So, finally, the treatment was due to start. I really wanted to get going.
After 6 weeks of waiting, I wanted to start blitzing this fucker out of my
body. I had to do Monday to Friday of radiotherapy, combined with
Chemotherapy every Friday. Double whammy Fridays.
I was edgy and angry on the first day. Paul came with me and we went on the tube to Warren Street. So basically, you sit in a waiting room until it is your turn. When it is your turn, you are taken into this very large theatre with the monster of a life saving machine in the middle of the room. You are told to stay very still whilst the technology and my individual programme targets between my breast bone, cervix and pelvic area. Given my cancer had spread, it effectively had to go all over my body minus my head, arms and legs. The room is radioactive so you have to be alone. The doctors can see and hear me at all times in case I panic. I felt like a little girl again, so vulnerable and so out of control. It is really tough knowing that your life is in the hands of medical science and a sprinkle of luck. Who determines who gets the sprinkle of luck? Those 3 out of 10 that do make it? I have often wondered about this. I certainly haven't done anything that would warrant getting that sprinkle.
The radioactive light is switched on outside the room so no one can enter.
So, I lay under this machine. It is completely painless physically. And I lay there wondering how on earth this painless process could be shrinking a cancer tumour and potentially saving my life. It is almost too much for me to understand. The 20 minutes lasts forever as the machine moves around the front of my body and then underneath to get the other side of me. I am scared but calm. I need this machine to work so I respect it and behave for it, willing it to save me.
You know when you have an itch and you can't get it, I remember feeling like that for the whole time. I wasn't allowed to move so inevitably my nose would start itching the minute it started. Bloody annoying.
I was edgy and angry on the first day. Paul came with me and we went on the tube to Warren Street. So basically, you sit in a waiting room until it is your turn. When it is your turn, you are taken into this very large theatre with the monster of a life saving machine in the middle of the room. You are told to stay very still whilst the technology and my individual programme targets between my breast bone, cervix and pelvic area. Given my cancer had spread, it effectively had to go all over my body minus my head, arms and legs. The room is radioactive so you have to be alone. The doctors can see and hear me at all times in case I panic. I felt like a little girl again, so vulnerable and so out of control. It is really tough knowing that your life is in the hands of medical science and a sprinkle of luck. Who determines who gets the sprinkle of luck? Those 3 out of 10 that do make it? I have often wondered about this. I certainly haven't done anything that would warrant getting that sprinkle.
The radioactive light is switched on outside the room so no one can enter.
So, I lay under this machine. It is completely painless physically. And I lay there wondering how on earth this painless process could be shrinking a cancer tumour and potentially saving my life. It is almost too much for me to understand. The 20 minutes lasts forever as the machine moves around the front of my body and then underneath to get the other side of me. I am scared but calm. I need this machine to work so I respect it and behave for it, willing it to save me.
You know when you have an itch and you can't get it, I remember feeling like that for the whole time. I wasn't allowed to move so inevitably my nose would start itching the minute it started. Bloody annoying.
I got to know the nurses that treated me. They were empathetic
but detached. They had a very important job to do. Paul had to
continue working during this period so Mum and Dad came with
me every day. Dad drove me to UCH day in day out for 6 weeks.
He would wait in the car whilst Mum and I went in. The side
effects of radiotherapy weren't too bad. I think I lost my appetite
for the first time in my life as at some point they had to readjust
the technology to account for my weight loss. That's how scientific
it is. I was also lacking energy but it was manageable. The
hardest part of radiotherapy was witnessing babies and children
in treatment. It was heartbreaking and the images will stay with
me for the rest of my life.
I remember one particular day when I had two radiotherapy treatments planned in a single day to make up for a bank holiday. One in the morning and one in the middle of the day. What did I do in-between? The team suggested I rest on the ward but I decided to take myself off to Westfield Shopping. Tracey and Siobhaun met me for for some lunch and shopping. I did these normal things as much as I could. It was my way of putting two fingers up to Cancer.
It was chemotherapy that was hard. I remember the night before my first treatment. I was anxious and desperately scared. Some friends called and text and others didn't. I needed to know that my friends were thinking of me. It was another hard hitting realisation that the world goes on.
I remember the chemo room so well. Lots of big blue armchairs, hard, upright and uncomfortable, scattered around the room. I had blood tests first before each chemo session to ensure my counts were strong enough to take this cell destroying liquid. Assuming your blood was o.k, the treatment could commence. I took medication, and lots of it every day. Mainly to counter the sickness, but it didn't stop it. I remember the smell. Chemotherapy has a really distinct smell and it haunts me. I remember the most painful part of the process was getting the cannula put into my arm, ready to hook me up to the constant flow of chemo for 5 hours. And then I remember, just sitting and praying that it was killing every last cancer cell in my body, I willed it to work. I always looked about wondering about all of the individual stories and prognosis of all the patients in the room. There would be at least 12 in each room. I did speak on occasion to some patients but only when they opened a conversation. I didn't want to be rude. I wanted to detach myself psychologically from my surroundings so it was easier not to engage with others.
I remember one particular day when I had two radiotherapy treatments planned in a single day to make up for a bank holiday. One in the morning and one in the middle of the day. What did I do in-between? The team suggested I rest on the ward but I decided to take myself off to Westfield Shopping. Tracey and Siobhaun met me for for some lunch and shopping. I did these normal things as much as I could. It was my way of putting two fingers up to Cancer.
It was chemotherapy that was hard. I remember the night before my first treatment. I was anxious and desperately scared. Some friends called and text and others didn't. I needed to know that my friends were thinking of me. It was another hard hitting realisation that the world goes on.
