Leaving the hospital on Friday I cycled through The Cut at Waterloo and spotted an art deco antique shop called Radio Days. Well, I had to stop and take a picture for the blog. Thirteen RT treatments done, twenty six to go.

I want to introduce you to members of the St Thom’s Cancer Club (early morning shift). These are the guys I meet every day at around 8 o’clock as we sip water waiting for our treatment slot.

From left to right we are: Muggins, Bassie, John and Charles. We come in early as we all work full-time jobs. They are a cheery bunch, we have a good natter, and I always look forward to seeing them.

Bassie is a business consultant who helps start-ups write their business plans and secure finance. John, with his pleasant Irish brogue, is a security guard at a bank in Canary Wharf and Charles, or Chas, is a mechanic who has his own garage and a passion for MGBs. Both John and Chas are coming towards the end of their treatment. I’ll be sorry not to see them but interested to find who takes their place. Cancer, that most democratic of diseases, means I meet folks from all walks of life who I’d never normally come across. So who says cancer is all bad? Well me and everyone else who’s got it obviously, but more of that in a moment.

Way out

We are such creatures of habit. The early crew all sit in the same seats every day.  I face Chas, while Bassie sits to his right and John is positioned a few chairs away to my left. Controversially (such a rebel) I sat in a completely different seat on Friday and so for the first time noticed the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ sign that hangs at the back of the waiting room. What the hell is a Superficial Way Out? I don’t want some back of a fag packet way out, I want one that’s profound and sincere. Typical NHS can’t even fund proper exits.

Doughnut pain

In Radio Days (8) I mentioned the bladder discomfort I’d endured while inside the doughnut and was worried it might happen again. I managed to grab a few moments with Maria who looks after my treatment review and reassuringly, she thought my bladder might have been overly full or had some kind of spasm but was very unlikely to be a product of the treatment on the day. Her only concern was whether I felt fine after I’d had a pee. I did and so far, it hasn’t happened again.

Tough love

Reading posts on the Prostate Cancer UK Support Group I see many people suffer side-effects induced by hormone therapy. They talk about mood swings and heightened emotions with people fine one minute and crying the next.

I too am on hormone therapy, which has some unfortunate side-effects: hot flushes and disturbed sleep, but in general I feel happy and optimistic.

A month ago Mrs Preen called me out for being a bit moody. Being a man and therefore having no self-awareness, I resolved to monitor my temperament.

Long before I got cancer, but when I was having a right old moan (hey I’m 60), she’d call me an old goat. Tough love in the Preen household.

Today after reading posts about mood swings and irritable behaviour I asked her how I was doing and whether I was exhibiting more goat-like tendencies than usual.

First, she asked if I wept quietly when alone. I don’t. Then came this: I’m astonished how cheerful you seem and are greatly improved! All of which left me smiling, but bewildered. Cancer, whatever next?

Getting to the radiotherapy suite at St Thomas’ Hospital is easier if you enter by the car park and go in through a scummy lower ground floor entrance. Walking in, as I’m doing every day now, I pass a long line of smokers, probably mostly doctors. It looks like they’re queuing for a hospital they’ll need in about thirty or forty years. As the writer Kurt Vonnegut Jnr said: ‘Cigarettes are a classy way to commit suicide’.

All of which got me thinking about health. Prostate cancer is the first serious illness I’ve ever had and here’s the weird thing, so far it doesn’t demonstrate symptoms. OK, so I get some side effects from the hormone therapy and I feel achy at times, but that’s probably because I’m 64.

When I was first diagnosed a doctor friend said the best thing I could do was to keep fit and healthy and leave the rest up to the docs. In the year since my diagnosis, I’ve continued to work a full-time job, tried to eat right, go to the gym around three times a week and because we own a dog and not a car I get plenty of incidental exercise. Rusty insists on it. I have a suspicion that the exercise does as much for my head as my body.

While having radiotherapy I’m restricting myself to one cup of coffee and tea a day and no alcohol except on Fridays and Saturdays. But hey, we all make mistakes. Last night, I thought it would be a great idea to go to a jazz club and didn’t roll home till after midnight. Feeling a little tired today. And in case you’re wondering it is possible not to drink alcohol at a jazz club, though there are some states in the US where that’s illegal.

