Radiotherapy

Seven treatments down, thirteen to go.

They told me the side effects would mean that I'd be tired and lethargic, but the tiredness is only because I'm driving so much. I'm out of bed half an hour earlier to get to work twenty miles away an hour earlier, eat my lunch at my desk, and then drive 44 miles to the hospital for the treatment, which is nearly always late. The lethargy is because you sit around lethargically waiting, fifteen, thirty, forty-five minutes until your machine is ready for you. It takes five minutes or more for the radiographers to position you exactly right, with the tattoos and their latest felt tip pens marks lined up with the green laser lines, and then two minutes for the treatment. Then I drive 20 miles home again, in the rush hour.

These radiographers work long and intensely without a break, from eight o'clock in the morning until 6.30 in the evening, hoping to reduce the waiting lists. In the mid-afternoon, there are more people to chat. The men agonise over how long they have to wait and just how full their bladders have to be before they have the therapy - they've got prostate cancer - and they have to have a full bladder and an empty bowel so that the full bladder pushes the bowel out of way of the radiation that would otherwise give nasty side effects.

Waiting, we read, chat, do suduku puzzles. I take a research paper to peruse. I'm making a lot of progress on my reading, and I drive home calmly, usually later than I'd hoped but in time for evening activities like tae kwo do.

Race for life

Daughter ran in the Race for Life - well she walked it actually, but still completed her five kilometres in less than an hour despite predicting she was going to take two hours. Well done her, and well done that she raised nearly all the money that she targeted.

Tattoos

I now sport three tattoos.

What?! Me have tattoos?

It's not a well-known side effect of treatment for cancer that you can get tattooed, but if the treatment is radiotherapy, then they have to measure you very carefully to be sure to aim the radiotherapy in the right place, and you have repeated doses of radiation day after day after day. So when they measure you, when they know just where to aim, they tattoo you so that they can use the tattoo marks to place you and to aim the radiation just right every day.

Another advantage of tattooing is that if years later you need to explain where you had the radiotherapy, the record is there on you in the tattoos, warning medical people that you've already had radiation to that spot.

I wonder what they do when they get patients in who are already so well tattooed that there's no room for a radiotherapy tattoo.

The tattoos are tiny - the size of a full stop on this page - my husband kindly tells me that one of mine looks like a blackhead. Thank you husband.

A good friend

What's a good friend? What can you talk to a friend about? It used to be that you couldn't at polite dinner parties discuss

• sex
• religion
• politics

But I think I've discussed all these with my best friends. I had some fantastic friends in the town where I lived for twenty years, and they helped me crystallise ideas on many aspects of life. One friend - a mother of four children - had her youngest son at the same time as I had my first born. She was so helpful and sensible on bringing up children, just being there doing it in front of me, advising if I asked.

Another friend wanted to talk about religion and gave me the opportunity to attend an Alpha course at our local Anglican church, something I'd have liked to have done through the Catholic church, but there wasn't the opportunity. I see Alpha courses are discussed on Mumsnet here.

And only good friends can talk to you when you've got cancer. Servan-Schreiber writes that the evidence is that women with good friends (girl friends, not husband) survive breast cancer better. And I know from the reaction of my women friends that they're supporting me. Aren't I lucky with my friends?