Big machines

If you are going to have radiotherapy, you might be interested in what happens during treatment. Even if you aren't, you may be curious.

I have to lie on the flat bed in the required position (for me, it is legs in a slightly raised position on a rest, feet in a rest, and then head in a rest so my body is flat on the bed). Different treatments need different positions - Sheena had to have her arms over her head so they could access the right area for her cancer, for me they need to access my abdomen.

Side view - the bed is the other side of this 'arm'

I have to drop my undies and trousers and roll up my shirt so from 'hairline' to belly button I am exposed (but there is a paper modesty cover). I bring my hands up on to my chest, elbows tucked in (a bit like Rameses) and then they get my pelvis into position. This involves the lining up of my three tattoos (one on each hip, one on my belly) with the lights on the machine.  Then I am pushed and shoved a little (gently) to get me into the exact position whilst the radiologists check with eachother the position, numbers on the machine (set up when my original scan was done). The radiologists (or radiographers, I am really not sure!) then retire and the two large robot arms come out, doing the initial scan.

End on view

The staff are always helpful, check how I am, and are very concerned that I am comfortable and are friendly. Considering they are all in PPE with face mostly covered, I am learning to recognise them by their eyes (and the names written in felt tip across the top of their shields).

The first scan is just that - no radiation, just a quick look to make sure that the insides are lined up too. Half an hour before treatment I have to have an empty bladder and then drink 250ml of water. This ensures that my bladder is the same size as last treatment, and also helps it 'flop' to one side, out the way of the radiation.

Then it goes quiet as they check the scans to make sure everything is fine. The bed gives a little judder (I assume to move into treatment position) and the big round radiation emittimg blob on the machine circles one way, then the other. The set up takes longer than the treatment, which is only about 20 seconds each way I think. I don't know, time is a different concept when you are on the bed, thinking, waiting, not moving (but breathing), and trying to stay relaxed in the position you have been put in.

For me, so far, it is OK. I am not getting any skin sensitivity yet, and only mild tireness as a side effect. The oral chemotherapy makes me feel a bit sick, but I have sickness tablets too. I am sure things will change as treatment progresses, I have only had 8 out of 25 treatments so far.


Useful links

Radiation Therapy from the National Cancer Institute
How do I check for cancer? From CRUK

Starting treatment

Yesterday I had my first radiotherapy treatment. It's early days, so it wasn't 'much', but side-effects usually come into play after seven to ten days, so watch this blog for an update on that!

The ceiling light in the radiotherapy
waiting room

I went to the hospital at 10am (after three changed times) to get my chemotherapy presecription talk (this is, after all, a toxic substance), my anti-sickness pills and my anti-poop pills. Oh, and I'm taking Senna - so this could get interesting!

After the meeting with the nurse I needed my bloods done (they will be done every week to monitor my immune system under chemo) and - after the results came back (clear, hooray), I went in for my first zap on the bench.

The radiotherapy machine is like a science fiction robot that is swinging round you, ready to dive in and ... well, it doesn't dive in, it just spins round slowly one way, then the other, gently bathing you in radiation. It makes a humming noise (nothing like CT or MRI), and the ambient music played is almost louder than the machine.

Today's visit was shorter, as most will be except for my weekly blood tests and some consultations in between. I have five weeks of this ahead of me.

The technology at play is amazing. They line the machine up to the three tattoos on my thighs and belly, and then do a 'test run'. They took longer examining the test run images today as my insides were different to yesterday. 'A little gas' said the nurse. And when I slipped off the table after treatment, said gas escaped. Oops.

I feel fine. I feel slightly 'weird' is all I can. It's probably more psychological than physical at this stage. I can still function and am volunteering for a local cancer support charity, and still gardening. I'm building a free standing raised bed tomorrow (the wood arrived today). I sort of feel I have to do the bigger jobs now, as I don't know how I will feel as time goes on. Hopefully I will continue to feel OK and can keep working on the garden - thanks to lockdown it's never looked so good.

Blasts from my past
In a field in Suffolk
Here come the pagans
In a pigeon hole

Useful links
Ipswich and Colchester Hospitals Charity
Cancer Research UK general cancer information

Why is writing so hard?

I am on furlough, on lockdown - I have the internet, a computer, and all the time I need. So why is writing so hard?

