagining I'm dead and everyone's just having to deal with it. It comes on so fast that I couldn't explain it if I wanted to and I have no idea if anyone's even noticed that I'm crying. I'm not even crying for me, it's like it's a film and it's really sad.

All the stuff I've been through and the crap and the misery and the growing up. It would be sad to die now that I'm in this awesome place and not have the opportunity to enjoy it for longer. Now I've finally got here.

I am actually thinking of my life in terms of a film. I should really stop doing that because its the chick flicks making me cry, not reality. It's your fault Kate Hudson.

A funny old day.

I had a really good chat with Oliver tonight before he went to chestershire club, and it just reminded me how incredibly lucky I am to be surrounded by brilliant people. Talking, honestly, can solve anything.

Anyway, in this really good chat, I was explaining to Oliver how I have been so up and down all day. About three times each I think, really quite a yoyo. I started off feeling this was totally unreasonable, as well as annoying as I just can't keep track of myself and control it. But then I realised actually that today has been a really big day in terms of news. And I think that it's all coming out now. I am panicking, big time. And that's a good thing.

I'm really glad Olly was at the hospital with me. It was useful to get his opinion of what happened this morning to overlay on my own thoughts. It turns out we were both quite shocked at how negative the news was, when we'd been really led to believe so far that it wasn't so bad. Now I know the worst, nothing has changed in reality, but it seems much more real. I am really very scared now.

I have been thinking a lot about how the next week will be and I think the panic will now grow right up until surgery. There is just too much to think about. I think I am more worried about how worried I will be in the run up, and how that will manifest itself.

So the learning for today is that it's ok to have an up and down day, when I've been dealing with new information and shock.  But tomorrow I would like to be a bit more stable (less panic, less crying) and more calm.

Also - unconnected - I've been reading some Sam Harris about lying which is really good. But hard to implement. Love it though.