Monday, December 28: I’m about to pack my case for the next trip to the Edinburgh Cancer Centre tomorrow (actually, that’s rubbish I’ll be throwing things in the case at the last minute tomorrow morning!). Now I’ve had four treatments and know what to expect I’m less nervous than I was last week. Although, after five days of stuffing my face with Christmas fare. I’m a bit concerned my mask won’t fit me anymore.
I seem to be the only person worried about the amount of weight I’ve gained – and am still gaining – since my diagnosis. Everyone else tells me it’s good because my body needs the calories to repair itself from the radiotherapy – plus, I may yet become unable to eat because of a very sore throat. My walk from hotel to hospital and back isn’t really going to do much for weight loss, nor is the food in the hotel. It is pub grub: burgers (which don’t come singly but in a ‘stack’ of two, chicken wings, wraps, fries – thin fries, lattice fries, sweet potato fries (are they less fattening?) and all in large portions. I chose a ‘super salad’ one night and it was enormous packed with quinoa, peas, broccoli, avocado and goodness knows what else.
I’ve only two nights there this week but after New Year I’ll be staying for five nights a week for two weeks. I have to do something or I’ll be the size of a bus. The receptionist did say the kitchen staff would be very accommodating if I wanted to request something different. A bowl of homemade soup would be welcome.
I know some of you already know about radiotherapy, having experienced it, but for those who aren’t sure what happens there’s an explanation on the Macmillan website here. I asked if I could take a photo of the machine. I have to stop myself from using expressions like sci-fi because, of course, this isn’t science fiction but science fact.
Once I lie down, with my little bit of kitchen towel to protect my modesty, the radiographers fit my mask and fasten me into place – this sometimes takes a bit of faffing around to get it right but it doesn’t feel so bad now. The table I’m lying on is then raised. By then I have my eyes shut. And my mouth, though they assure me I can open my mouth. I haven’t tried it yet though on the last treatment my lips did twitch slightly in a smile. This was because, although I know there isn’t one, the machine makes a noise, which in my imagination sounds like a little robot on tiny metal feet scurrying from one side of the table, behind me to the other side to direct the next beam of radiation before scurrying back again. In fact the machine rotates.
Two YouTube videos show exactly how it works. The first one is short; the second one is longer and shows how different kinds of cancer are treated. Both give you the idea of how the machine works – though the second one is my favourite with its dramatic soundtrack. You only need to see the first couple of minutes to get the idea.
I also took a photo of my tumour – or, at least, the area which is being treated – reflected from inside the head of the machine on the floor.
Then, I took one directly up into the head of the machine and got this image. The radiographer explained lead leaves fit round the treatment area and can move when the machine moves around me, shaping the beam of radiation to the tumour. It means the cancer cells in the tumour receive a high dose and normal healthy cells nearby receive a much lower dose. I think that was the explanation. I was so excited at the image I’d captured I’m not sure if I took in all she was telling me. The wonderful thing about the radiographers is they will explain it to me again and answer any other questions even though they must have answered them all countless times.
It’s strange to think it will be 2021 when I write my next update. A few months ago, I wasn’t sure I’d see Christmas this year and now I’m looking forward to spring (hope I’m not tempting fate) and seeing the bulbs I planted in bloom and meeting Sue in April and Barb and welcoming a great niece into the world.
Wishing everyone all the best for 2021 – we all so much deserve a better year.