The Seattle Cancer Care Alliance has some excellent advice on diet and exercise.

Facebook Groups

I’ve recently joined two Facebook prostate cancer support groups. One is based in the US, the other in the UK. The members may be thousands of miles apart but often the posts are remarkably similar. There’s mordant dark humour, some despair, but good news too when the right test results come through. Inevitably people are very frightened when they are first diagnosed, I certainly was, hopefully these groups can provide not only information, but comfort too.

Advise is sought and given, but of course we’re not medical professionals; just people telling their stories and offering advice. As I’ve found while chatting with other patients, my story and my treatment differs radically from many others.

These are a broad generalisations, but people posting on the US group seem to question their treatment more frequently and are constantly in search of alternatives. Inevitably some are concerned about the cost of their treatment. Brits are anxious about the cost of hospital parking and tell their stories, in a funny, but sometimes heart-breaking way. There are many supportive wives and partners on board too, and thank goodness for that.

You’ll see from the picture above that I got some new medical supplies today. Suppose it must be some kind of Norwegian health food.

After having your breakfast, in my case coffee along with muesli topped with blueberries and yoghurt, what’s the question you’d least like to be asked? Well I suppose there are many possibilities but ‘Do you need an enema?’ has to be right up there. But that’s Rafiq for you, a no-nonsense radiographer at St Thomas’ Hospital, who doesn’t mince his words. He requires a Preen with no excrement in his bowels and that’s what he’s going to get.

It’s 830am and I’m at St Thomas’ Hospital, accompanied by Mrs Preen, and ready for my first blast of radiotherapy. For the treatment to be effective an empty bowel and a full bladder is required as this gets the prostate gland into the right position and apparently helps reduce side-effects.

Cancer doesn’t lend itself to whimsy, but I’ve been thinking about the Unwelcome Guest who’s been getting a good kicking from the hormone therapy treatment I’ve been enduring for almost a year. Now the little bastard is about to get an agricultural blast of the finest NHS Tomotherapy. ‘What fresh hell is this?’ I imagine the Guest thinking, hopefully giving him all the encouragement he needs to check out.

But enough of such whimsicality this is a serious day. You can sort of tell it’s serious because there is free chocolate everywhere. The cash strapped NHS doesn’t generally hand out treats to its patients, so I assume the deluge of Cadbury’s comes from some kindly charity.

Breaking news: no enema is required so I’m taken to sit with a bunch of old boys who are also waiting to be treated. I’m given 350ml’s of water to drink to swell my prostate to an appropriate size.

Forty-five minutes later Rafiq appears and leads me through to a changing room where I don a hospital gown. Helen and Hanna, also part of the radiography team, then show me into the treatment room where I’m confronted by the Doughnut of Doom or the Tomotherapy device as it’s more commonly known.

If you’ve read Radio Days (2) you will know I underwent a trial run, which involved me getting inked with three tattoos to enable the team to line me up correctly on the table. This process involves lasers focussing on the tattoo crosses and ensures the radio-beams are fired at the Guest and don’t damage too much healthy tissue.

Preen placement is achieved quickly with Helen telling me that first they scan my prostate to check my bowels are sufficiently void and my bladder sufficiently bloated and then, if all is well, the treatment begins.

So I’m lying there in the heart of the doughnut, I guess I’m the jam, keeping as still as I can with my hands folded across my chest. Thankfully bowels and bladder are in peak condition, so the treatment goes ahead with the whole process taking no more than 12 minutes.

The room is quite cold, presumably to keep both the machine and patient cool and unlike the MRI scanner, this one is mercifully quiet. There is a kind of high frequency rushing sound combined with a gentle knocking that reminded me of a wheelie suitcase being dragged across an uneven pavement.

The treatment causes no pain, but some side-effects may follow, with tiredness being the most likely. I’m out the door by 9.45.

This was ray-day one and I’m now to undergo a further 38 of these treatments every weekday until 7^th November. I’m quite interested to see how I progress and whether side-effects do manifest themselves. You’ll be hearing from me.