By April 2007 I had my diagnosis. Hodgkin’s Disease, Stage 2. Ninety-five percent chance of survival — good odds, the doctor said. What nobody tells you is what the treatment feels like from the inside. This is that part of the story.
On 8th April, the course was set. I had been signed off work for six months.
Sitting by the bed with Harsha in her ward, I was finding it so difficult to concentrate on anything. My mind was breaking down all the information, building up possible scenarios. What if this, or what if that happens? Money was up there, top of the list. What will happen to us? The house, the mortgage, the bills, the food. So many thoughts. So many questions. And no answers. The heart was racing. Head in a spin.
And then I finally succumbed to the tiredness and dropped off to sleep in the armchair at the side of Harsha’s bed.
But despite all of it — the family rallying, Tish supportive, people I loved surrounding me — Harsha was top of the list. I was getting so desperate. How is she going to cope when I have to go for chemo? Who will look after her? That question never left me. Not once. Not through any of it.
If you have never had chemotherapy, I hope you never do. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.
It felt like ants crawling on the inside of my body. My head felt like a lead weight on my shoulders. I used to bury my face into the corner of the sofa armchair and wish for it to pass quickly. I suffered through six sessions, with re-hospitalisations when the chemo sent my temperature dangerously high. And even then — even in the armchair, even in the hospital bed — the same thought, playing on a loop. Who is going to look after Harsha?
I cried. I want to be honest about that. I cried alone, in the upstairs bathroom, where nobody could hear. That was the only place I allowed it. Then I washed my face and went back downstairs.
The radiotherapy was done in Reading, Berkshire. So that was the routine — drive there, treatment, drive back, put on the carer’s face, keep going. Harsha’s illness was such that she did not fully comprehend the scale of what was happening to us both. So I kept going.
For the radiotherapy, a mask was made of my face and neck — a silicon mesh sheet, moulded to my face and the top of my shoulders, with two holes for eyes. It was attached by wing nuts to the gurney. The radiation itself lasted no more than ten seconds. Ten seconds. It may have felt like an eternity, because of everything that came before it. Lying still. The mask bolted down. Your face screwed to a table with wing nuts, knowing there is no escape from this.
I picture it now, nineteen years later. I can see what I didn’t let myself see then. What I didn’t let myself feel. Panic. Pure panic. Pushed down, swallowed, driven home, set aside.
This is Part 3 of My Cancer Story. Read the full series here.
If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK offer information, support and helplines.
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