Ding Dong!

Radiotherapy has been an interesting leg of the journey. There is a temptation to compare it to chemo but, truth is, that really doesn't make sense. They are two very different treatments and two very different experiences.

The first thing I noticed was tiredness, but a rather pleasant tiredness. Not a sleeping off side-effects tiredness, but a genuine sleepy tired. It was only around treatment ten that I started to feel burnt. Up to then, Aloe Vera gel did the trick- supported by Theragem with calming Emerald crystals. But for the last week it has felt as though I've fallen asleep in the sun with just my left tit sticking out. Which in itself conjures up quite an interesting image!

Once the skin irritation began, it escalated quickly leaving my left breast (nipple still blue from surgery days) looking like mouldy spam. As has been the case throughout treatment, medication was provided- this time in the form of steroid cream and a soothing gel. Within 24-hours the symptoms became bearable, though I'm told it will be another 2-3 weeks before these side-effects ease off completely.

The last week of radio treatment brought a mix of emotions. The kindness of staff has shone through and there have also been moments of real humour. My three-armed gown was definitely a source of amusement and staff were patient towards my 'look what radiotherapy does to you- an extra arm!' joke.  At one early morning treatment towards the end, the room was freezing and you could have hoopla-ed  donuts onto my nipples. The young technician charged with setting me up for treatment was clearly cold. And when she touched me to move my body her hands were like ice. She apologised profusely and commented that her hands are often cold and may-be she is in the wrong job. We had an interesting chat about what job might suit cold hands and agreed undertaking might be a career option. I have to say, the kindness and compassion this young woman has shown throughout my treatment tells me she is most definitely in the right job!

That process of setting up for treatment is quite intimate. I just had to lie on the machine and do nothing. And I mean really do nothing- be totally floppy and allow my body to be manoeuvred into exactly the right position. It felt weird to have someone drawing on me and I was in awe of the precision. All I could do to assist the process was breathe in deeply. On occasions it was necessary for the technician to almost pick me up to move me to the correct position. There was something quite moving (emotionally as well as physically) about being held and someone else taking complete control. I imagine this must be how we felt as babies. And it was a good feeling to know that, even if just for a short while, someone else was in complete control and there was nothing at all I had to do except breathe. 

Some of the waiting room conversations were interesting and rather informative. I have learnt rather a lot about male plumbing over the last three weeks. I had no idea just how tricky the prostate could be and the wider genital region is nothing short of a minefield for potential dysfunction. Had Radiotherapy been around in Freud's day, he could have knocked penis-envy on the head once and for all by prescribing a quick trip to the Rosemere!

Yes there was humour and the inevitable insight and I found myself so in awe of the folks around me. Especially those whose treatment was lasting so much longer than mine. I know what 15 zappings have done to my chest and its not pretty. Those having 2 or 3 times that amount of treatment must really feel it. Especially in those more sensitive areas.

As I've said before, perhaps the most noticeable aspect of this leg of the journey has been how emotional I've felt. Its not been a crying at Bambi kind of emotion but more a case of feeling things more deeply. And somehow the things I've felt more deeply have been the positive, kind and lovely things. Its as though my bullshit detector has become so finely tuned that it filters out negatives before they become emotions. Stuff that would have previously hurt me now gets nowhere near- even my Achilles vulnerability of feeling hurt when someone claims to care then chooses not to make time for me. That hurt has melted away into an accepting sympathy for the one whose loss it is not to share what I could give. At the other end of the spectrum, I'm seeing goodness and kindness in marvellous, shining technicolour. Its a rather wonderful place to be if I'm honest and I really get it that the way to shift feelings from fear based pain to love based peace is through gratitude, kindness and humour.   

And the one thing that has intensified all this emotion has been the sound of that end of treatment bell! Those of you who have read my blogs for a while may remember it just didn't feel right for me to ring the bell at Burnley after my last chemotherapy treatment. Though the Paclitaxel infusions were over, I've still got another 13 Herceptin treatments to go- one every three weeks up to the end of November. In fact, I was back at the Primrose Unit for Herceptin a week after the last Paclitaxel. So ringing the bell would definitely have been premature. Being at the Rosemere where the sheer volume of people coming for treatment means the bell rings rather often, made me realise just how symbolic that sound has become. And yes, each time I hear it I feel all those emotions.

I stayed on after my penultimate treatment to see the specialist at the review clinic. I chose the small, comfy waiting area nearest reception that is right by the bell. I do love people watching and was really enjoying the silent company of two elderly nuns, one accompanying the other for treatment. Their joy at reading the waiting room magazines was clear. I'm not sure if they get 'Take a Break', 'Chat' or 'Now' at the convent but these were difinitely preferred to 'Knitting' and 'The People's Friend'. Good on them I say! Anyway, as we sat there, the bell rang and I looked over to see an elderly chap. As the waiting room dissolved into clapping and a few cheers, this dignified gentleman turned, saluted, said 'Thank-you' and marched away, shoulders back, chest out and head held high. The only dry eye in the waiting room was the clearly a bit deaf elder of the two nuns. Her friend asked her 'didn't you hear the bell?'  'Oh yes, bells, I thought I heard bells.' The younger nun went on to explain that the sound signalled the end of someone's treatment. The old lady's face lit up with a beaming smile as she clapped her hands together with such feeling and said  'Oh how lovely!'. I think my eyes were still a tad moist when I went in to see the specialist. Fortunately I soon had the distraction of hoiking my breast up so he and the young student doctor could see the abrasions underneath. And with a quick, 'have a closer look love, Ooo there's an offer you don't get every day' my smile was back!

And those students- wow! I've met some really pleasant young student doctors and radiographers over the last three weeks. In training at the Rosemere they are learning from the best when it comes to competence, care and kindness. Text books facts are the tip of the learning iceberg. What these future medics are seeing modelled each day will stand them in good stead. We hear such negative stuff about the NHS but future problems certainly won't be to do with face to face care if these folks are anything to go by.

So, all in all, if Radiotherapy were a dance I think it would be the Can-Can- fast and hot with some unavoidable chafing!

In the grand scheme of things that's the third leg of my journey completed- leg 1- Surgery, leg 2- Paclitaxel chemo, leg 3- Radiotherapy. The 4th leg of the journey is rather bitty and stretches out into the future and whilst it isn't daily or even weekly treatments, its on-going. But all is well! In terms of self-care I'm aware of the need to rest and recover. The temptation is to go back to being full-on busy. To some extent, the treatment journey has put a buffer in between me and busyness and it just hasn't been possible to rush around or say 'yes' to everything I'm asked to do or even the things I think I should do. I remember Steve Redgrave asking people to stop him going back to rowing. I believe his words were 'shoot me if you see me go near a boat'. The silly sod did, indeed go back and achieved further glory. But he jeopardised his health and probably relationships in the process. Now I'm not comparing my life to Gold Medal winning performance, but the busyness and activity resonate. I'm not going to ask anyone to shoot me if  I get my unrealistic head on now and again. But may-be I do need reminding from time to time that I've had two operations, 12 cycles of chemotherapy, 15 lots of Radiotherapy and there's still other stuff on-going.
So, if you're someone who sees me regularly or from time to time, and if I'm being a busy nob head when you do see me, a gentle reminder to rest before I need to rest would be appreciated!

Many thanks for reading this blog and for your support, understanding and encouragement. Yes I rang the bell yesterday. People clapped, I laughed and cried at the same time. Then we went for a curry. Onwards and upwards- for that really is the way I'm heading!

   

Liz x