I remember the chemo room so well. Lots of big blue armchairs, hard, upright and uncomfortable, scattered around the room. I had blood tests first before each chemo session to ensure my counts were strong enough to take this cell destroying liquid. Assuming your blood was o.k, the treatment could commence. I took medication, and lots of it every day. Mainly to counter the sickness, but it didn't stop it. I remember the smell. Chemotherapy has a really distinct smell and it haunts me. I remember the most painful part of the process was getting the cannula put into my arm, ready to hook me up to the constant flow of chemo for 5 hours. And then I remember, just sitting and praying that it was killing every last cancer cell in my body, I willed it to work. I always looked about wondering about all of the individual stories and prognosis of all the patients in the room. There would be at least 12 in each room. I did speak on occasion to some patients but only when they opened a conversation. I didn't want to be rude. I wanted to detach myself psychologically from my surroundings so it was easier not to engage with others.
After the second round of chemotherapy, I had a bad reaction. I was at
home, laying in bed, vomiting as usual but it felt worse. My temperature was
at a dangerous level. Paul drove me to the closest hospital, North Middlesex.
I sat in the waiting room in A&E, with all the other patients. Again, I wanted to
scream, 'don't you know I might be dying?' I eventually got seen to. Given it
was a different hospital and they did not have access to my records, I did my
best to describe all of the medical names given to my diagnosis and
treatment. They couldn't really work out why I had reacted in the way that I
did, so they put me in an isolation room and got my temperature under
control. Paul camped out on a hard chair next to me. I remember two things
about this night: a cockroach in my room and fretting that this complication
would in any way stop my course of treatment. I simply had to remain on
track. I think I was released the day after and I got myself back to UCH for
radiotherapy.
After the third round of chemotherapy, I was anxious about a repeat performance. And sadly, it happened again. I was so ill. This time, I suffered the longer journey to UCH so at least they had my records. I felt safer there. I had to have a blood transfusion. It was really odd as the next day I temporarily felt like a new woman, thanks to someone elses blood. And the next day, they took me in my wheelchair to radiotherapy. However ill I was, it was imperative to me that I stayed on track.
One of the random things I remember is asking Paul to get me a McDonald's. I do not eat this rubbish but I have never enjoyed a quarterpounder and chips so much in my life and never will again. Hilariously, I sent him back the second night to get the same. How weird! At some point during this treatment,the consultant advised me that they had decided to give me 5 extra chemotherapy treatments as a result of my cancer having spread. It was a different type of chemo and I would loose my hair. I remember almost feeling pleased when I got this news, as they had suggested it was extra reassurance.
Towards the end of the first 6 weeks, I had to have 2 rounds of internal radiotherapy. This is not for the faint hearted. Again, against advise, I decided to stay awake and have the procedure under epidural. Paul stayed with me whilst the epidural was administered and then he had to leave. I then had some radioactive machines inserted into my (you know what). I was left in the room alone whilst this machinery blitzed directly into the tumour in my cervix. I can tell you that was one of the most intrusive, sad, overwhelmingly horrendous experiences of my life. I lay there determined not to cry but tears fell silently. Again, I dug deep, respected the machinery wired into my body and willed it to blitz this demon within me.
After the third round of chemotherapy, I was anxious about a repeat performance. And sadly, it happened again. I was so ill. This time, I suffered the longer journey to UCH so at least they had my records. I felt safer there. I had to have a blood transfusion. It was really odd as the next day I temporarily felt like a new woman, thanks to someone elses blood. And the next day, they took me in my wheelchair to radiotherapy. However ill I was, it was imperative to me that I stayed on track.
One of the random things I remember is asking Paul to get me a McDonald's. I do not eat this rubbish but I have never enjoyed a quarterpounder and chips so much in my life and never will again. Hilariously, I sent him back the second night to get the same. How weird! At some point during this treatment,the consultant advised me that they had decided to give me 5 extra chemotherapy treatments as a result of my cancer having spread. It was a different type of chemo and I would loose my hair. I remember almost feeling pleased when I got this news, as they had suggested it was extra reassurance.
Towards the end of the first 6 weeks, I had to have 2 rounds of internal radiotherapy. This is not for the faint hearted. Again, against advise, I decided to stay awake and have the procedure under epidural. Paul stayed with me whilst the epidural was administered and then he had to leave. I then had some radioactive machines inserted into my (you know what). I was left in the room alone whilst this machinery blitzed directly into the tumour in my cervix. I can tell you that was one of the most intrusive, sad, overwhelmingly horrendous experiences of my life. I lay there determined not to cry but tears fell silently. Again, I dug deep, respected the machinery wired into my body and willed it to blitz this demon within me.
Hello Natalie. It's weird but when I was going through treatment, I somehow got this determination, that no matter how sick & wretched i felt, I wouldn't stall or halt the treatment - the show must go on. a break in the treatment for me would have meant failure, that I was giving this fecker a chance to claw back something from me and I wasn't going to have that. I've heard people use the term ' she's fighting it' How the feck do you fight cancer I used to say, what do they mean? you can't fight this invader! It comes along and that's it, ding ding, back to your corner the fight's over. I had everything thrown at my tumor, radical hysterectomy, 6 cycles chemo, 25 sessions radiotherapy & finally 2 brachy treatments. Was that the fight that everybody else who doesn't have cancer talks about? I dunno, I just knew I wouldn't halt or stall the treatment for anything - even if I had to crawl on my knees to the treatment room - I was having this bloody chemo,radio or whatever. I needed it, I was initially stage 1B1 but after surgery restaged at 4 as it had spread to my ovaries and not MRI not CT had picked it up. ''you're unique'' said the oncologist - one of the few times I wanted to be just like everyone else.
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