The dates clashed, the dog’s operation (to remove his lumps, throat and groin [fatty, not cancer]) and my radiotherapy. We agree this can only go ahead if my wife looks after the dog and to be clear, in a crisis, the wife is good with me, but I am good with the dog.
Day One – I go in for my first session and the dog goes to the vet. I’m in Room 6, and I resist the urge to cry when I see the machines, table, the rack, its arm and hand stirrups. I lay and welcome the blue skies, autumn trees with red leaves, another outside brought in, a square of freedom carved out on the ceiling. When the team leave the room, and the quiet alarm sounds, I observe the twists, turns, rays and try to count the clicks (advice I took from another who stepped this way before me). I step off and away, and it all feels doable.
Later we pick up the dog and he looks butchered. It’s like he has been stabbed in the throat with plastic spoons, the handles protruding and his wounds deep. My wife and the dog climb into the back of the car, the dog whimpers in pain and distress, the wife works hard not to cry but she is. Back home the dog stands looking at the wall, he can’t sit or lie down due to the pain. Later the emergency vet reassures it’s normal, and the wife sleeps with the dog all night on the living room floor. It’s now official, a total car crash situation.
Day Two – I haven’t slept much and arrive at the hospital with the same intention, to look, be present and observe the machines. The team are like pilots, the room a cockpit. There is a lot of maths and measuring, systems checked off, the quiet alarm sounds and they leave. My fear, like the MRI, is that I’ll move and the rays will hurt my heart or lung. Today this fear builds and I begin to panic, really panic. My breathing is making my heart hit the walls of my chest and I really feel like I’m going to move, I’m sure of it. I will just jump up and move. I start to say the alphabet and get lost after O. Start to say names that match each letter, shocked how boring and English my boy names are. When it’s over I explain my panic. The team leader, who prior to the session, assertively told me not to move my hands during their count, now explains I can move my feet (a little) during the session if I need to.
I leave and head to Maggie’s Centre, a building opposite that offers support and care. As we sit talking about courses and what is on offer to help me, the conversation segues and I become Artistic Director and Playwright, hearing the stories of women with secondary breast cancer in the first lockdown, of fear and time lost. On the way home I stop at the supermarket and as I step onto the zebra crossing a man drives his car and cuts me off, stops and throws open his door. His anger tells me he hates me, women. He slams the door shut, attempts to drive, stops and once again throws open his car door. He drives off and a group of women stop to tell me they saw it all, and I should take his number. I look at them, his car as it speeds around the corner and walk into the supermarket. The tears are falling as I walk up the aisle and along the giant walkway. I stop at the toy section and face the Lego and I am now sobbing. I pull off my mask because I can’t breathe, I just cry and cry, I feel awful and so sorry for myself. I want and don’t want someone to ask me if I am ok, they don’t and I leave the shop.
I cry all over my wife when I get home, and notice the dog is still standing looking at walls, unable to sit or lie, even after another visit to the vet and a huge elephant injection. We put a collar on him, and assertively lead him upstairs, to his bedroom, my stay-at-home office, now lined with duvets and cushions in case he decides to lay down. My wife makes me a gin, and pours herself a glass of wine, and we talk about tomorrow and what I could do to help the panic. She suggests I visualize going to Lesvos, the plane, taxi, arriving, the square and the beach – our routine of nearly three decades. This feels good, I sleep.
Day Three – My friend, an oncologist visits me as I wait outside Room 6. The waiting area is just for those having treatments, due to Covid there are no friends or family allowed, unless you are a carer. There are lots of rainbows and distance. My friend is a welcome, kind and friendly face, this feeling makes me cry. I tell her how much I hate this, my panic and fear of moving. She is like the captain of the plane, taking time to come and sit with me. My name is called, and I go in. As they position my body, they ask for my DOB and I start to cry. They tell me I can stop the machine with a wave of my hand, nothing will harm me, and they point to the cameras, saying they are watching me all the time. I’m exhausted and reassured. I close my eyes and go to Lesvos, it works. I ask if yesterday’s session was longer, today felt shorter? The team leader tells me they had students in, so yes yesterday, my panic attack day was longer – I wish they had said.
Day Four – I’m on the home stretch, the dog has slept, and Lesvos is working. Due to my posting on social media the plane is full, the beach busy and tavernas brimming with our big queer community, it’s an open invitation to join me, and it’s busy. Today we climb and sit on Sappho’s face, a mountain in Lesvos. I still feel the panic but my wife walks with me, helps and reassures me, we go into the cold sea, see fish and sit on the sand. At the end of the session, I lay back on the beach and welcome the sun.
I plan Day Five, a party with DJ Wendy and end the night with a skinny dip.
Day Five – it’s the last session. I’m wearing my new purple trainers; their first outing and they are looking bonny. In the car I now play UB40 on the way there and Simon and Garfunkel on the way home, ‘Emily’ for my wife (I let tears fall on the homeward journey).
The team wish me luck when I am leaving, and it takes me back to the first biopsy, when the nurse said ‘even if it is cancer we are here for you’ – It makes me stop and understand that even with an excellent prognosis, I still need luck, so I take it with me and drive home.
People have said a mix of things about Radiotherapy, that it’s the easy bit or that its emotional, a moment to reflect and feel overwhelmed, or it’s a breeze, you lay back and relax. I found it tough, really tough.
It’s Friday night and at home all is good, the dog has had the spoons (aka drains removed) and is wearing a tidy jumpsuit to protect his stitches. My wife and I sit at the window looking over the dark field and the big, beautiful sky. My wife opens a bottle of champagne, special and to celebrate. I’m knackered.
Catrina
