I eat a scone at 10.30 then the time runs away with me, so I forgot to have an early lunch. I’m supposed to take my temozolomide when I get it at around 2.30 at oncology, but now it’s 1.30 and I need 2 hours of empty stomach beforehand. I drink a pint of water instead.
I’ve sorted the bar code machine in oncology, and it books me in for the meds appointment. Then I go through and receive my week’s supply, with the exception of the antibiotics. As I’m allergic to sulfasalasine I can’t take the Septrin which contains one of the sulfa drugs so Dr Sarah is having a think about a suitable replacement. So tomorrow, I’m to wait to see her after treatment and pick up the weekend’s supply.
We go over the medication which is ondansetron if required (my trusty Hunt period anti-emetic) and domperidone, also if required. The chemotherapy drug comes in three different-sized capsules, each of which is sealed in an individual foil package. I’m to take a total of 170mg daily, one hour before radiotherapy, and at least two hours after food, and one hour before food. I’m to avoid touching the capsules. So I take 1 x 140mg, 2 x 5mg, and 1 x 20mg. The woman who gives me the meds hasn’t seen the capsules before so I show her before washing them down with water. I wait with some trepidation, but nothing happens beyond the tight throat I get with dexamethasone and a dry mouth.
I return to the waiting area, and read my book for a while before I’m called through to radiotherapy. Once again, I’m name and address and dob checked, before being asked for the 50th time whether I might be pregnant. I tell them I’ll let them know if I pull, and they titter obediently.
I’m made comfortable on the slab again, and lined up with the marks before the face mask is clunked into place. It feels tighter today, and the flying saucer head obliterates the autumn branches against the sky, which I realise is a part of a large light insert. The three radiographers are all smiling and chatty, which helps no end. The lights are dimmed and the radiographers depart for their safe room as they take a set of images. The machine moves around my head, quite close in, the rectangular panels appearing in my slightly opaque peripheral vision which has a bone-coloured tinge from the honeycomb of the mask. The flying saucer moves to the side. I can’t really feel it, and I’m not sure when it’s going to start. The pulsing starts in my face.
Today the music is Eye of the Tiger, which forces me to concentrate on Katy Perry’s voice and how on earth it doesn’t crack and collapse at a range so close to her limit. I fix my eyes on one edge of the light panel, and feel entirely in control and relaxed. You’re gonna hear me rooooar!
Not much longer, Lynne they say, you’ll hear the whirring soon. Not much longer of Katy Perry I hope, maybe the whirring is so loud it’ll drown her out – but I think they mean the mask which I’ve forgotten about altogether. It’s all relative.
Then there’s a whirring, certainly not at roar level, and a whine, and the machine moves again. Ah, this must be the rays…there is a slightly warm feeling over Hunt, but as ever I might well be imagining it. The flying saucer manoeuvres over and jinks to its whirr. There is a beep, which sounds like a department store tannoy alert. Then a little later another, and then a third. I guess these are either starting or completing the different angles needed to zap the remains of Hunt’s smirk. I see the little Hunt smirk rootlets, zapped like sparkler trails.
The radiographer reappears, and warns me not to knock myself out on the machine (they call it the machine) which is about a foot above my head. She takes two more measurements and calls them out. Then the machine rises, and I sit. I ask them what the machine is. It’s called a linear accelerator, and the active part is the flying saucer. The rectangular panels are for imaging, so the equivalent of x-ray plates. My radiotherapy is intensity modulated radiotherapy (IMRT). Not many people know anything about radiotherapy, she says.
Dad and I head home, and I notice my head is slightly numb over the site, although it soon passes. I eat a Cranks wrap exactly an hour after the temozolomide. I rather enjoy it, and feel fine. The nausea hits me at home, two hours exactly from swallowing the capsules and shortly after I drink a glass of water that tastes like chemicals. The last time that happened, was when I was going down with Swine Flu a few years ago, and was utterly convinced there’d been some Camelford-style accident at the water treatment plant. I try a second swig of water, and it tastes better than the first. Then I start to belch and the bile rises. Down with the first Ondansetron. After half an hour I feel better, just vaguely yeuch. Later on, there’s a slight soreness over my scar, and it feels warmer than the other side of my head.
So I’m underway, and I have no problems with the mask or claustrophobia, and the temozolomide feels manageable so far. It helps that I have such faith in ondansetron, although its bottom blocking capability is second to none. Which reminds me to yam a couple of Laxido.