I feel like the man in the circus being shot out of a cannon. Zero point four on the lateral, zero point five on the vertical.” Warm hands shift my torso about. Pen marks are made on one side, then the other. Green laser beams stretch across the ceiling. “That’s fine, perfect. Zero point five on the long. We’re off now, keep nice and still.”
I stare up at the big grey moon of a machine above me. As the radiologists hurry out, there’s a beeping sound, as if a truck is reversing into the room. The rays are starting to do their work.
Nine years ago, at the age of 53, I had prostate cancer diagnosed and had a radical prostatectomy — the removal of the entire prostate. A three-hour laparoscopy was carried out in France — five neat holes are made in the stomach, cameras and instruments are inserted and the prostate is brought out through the belly button. It was a year before I felt fully recovered.
For five years or so I had blood tests to make sure that the cancer had gone away but after a while I wanted to concentrate on getting on with life. Then late last year, nearly a decade after the original treatment, a routine blood test indicated that some cancer cells had reappeared: a course of radiotherapy was recommended.
The grey moon arcs to one side, then the other. I feel like James Bond in the film where he is strapped on the table, a circular saw inching up between his legs. This is the first of more than 30 treatments. I try to concentrate on the picture of cherry blossoms on the ceiling, recalling a long-ago picnic in a Tokyo park. A self-pitying tear inches down my cheek.
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In 2002, as I left the hospital in a daze after the initial diagnosis, I came within inches of being run over in the car park. This time I found a bench and pondered my lot. There was the “why me?” question. Surely I’d paid my dues. Now I was being hauled back into the world of hospitals, life ruled and confined by appointments and consultations.
The radiographers come back into the room, all smiles and cheerfulness. Each unit treats about 35 patients a day for all manner of cancers, including brain, breast, leg and prostate. Joanna Thomson, a senior radiologist at the NHS Churchill Hospital in Oxford, where I am treated, says that radiology has become increasingly sophisticated.
“We’re now able to tailor treatments and be much more specific about where the radiation goes, and we can reduce side-effects by doing as little damage to surrounding tissue as possible.”
Though this was my first session of radiotherapy and its world of whirring machines and laser beams was a shock to the system, a routine was quickly established. I would go to the hospital five days a week: the treatment lasts less than 15 minutes but somehow most of the day was eaten up. The main problem was arriving with a full bladder: the radiographers say that this makes their job a lot easier. This led to some toe-curling episodes on trains and buses: any delay in the appointment time reduced me to a cross-legged wreck, hardly able to walk.
While there is no pain, the radiation builds up and the side-effects start to make themselves felt. First there were bouts of flatulence that would make a brass band proud. After four weeks my stomach was like a washing machine doing a tap dance. I felt tired and prone to tearfulness, but it was not a particularly onerous experience, and one that was lightened by radiographers who couldn’t have been more reassuring.
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Six weeks after the last radiotherapy session, I saw my consultant. I had hoped that the slate would be wiped clean and my cancer readings would be zero. They are not — but it takes time for the radiation, still in the body, to do its work.
Maybe cancer never really goes away. Like some strange animal it sits there, in the corner, occasionally letting out a growl. It can’t be allowed to take over life — but it needs keeping a wary eye on.