The period between discharge from hospital and Radiotherapy, has been taken up with regular appointments but not a lot else. I've given up watching the BBC news, as it is too negative to be of any use and it has become a bee in my bonnet.....I can thank my mother for this and other useless sayings. I'm finding fault in a lot of things such as, why does it never rain in Father Brown, but he never leaves his house without an umbrella? Why does the hospital arrange telephone appointments when I can't speak properly?
So what's to report? I should have been preparing for a holiday to Menorca. I'm almost missing the Jet 2 jingle which plays on the flight. That feeling of heat as you step off the plane always makes you feel better. But that is going to have to wait for at least another year, The same goes for the break in Devon. This is what we take Rossi (The dog, not the Quo guitarist, just in case you hadn't been paying attention) for his beach holiday.
But alas no. It's just countdown to my first Radiotherapy session. The day arrives. My appointment is for 9:00 am. I have to see the nurse first. Why? To tell me about all the side effects I am about the have. I let the words float over my head....again. The nurse checks my prescription and I get prescribed some more Morphine, Codeine and Laxatives.... I'm thinking the next few weeks sure are going to be a mixture of up's and down's.
I then take my seat in the waiting area. There are a number of men who seem to be taking part in a water drinking competition. From what I gather from the symptom comparison conversations they are having, they appear to have Prostate "problems". They seem very jolly, all laughing at.each other's outrageous bladder stories. I am not qualified to join in, so I just wait for the call.
I don't wait long. A man with a surgical mask and plastic shield calls out what seems to be my name. I walk with him and he asks for my date of birth. I'm still struggling with my speech and I give it my best shot. I couldn't hear my name and he can't understand my attempt to say my Birth Date. These lapses in security checks, however, do not stop me going in for treatment.
The room is windowless, cold and depressing. I feel for the people who have to work in here all day. I'm hoping they get free Vitamin D. I have to take my top off and lie in the table. Then it's time. There are a row of plastic bags on what looks to be a coat rack. They find my mask.
They put it in and then they clip the mask to the bed. Each click straps me in ever tighter. I hate it. I can't breathe. From what I remember from Wrestling on ITV, I raise my arm in the air. They release me quicker than Debbie Magee unlocking Paul Daniels from a locked cage. I explain that it is too tight, hoping they will just let me go, but no. They try to reassure me that it has to be tight and it won't be for long. I give it another go and remember something my Grandma told me, that pain didn't last for ever. I don't altogether agree...I refer back to Simply Red....
Here goes. It's on and the table moves back much slower than an Aldi checkout conveyer. I'm all alone. I'm at the mercy of their choice of music. The machine whirs and clicks. I will get to know every sound over the coming weeks. The bit where the table seems to drop means there is about 3 minutes left. It stops. I hear the technicians come in and the beautiful sound of the mask being un-clicked.
They ask if I'm ok. I lie of course (this is becoming a habit). I put my shirt and jumper on an do a runner. My wife has insisted on driving me to these appointments, mainly because she has been Googling the side effects. I'm not sure not being able to drive is one of them but hey ho.
She asks how it went. "Great" I say, "Can't wait for next week". One of the unwritten rules of the car is that whoever is driving has choice of music. (My attempts to report her to the Traffic Police have so far been to no avail). I like to think that I'm quite a tolerant person.....ok, that's rubbish, but honestly, I'm sure her music is...... "Now That's What I Call Bollox 56".... It's a long journey home.
Yep, those clips sure make the mask tight. I had eyeholes cut in mine and could watch the machine go round. Did you get a tattoo? I'm getting a bee inked over mine as soon as they let the tattoo parlours open.....can't wait. It will be like another cut of one of the t umbilical cords I'm still hanging onto....or are hanging on to me perhaps?
