When I grow up...

The stupid and wonderful thing about cancer is that it makes you question everything. This is stupid because sometimes a cup of tea or a walk on the beach or a new Mad Men season after 17 freakin' months is just those things and nothing more. Wonderful because bloody hell that tea has never tasted so good, this beach reminds me why I breathe and Don Draper's face just might be the last thing I see before I die.

Some people call this strange existence "the middle place". I wouldn't wish the reaper-chasing part on anyone, but the moments of clarity and purpose would not come without the fear.

I'm still in a bit of denial that Sharon is gone. I feel like someone I was playing tug-o-war with stepped away for a moment for a break and I'm still standing there, holding the rope, waiting for her to come back like some child while the audience weeps at my naive stupidity. It just doesn't make sense to me. It wasn't meant to happen this way. And even thinking that feels indulgent when her husband is likely sitting in their apartment wondering how he'll go on without her.

For the last two weeks since her death I've waivered between being a hardcore vegan and being an unofficial mini-cupcake tester. Part of me knows what I want to be when I grow up - the mostly vegetarian, dabbling in paleo girl who does what she loves, runs, loves her kids, travels to Cinque Terre for mini breaks, wears yellow stilettos and rocks a short hair head for the man who loves her and still looks sexy even when he's carrying a poop bag for the dog. Then I think that can't be enough. I should be the girl who stays the latest, drinks the most, says whatever the fuck she thinks and just generally lives like next week she'll develop that dreaded cough that leads to the end. And I think about this shit all the time.

I know I'm not the only one. And I know cancer didn't give me some special card to allow me to muse more than others might. It's sometimes just wanking and often reeking of privilege. I could be wondering how to feed my kids or afford a haircut. I understand I'm coming from a certain place with this stuff. But still...

I've been on vacation for a week and like all vacations, it's only in the last couple of days that I've relaxed enough to start rejigging my brain on some stuff. I've changed the way I deal with my kids and food - I decide where, when and what and they decide whether and how much - and I'm trying to be more George-Costanza-do-the-opposite-of-what-I-usually-do to keep my mind sharp and ever-evolving.

I've been pondering the next stage of my life a lot, trying to envision where the path of least regrets lies. I'll get closer over the next year, but in the meantime, I need to get to Zara to buy these pimp shoes:

- Carissa

We'll always have Paris

I haven't written for awhile because for several weeks now, the c-dawg has been launching an extra obnoxious offensive against the woman I affectionately call my cancer twin, and talking about the magic of probiotics seems ridiculous in comparison.

Last night, my friend and colleague and cancer trailblazer, Sharon North, passed away in palliative care, with her family loving her and her husband, Karl, who's a man of such good and lovely stuff, by her side. She was 40 years old.

It's ridiculously unfair. I'm angry about it. But I'm trying to force my head into Parisian thoughts. Sharon wanted to go there, but she never got the chance. So I'll cross the Pont-Neuf for her, sip a chocolat at Les Deux Magots and sail a little boat across the pond at the Jardin des Tuileries.

Sharon, you were part of the reason I was able to attack my own c-monster with such vigour and I could never thank you enough for that. You shared your story with such honesty, sharp writing, humour, and neverending spirit and I'll miss you and think of you always.

- Carissa