I've been trying to figure out why my creative juices are stuck and that is equally confusing. It's not even writer's block, because I haven't sat at the computer to write apart from this blog.

I could reel off a long list of excuses, but what is the reason? I'm trying to work that one out still. I haven't written a song, or a story, for ages. I've written plenty about cancer though, darn it - but that's not creative.

I am being creative though - in wood, in gardening, story telling for the kids (online) and in helping Sheena build things, but my literary creativity is stymied.

So, to prompt myself, here's a poem I am going to write now, with no preparation:

Beech

The tall tree is covered in lime coloured keys
They dance in the wind, long branches bowing and swaying
Oak stands steadfast aside, whilst all are sprinkled with blossom.
Hawthorn, cherry, their white petals snatched by the easterly.
In the forest an oak cracks and tumbles.
Ivy clings as the tree descends, but it cannot stop the fall.
The ivy killed the tree. The tree died. The ivy has lost it's home.

Full bodied ash are catching up with the oak, beech and birch.
They are fighting their own battle, whilst the pines grow
And the cones pop in the warmth and tumble to the ground.
So much life and death in the trees. So much new growth
So many changes, as each season sends new sap rising
Or old sap drying. And beetles making home in the fallen.

Not sure where I was going with that - just looked out the window. With a bit of work, it could be something decent.

Right, back to the garden...

Lockdown

Empty tank

A CT scanner. 

Well the senna tablets worked! I had my mapping scan today and my insides were as desired (ie not full).  The quick scan said all was good, so it was time to set me up for the full scan. They inserted a canula in my right arm and ... OW! For some reason it was very painful. So they tried the left arm, and that was fine.

The marker fuild went in - it's a weird feeling, your hands go hot, it tingles as it goes into the vein, and it also makes you feel like you have let loose your bladder. You don't, but that's how it feels. Weird. I lay still, knees up, pants down, hands on my chest, and the machine buzzing around me.

The scan didn't take too long, but once the mapping had been done, I needed my tattoos. Three small black dots (in the centre of two felt pen lines crossed) - one on each hip, and one on my abdomen.

The new cold frame

The scan took shots of my insides at 2mm intervals - so the area they covered must have meant a lot of 'slices' of scan. Each one of those has to be looked at, and the treatment plan developed accordingly. Then it has to be signed off by the team (oncologist, radiologist, and maybe others), before my treatment can be booked.

In about two weeks time I will get notified when my treatment will start, and then I'll need to take the oral chemo as well as undergo the therapeutic radiotherapy. I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but I am looking forward to it starting so that the end will be nearer.

Still being positive, and whilst I have to wait, I am doing a lot of gardening and been building things out of wood.

Photo of CT Scanner (C) Cancer Research UK

Useful links
About CT Scans - from CRUK
Radiotherapy - from Bowel Cancer UK

More from my blog:
Crocs in the Fens
A proper gander
Food security

Too full

Yes, it really is me in here

I went for my planning scan at the hospital. This is where they map out where my tumour is, and line me up (including some marker tattoo dots) to make sure that the treatment hits the same spot every time.

But first they do a little scan just to make sure they can see everything. And they couldn't. I was 'too full'. So I did a little emptying and then returned to the scanner. Still too much.

I went into the booth and looked at my scan on screen. I could see my insides, my upper intestine and the lower gut. The 'dark matter' was the problem! The more matter in there, the wider they have to do the scan to make sure they hit the right area, and the wider the area, the more radiation contamination. So the smaller the area, the better. That meant they didn't want to do the scan this time round. It happens quite often, I was told. If I had known I would have perhaps eaten less the day before, but they don't want people to change eating habits. Instead I will have to make sure I am 'empty' before I go next time.

Last week when I saw the consultant he gave me immodium. This week the radiologist gave me senna. I am going to have an interesting few weeks, for sure!

My rescheduled scan is for next Wednesday. After then, hopefully, I'll know when I start radiotherapy.

I will have to watch my diet

Once I have completed my treatment, I will still have my tattoos - just small dots - but a permanent reminder. Sheena has her three tattoos from her radiotherapy too. We are both going to get one of our tattoo dots turned into a dragon tattoo. They'll be in different places, but when we look at them, we'll be reminded that we both went through hell, and came out smiling.

See also:

Scans