Earlier this year I was diagnosed with a skin cancer. That is, a skin cancer up. my. bottom.
In other words, ANAL cancer.
I mean, no cancer is sexy, but after saying “anal” six times a day to a series of horrified faces, you start to wish for the relative grace of “breast”.
The diagnosis was confirmed four days before beginning a brand-new shiny role back in Adland. I’d taken six months off to see my only child out of kinder and into the heady world of school, and I was getting ready to jump back into Full Time World.
So, not only was this a terribly-timed diagnosis, it also meant that I had to contend with unemployed boredom as well as the crushing fear of imminent death. I mean, give a girl a break!
I’m pretty sure this boredom was one of the reasons I decided to Instagram my cancer.
Yes, you heard me correctly. I announced my cancer on Insta like some declare themselves engaged, or pregnant. More than a few people actually queried whether I was legit, suggesting maybe this was a really edgy viral marketing campaign for cancer awareness.
(Note to self: working in advertising can do terrible things to your cynic-meter…)
Via my Insta account I made it clear I was looking for Opt-Ins who’d be up for conversation (as I said, “this is a shitshow, not a sideshow”) and then I kicked my overshare switch into hyperdrive. What I wasn’t expecting was how much of a two-way street this channel would end up being. Baring all meant my mates felt safe enough to ask the un-askables.