Why radiotherapy?

The question kept coming up in my mind. Despite everything I have read and heard I still found it difficult to understand why radiotherapy was necessary for me. After all I have had a mastectomy.What on earth is there to treat apart from scar tissue? Also, isn't what I have already been through enough?

These are all questions I would have liked to put to the oncologist, but they evaporated into thin air following the information he gave me about the apparent disappearance of cancer in my body. Still, I always carry paper and something to write with, so I made a careful note of my questions and focused my energy on completing the preparations for the school's summer fair. The voluntary work at the school has been a welcome distraction from being a patient and from all things medical. It has given me something else which I have grown to value. It has made me feel part of a community of parents, has helped me understand myself better and, in a strange sort of way, reignited my purpose in life which revolves around my children. They are everything. And so, everything with the school is easy as I do it for them. That said I took enormous personal satisfaction from securing a pair of complimentary midweek tickets for a top London show. I packaged this up with the luxury car chauffeur service donated by one of the dads and placed this as one of the top prizes in our charity auction at the fair: a theatre trip to the West End with chauffeur driven service there and back has got to be worth quite a bit, I thought. In the end, the prize went to the highest bidder for £155.00. In fact we made over £500.00 from our charity auction alone. We had seven donated items ranging from the one I have just described to an hour's singing lesson donated by Bryan. The school summer fair raised a handsome amount of money for the school's charitable fund which is going towards the development of the playgrounds. Best of all, the kiddies that came seem to have a good time on the bouncy castle, trampoline and the other activities we had organised. I was delighted.

Rosemary came along as always to support the event and took some snaps. I then did a write up in our newsletter for all the parents and Voca kindly agreed to sponsor the newsletter by printing it for us in good time for the school to circulate before the end of term.

Roll up, roll up place your bids at out fabulous auction.

Getting down to business with the Go karts

Our favourite lion cub

Once the fair was over I found my anxiety about the next round of treatment returning. Good job I don't smoke. Goodness knows how many cigarettes I would have demolished. In the end I found some solace in a glass or two of Pimms. Sometimes a little alcohol helps clear an adult mind. Towards the end of the day I finished most of what was left in the jug of Pimms that I had intended to share with Bryan and reflected on the fact that Radiotherapy was potentially life saving treatment. This meant that I would quietly comply with all that was being asked of me. How could I do anything else?

So it was with a little hang-over and clutching a bottle of water that I met my mother on the London-bound station platform for the first of my radiotherapy appointments at the cancer clinic in town. My mother insisted on coming with me. Probably being at the receiving end of the concerns I had voiced had a lot to do with it. She kept saying reassuring things and how much better I would feel once it was all finished. I looked for the pieces of paper in my hand bag where I had written my questions and reminded myself to ask the oncologist about vital organs: how close would the radiotherapy come to my lungs and heart? The scar tissue was still healing: what would happen when the radiotherapy started? There were other niggles. The temperatures in London that week were soaring from 25°C to 30°C. My headscarf was for once not helping and the prosthesis that I was wearing to give me the shape my left breast used to provide was making me sweat profusely. The journey would last an hour there and an hour back. A journey I would have to make every day for three weeks. I started thinking about a Pimms as I availed myself of the water I had thankfully taken with me.

We arrived at the cancer clinic and, after a few preliminaries filling in forms I was shown to the radiotherapy suite then into the room where it was all to take place. A rectangular table was the focal point of the room together with a large circular machine with a long arm that swiveled round. A motorised mechanism directed the front of the machine to a target area, in this case the upper left side of my chest. I needed my boxing gloves again as I felt my usual confidence ebb away. Then I thought of my mother quietly sitting in the waiting room upstairs reading a magazine and how upset she would be if she saw me worried and unsettled. I put on a brave face when the radiographer came to explain want was going to happen. But all the time I thought of Sean Connery as James Bond who, having been captured by the eponymous villain 'Goldfinger' (brilliantly played by Gert Frobe) was strapped to a very similar looking table as a laser beam was being aimed at him to cut him in half. Before long I too was lying on a table, stripped to the waist, with a machine poised to direct what I hoped was a less deadly beam towards my body. I couldn't resist saying, "Do you expect me to talk?" The reply I was half expecting: "No, Mr Bond, I expect you to die " never materialised. Instead the soft, gentle voice of the radiographer said "No, just be very still". Then the radiographers and the oncologist took a series of measurements across my chest. I was also given two tiny pin prick tattoos: one in the centre of my chest and and one on the side. Another permanent reminder of my brush with cancer. The treatment itself would last some 40 seconds however getting me positioned on the table to make sure the dose of radiotherapy was delivered to the right place, took anything between 15 to 30 minutes. In fact I went along for several measurement sessions presumably so that the radiographers and the oncologist could assure themselves that the target area for treatment was correct for my individual circumstances.

After all the measurements were completed, the breast care nurse at the clinic asked to see me. I found this odd. Wasn't it a bit too late for all that? I have no left breast. But, my healthy right breast was worth protecting so I went along. She gave me a tub of aqueous cream and asked me to apply the cream twice a day to the target area first thing in the morning and last thing at night. She also asked me to drink lots of water. It was at this point I voiced some of my concerns. She wasn't able to provide the cast-iron responses I wanted to hear but said that a chat with the oncologist might help so we made an appointment for the following week as he was seeing other patients the morning I was there. But what could he say to me? No one has all the answers and in the meantime radiotherapy seems to be protecting cancer survivors. The cure for cancer remains complex; what I suspected they would tell me was that all they could do was reduce the risk of cancer returning by giving me radiotherapy. Survival rates are going up all the time and if radiotherapy meant I would fall into the long-term survival category then I would be a fool not to go through with it.

The following day would be the first of 15 radiotherapy sessions. I made sure I applied the cream to the left side and along the long scar across my chest. I was shocked by the bony surface that my hand could feel and I realised this was the first time since the day of the operation I had touched that area of my body. Could I ever get used to this? Joshua came into our room shortly after I was dressed and asked me where I was going that day. I told him I was going to have radiotherapy. "That sounds interesting" came the reply. And in many ways he was right. I went to the first of my treatments and it was painless: nothing as awful as the chemotherapy. I followed the regime of the cream and drank lots of water. As the weeks passed I became sore, tired and my skin looked sun-burnt but all this had been explained to me, so I was prepared . By the end of July I reached the end of the treatment and when I got off the table for the last time I was sore and tired, but felt happy that my treatment had come to an end. I thought about the weeks ahead and felt for the first time in eight months I had something to look forward to. The oncologist prescribed six weeks rest. No more medical appointments until September. I sprinted to catch the 205 that was heading towards Marylebone where I caught the train that took me back to the familar hedgerows of suburbia.