Today, I arrived for treatment ahead of time! Traffic was lighter than expected - and leaving home ten minutes earlier than normal made a big difference. Finding a parking space was also straightforward when I arrived, despite having a ten minute walk to the hospital from where I had to leave my car. All was going to plan.
Of course, if I were superstitious, I would have gone home the minute I saw that lone magpie! As soon as I announced my arrival at the treatment unit, the trouble began. Firstly, the receptionist didn't know if I'd see the nurse before or after the radiotherapy session - as I've mentioned, I have to see the "doctor" (for which read "nurse specialist") once a week to report on my state of health and whether I'm suffering any side-effects. Then, the radiotherapist took me through to waiting area for "my" machine. Five minutes after I arrived in that area, another radiotherapist emerged to say they were "having a few problems with the machine" and to ask if I'd go back to the main waiting area to be called when it was fixed. Luckily, I had my wits about me and asked if I could see the nurse while I was waiting. Within five minutes, I was taken to a side room for my interview. Ten minutes after that, the nurse specialist arrived, just as I'd got immersed in my book so I didn't hear her come into the room. When I'd recovered from the shock, we had a delightful discussion about what constitutes "diarrhoea" (I'm sorry, my squeamish readers, but this is the sort of thing you have to talk about when having radiotherapy). Having decided that I wasn't yet experiencing that particular side-effect, we agreed that it would be wise to have medication to hand, "just in case". So, the nurse went off to the pharmacy and came back with a packet of pills and a prescription to give to my local family doctor. As my old mother used to say, "If they give me any more pills, I'll rattle if they shake me!" At least I'm ready for all eventualities now.
Back to the main waiting room, having seen the nurse. Ten minutes later, one of the radiotherapists came to tell me that they were still having problems with the machine and were trying to send me to a different machine for treatment today. So, I waited... Fifteen minutes passed. I was called through to the treatment waiting area. Approximately thirty-five minutes after that - more than an hour late - I finally went to another treatment room. By that time, "my" machine had been fixed, but since I'd already been rescheduled, I had to go to the other one. Now, you would think, wouldn't you, that all the treatment rooms would be identical? That's certainly what I'd supposed. But no. In this one, there was no outer door, simply a corridor where you wait until the previous person comes out - there's a bend in the corridor so you can't see them adjusting their clothing! There was a CT scanner at the foot of the bed rather than at the head. Not only that, but the machine itself worked in the opposite direction, which meant that the radiotherapy team had to "send it round the houses", as they put it, to ensure that my dose was delivered in the usual order. The machine itself was so noisy that I asked whether it was older than "mine". Apparently, though, it's the newest machine!
So, three hours after I arrived at the hospital, I left. Yesterday it only took 12 minutes...
One thing I've learned (other than patience), however, is that there really is a lot of fear among the general population about what it's like to have radiotherapy. Being delayed means that you get to talk to others in the waiting room. Not only does it make people like me feel very lucky - today I met two women who were having six weeks of radiotherapy, including internal radiotherapy, and one with an inoperable tumour in her stomach - but after the initial enquiries such as, "Is this your first visit?", there was the inevitable question from new patients is, "What's it like?"
There just isn't enough reassuring information available from the perspective of the patient and nobody on the staff really has sufficient time to talk to you and allay your fears, no matter how much they want to do so (and they really do want to do so). So, today, when I was asked, "Is it ok?", I remembered why I began to write about my own experience. It's too easy to lose that perspective when you're in the middle of treatment. And I hope I was able to reassure the questioner.
Twelve more sessions... and counting...
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