Chemotherapy is administered in a large, open Day Treatment Unit (DTU), in which around 20 patients receive treatment while seated on chairs or lying on beds. The atmosphere in the DTU could have been gruesome, given that many of its occupants are heading for their grave, but in fact it is one of cheerful efficiency, and it’s very obvious that the nurses are very much in charge. It is a female environment, with no apparent hierarchy. For me, it has become a comforting and familiar place, where I always get a friendly greeting, rather like a local pub. There are a few doctors present, but they are mostly tucked away in a small side-room. A conspicuous figure is the pharmacist who works out what each patient’s drug regime should be and provides them with a bright green bag of drugs as they leave. Looking round the DTU, the diversity of treatments that fall under the heading ‘chemotherapy’ becomes very apparent. As an American friend was told recently, ‘there is no such thing as Cancer: instead, there are many cancers’.
The author Susmita Bhattacharya has spoken on the radio about her ‘chemo brain,’ which made lose her ability to write during chemotherapy. I had become aware of a declining memory, particularly for the names of people and garden plants, but this could easily be put down to advancing age. It was striking that Bhattacharya referred throughout her talk to ‘my cancer’, her way of recognising that cancer is a very diverse phenomenon and that no two cancer patients share exactly the same experience. As time has gone on, I have felt that my cancer is an intensely personal thing, largely because my experience is in many ways unlike anyone else’s.
