The Demise of Roland Ratso: Chapter twenty six.

Tuesday 10th March and my journey is a mixture of sadness and relief. Definitely relief that my first slice of treatment is over. When I first saw my consultant he said I would need five slices – twenty five weeks of radiotherapy but it all depends how the Ratso is responding. I take the ring road today and have a brilliant journey. I have taken some magazines for the waiting room – I am sick of seeing old men reading women’s gossip magazines – you know the sort – “my husband ran off with a Greek piano tuner and left me with a garden pond full of frogs.” Irene donates some of those and I have sorted a selection of Practical Classics car magazines which I deposit in LINAC 2 waiting room (LINAC 2 is my favourite crew) An elderly gentleman walks in shortly afterwards with TWO of Irene’s magazines with a big smile on his face. “They’ve got some new magazines.” he beams. “Oh good” I reply. It should be “Oh God!” The two radiographers seem to have a job lining me up today. I don’t know if the last one is a special but they certainly take their time but I am getting used to their tender ministrations. Their hands are warm and caressing and the Temptations Papa was a Rolling Stone is on the CD player – the full 12 minutes version. Much better than Lloyd Weber’s squawkers from yesterday. The radiographer takes time to tell me that the side effects can continue for some time and to make sure I have got the number for the clinic in case I have any problems. She is genuinely pleased that I have finished my treatment. So she thinks. The waiting room to see the doctor is nearly empty but soon fills up. On my left is a man with an eh? Machine. I would like to use my eh? Machine but I am always scared of missing my name being called. There is a couple sat opposite. He has obviously got a problem with his throat as he is whispering and gesticulating wildly but the person most interesting is a chap who comes in with hair down to his shoulders and massive mutton chop sideboards. I was hoping that he would sit next to me but there is no room because I am sure he has a tale to tell. And I could tell him one. He is there for the simulator and is given a plastic cup and a jug of water which he is told he must drink. He tells the nurse that he has just been to the toilet and if someone had told him his bladder would have been full. She answers that he would have to drink it anyway so he sits slugging away at the ice cold water absolutely dying to get someone to engage in conversation. He is across the other side of the waiting room and none of the miseries near him will even look at him. I shout across to him that at least they could have put a head on it but there is a frosty silence from the other inmates. He smiles, raises his cup and takes a swig. Again the doctor asks about my derriere. I tell her that it is improving. Well it is. The soft spoken Scot with the ‘T’ pronunciation is not there and I leave derrierum intacticum. She asks me if I have got my next appointments. No I reply and she goes next door. Again she says that the options will be discussed when I go back to the oncology clinic. An appointment is made for Friday 20th March which is inconvenient but I don’t refuse it.