Here goes. Day One.
Day One
The first day of radiotherapy has arrived. Husband and I spend the 45 minutes journey to the Royal Sussex Hospital in Brighton talking animatedly about the best way to get there.
In the end we decide to go along the A27 and turn right, zooming into Asda to get some petrol. It seems that there are an awful lot of roads in Brighton, and by the time we've arrived at the Sussex Cancer Centre, we are full of bright ideas about how to get here tomorrow. Definitely not THAT route.
Sussex Cancer Centre, behind the Royal Sussex Hospital, is a couple of roads back from the sea, and I am cheered by the sight of the water, just about visible across roofs and between roads.
We swish our way through the automatic doors, and fall gladly on the Free Parking Permit which a very nice receptionist hands over to us, Husband taking it back to the car to display on the rather dusty windscreen.
Machine B1 (my radiotherapy machine for the next 15 days) is '10 minutes late' today. But Husband and I are prepared for waiting, and sit expectantly. Beside Husband is a box filled with dozens of balls of wool and some knitting needles. There's even a piece of knitting that anyone can tackle, if they so feel the need. I decidedly don't, as the last time I knitted anything it was Not A Success. That's a story for another day.
A very kind nurse comes and greets us. We have a brief consultation with her, where she rather alarmingly asks me which breast is being treated. Blimey, I think. Have they lost my notes?
She smiles as she asks, and says that it's just something they have to ask. Phew, I think.
Back to the empty waiting room, and the pile of knitting. We sit, prepared for more waiting.
A lady and her husband enter the room. She smiles over at us, and we smile back. She sits on the other side of the knitting.
Hello! I say.
Hello! she says. My last day tomorrow!
We all beam at each other. Chat begins on when she started (6 weeks ago) and where she lives (Hurstpierpoint) and how she is. (Fabulous!).
A nurse comes through the double doors to my left and says my name.
Up I leap and round the corner I go.
Put this on, says the nurse, pointing to a rather fetching burgundy hospital gown.
Let me know when you're done, she says. And she shows me a cubicle and instructs me to wait, but to leave the door open when I'm ready.
I strip off the top half, thankful that jeans and boots can stay on.
The burgundy gown goes on, and I open the door. No one there.
I sit on the chair.
Wait a couple more moments and then...
All ready? Come on then! says the nurse, and I follow her along a corridor, and round the corner.
And there is the machine.
A bed.
Another nurse. I get the impression of cleanliness and order.
I'm asked to lie on the bed. Stretch my arms above my head. Wriggle down a bit. Wriggle up a bit. Wriggle down a bit more. Perfect!
They do their stuff, saying lots of numbers and marking my skin with a pen. They tell me all the time what they are doing.
We're just going to put the bed up a bit.
Now we're going to leave the room.
You'll hear some noises.
We won't be long.
Then I'm alone.
I stare up at the ceiling. There's a bright red light there, shaped like an S. The machine whirrs and clicks. Then it moves to one side.
I stay completely still. I think, Jesus. Jesus. And I thank him for being there. I have this extraordinary picture of him dancing with me. Like a 1940's movie. Twirling round and round, and us both laughing and loving it. And as I have this bizarre and wonderful thought, the machine continues to beep and click.
In a flash, the nurses are back in the room.
All finished, Helen. You OK?
I beam.
Yes. Wonderful, thanks!
They help me up, make me decent, and in a jiffy I'm back in the waiting room, where Husband is astounded to see me so soon.
Are you done? he asks, amazed.
Yup. All done, I say.
And we get our things together, say goodbye to our new friends, and go home.
By another route.
Which we DEFINITELY won't do tomorrow either.
In the end we decide to go along the A27 and turn right, zooming into Asda to get some petrol. It seems that there are an awful lot of roads in Brighton, and by the time we've arrived at the Sussex Cancer Centre, we are full of bright ideas about how to get here tomorrow. Definitely not THAT route.
Sussex Cancer Centre, behind the Royal Sussex Hospital, is a couple of roads back from the sea, and I am cheered by the sight of the water, just about visible across roofs and between roads.
We swish our way through the automatic doors, and fall gladly on the Free Parking Permit which a very nice receptionist hands over to us, Husband taking it back to the car to display on the rather dusty windscreen.
Machine B1 (my radiotherapy machine for the next 15 days) is '10 minutes late' today. But Husband and I are prepared for waiting, and sit expectantly. Beside Husband is a box filled with dozens of balls of wool and some knitting needles. There's even a piece of knitting that anyone can tackle, if they so feel the need. I decidedly don't, as the last time I knitted anything it was Not A Success. That's a story for another day.
A very kind nurse comes and greets us. We have a brief consultation with her, where she rather alarmingly asks me which breast is being treated. Blimey, I think. Have they lost my notes?
She smiles as she asks, and says that it's just something they have to ask. Phew, I think.
Back to the empty waiting room, and the pile of knitting. We sit, prepared for more waiting.
A lady and her husband enter the room. She smiles over at us, and we smile back. She sits on the other side of the knitting.
Hello! I say.
Hello! she says. My last day tomorrow!
We all beam at each other. Chat begins on when she started (6 weeks ago) and where she lives (Hurstpierpoint) and how she is. (Fabulous!).
A nurse comes through the double doors to my left and says my name.
Up I leap and round the corner I go.
Put this on, says the nurse, pointing to a rather fetching burgundy hospital gown.
Let me know when you're done, she says. And she shows me a cubicle and instructs me to wait, but to leave the door open when I'm ready.
I strip off the top half, thankful that jeans and boots can stay on.
The burgundy gown goes on, and I open the door. No one there.
I sit on the chair.
Wait a couple more moments and then...
All ready? Come on then! says the nurse, and I follow her along a corridor, and round the corner.
And there is the machine.
A bed.
Another nurse. I get the impression of cleanliness and order.
I'm asked to lie on the bed. Stretch my arms above my head. Wriggle down a bit. Wriggle up a bit. Wriggle down a bit more. Perfect!
They do their stuff, saying lots of numbers and marking my skin with a pen. They tell me all the time what they are doing.
We're just going to put the bed up a bit.
Now we're going to leave the room.
You'll hear some noises.
We won't be long.
Then I'm alone.
I stare up at the ceiling. There's a bright red light there, shaped like an S. The machine whirrs and clicks. Then it moves to one side.
I stay completely still. I think, Jesus. Jesus. And I thank him for being there. I have this extraordinary picture of him dancing with me. Like a 1940's movie. Twirling round and round, and us both laughing and loving it. And as I have this bizarre and wonderful thought, the machine continues to beep and click.
In a flash, the nurses are back in the room.
All finished, Helen. You OK?
I beam.
Yes. Wonderful, thanks!
They help me up, make me decent, and in a jiffy I'm back in the waiting room, where Husband is astounded to see me so soon.
Are you done? he asks, amazed.
Yup. All done, I say.
And we get our things together, say goodbye to our new friends, and go home.
By another route.
Which we DEFINITELY won't do tomorrow either.
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