Radiotherapy Day 3

Penny came today. Another bright beautiful spring day. We roared with laughter most of the way, and arrived 20 minutes early.
Penny laughed some more when I told her that the parking was free.
Yes! she said, punching the air with delight.
We fetched our parking permit, and put it in the car.
Walked along to the waiting room.
No sooner had I sat down and got comfortable than a nurse calls out my name.
Penny and I stare at each other, amazed.
Really? I say. But my appointment is at 9.30 and it's only 9.10.
It's your lucky day, says the nurse.
In I go.
This time I have my burgundy gown, all ready.
I strip off, put the gown on, open the door and wait.
There's my nurse, calling at me from down the corridor.
I walk quickly to the room, and lie down on the bed.
This time they need to come back in once they've left the room, because one of the measurements wasn't quite right.
I'm not concerned. ABBA is playing Waterloo on the radio, and I'm far too busy not toe tapping or moving my body to the beat.
The nurse disappears again.
Whirr. Brrrm. Click.
Jesus and I are dancing to rock and roll this time. I smile at the thought. Thank you, Jesus, I say.
Back comes the nurse. He helps me up and we sort out the robe.
I'm back in the waiting room in a couple of minutes.
Penny is knitting! With the knitting needles and balls of wool we saw on the first day.  She looks up and says joyfully, I'm knitting!
I can see you are, I say, laughing.
And these people are from my church, announces Penny. She is smiling with delight.
We chat, for 3 more rows of knit and pearl.
I'll do one more, says Penny, and then we'll go.
This is a prayer scarf, she says. Look, I've created some light. And she shows me the scarf that has been started. Her chosen colour is a light shade of green.
Cool, I say, grinning at her.
We leave the knitting in the box, and say goodbye to Cathy and John from the church.
Back we go via the seafront. It is definitely the way to go!

Radiotherapy Day 2

Here we go. 18 months on, I am finally posting these. 

Vicki comes to collect me today. She arrives at 8.15. We decide to go via the sea front.
We arrive 15 minutes early, to find out that B1 is 'on time'.
Hooray, we say.
In comes our new friend from Hurstpierpoint. yesterday. I introduce Vicki to her.
Hello! we cry.
Hello! she cries. She is beaming from ear to ear.
Your last day, I say.
Yes, yes, she says. And I have my son's birthday party tonight!
We all beam some more. In comes another lady and her driver (we all get driven here - part of the instructions). She looks exhausted and thin. She sits.
We chat a bit more with our friend, passing the time most agreeably.
The thin lady chats with her friend about shopping.
Have you got milk, asks her friend.
Yes, yes. And bread. She looks tired. As if such decisions were too much.
Two other people arrive and settle down on the other side of the room. We all smile at each other. My new friend greets one of them, and we find out that this person finishes the following week.
How's it been? I ask.
OK, she say, but I'm very tired now.
I seem to hear this a lot. This is spoken over me by others who have been through RT, or by others who haven't. 'You'll get very tired." "You'll get very sore." "You'll be knackered." Etc.
We'll see.
We wait some more.
My name is called. Through the doors I go. An old hand now. The nurse passes me my robe.
You forgot to take this home, she says.
Oh! I say, I didn't realise. Do I do that everyday?
Yes, she says.
I'm left to get ready.
And so I strip off once more, whack on the robe, open the door and wait. Now that I know what will happen, I feel confident and relaxed.
I'm called in. There's the machine. Good old B1. And a new nurse.
I'm settled onto the bed. Nurses saying numbers and marking my skin once more.
They leave the room.
The machine whirrs and clicks. I remember the picture from the previous day about Jesus and this time we're dancing more wildly together, round and round. But oh, so much fun!
Before I know it, the nurses are back in, and I am helped down.
Do you need the step? they ask. As I leap off the bed.
No, I laugh. I'm down!
And through I go, where Vicki is waiting.
Wow, she says. That was quick.
And off we go. Back via the sea front.
We have DEFINITELY found the right route. Hooray.

Radiotherapy Day 1

So. In 2019 I had radiotherapy on my boob. Breast cancer. No chemo. And each day for 15 days (following my operation), I went into the Royal Sussex Hospital for my treatment. I wrote an account of each and every day but never posted it. Until today. And so, for the next 15 days, I will post each consecutive day, all written 18 months ago. I've no idea why I didn't do this at the time. Perhaps it was just a bit too sensitive. Anyway. 

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.