Humanising the machine.

I had the motherload meltdown in the week lead up to radiotherapy. I thought I was going to be ok, but you know what thought did. I’d conceptualised the whole thing as a relative walk in the park compared to the chemotherapy or mastectomy. Only to find myself on the floor with anxiety and unable to stop the tears. Funny how it hits you. Note to self. Please remember love, none of this is walk in the bloody park.

Well, I had to pick up the smashed shaking pieces of me and work out a way through this thing, and fast. I had an array of necessary supplements and creams in place for pre and post treatment application. Just not a clue as to how I was going to manage my fear. The issue that I was having surrounded the need to be still, utterly still whilst they bounced radiotherapy waves off me. Its that thing about wanting to do something when your told you can’t, its compulsive. Tell me I can’t move and I definitely want to. I needed more information and fast. I needed to understand this process before I found myself running screaming for the hills.

So I plucked up courage from someplace that I had stashed it and rang my oncology nurse. Ridiculous really when you consider that she is in place to be the ear of comfort in this arena. Yet I wrestle with the idea of being a burden and of being controlled. I know, I know, they are old outworn concepts that I am addressing. Sometimes default setting is what we roll back to though. Especially in the raw moments.

She was great. She is always great. She had a member of the radiotherapy team ring me the next day and we talked. Well, I cried and sobbed, she listened and the game plan was in place by the time I arrived at the centre. Sat in the waiting room I was greeted by a very upbeat radiotherapy guy, who knew my name and was so friendly that by the time I was on the machine I had forgotten my fear. Mostly, I mean I did cry every time they left the room.

Its a funny process. Stripped to the waist on a flat cold base. Asked to make yourself into a sack of potatoes, literally they had to position you according to the tiny tattoo dots they put on you a week prior. Yes, you do get a tattoo in the process, not sure if its for every diagnosis, but hey it was a very gentle second tattoo experience! So you are manhandled to perfect position. And they leave the room.

That's the hardest bit, when they leave the room. My panic was with me right then and I nearly stopped breathing, until the classical music went on and a gentle voice came through the intercom. Soothing tones of the voice told me what to expect as the machine moved, when the rays were being beamed, how long into the process we were and how much further to go. And then before I knew it we were done. Until the next day.

And each of 15 sessions ran in similar way. I got to know some very lovely young technicians. One of them even selected a Spotify play list of my favourite classical music. We laughed and told stories. In short the plan was working. Essentially they had humanised a very clinical process with kindness and levity. I am eternally grateful to each of them. There really are angels working in the NHS. They deserve better treatment than they get in terms of pay and work conditions. They care. Really care in making the hell of this somehow easier to negotiate.

And in terms of pain there isn’t much during the treatment. Its the redness and tiredness from my body healing that were the main after effects I had. That just takes a bit of time to mend. And how could I leave out my angel drivers. Two wonderful hours each day in the car with some fabulous uplifting friends. Not to mention all of you sending prayers, good wishes and love. You all rock. You know who you are. You all got me through, I’m humbled and grateful.