Hormone Therapy: Is there a good side-effect?

I’ve been undergoing hormone therapy for nearly a year and have just had another injection or implant. These last three months and stop hormone testosterone from reaching the prostate cancer cells. Unfortunately cancer relishes and grows on a diet of testosterone.

In previous blogs I’ve talked about the various downsides to this form of therapy, particularly the unpleasant side-effects. In a moment I want to talk about the possibility of an unexpected upside. But first let’s look at the sharp end of this treatment; specifically a bloody great needle.

A little prick

Those of a squeamish nature may want to look away now. The injection is delivered by a spring-loaded needle that shoots a slow release capsule into one’s abdomen. I’m not queasy about jabs but I tend not to look too closely as this medieval instrument of torture.

If the medical practitioner delivering the shot is skilful, it’s a moment of mild pain. If the skill level is one notch down, it does hurt a bit. If the doctor, and I use the term advisedly, has the chops of a butcher then the pain level is not inconsiderable.

My first injection was at Guy’s Cancer Clinic where a supremely skilled nurse popped it in, no problem. The nurse at my GP’s surgery is a little hit and miss and last time there was a fair bit of bruising. This time I was told a nurse was not available and a doctor was going to do the honours. Everyone knows doctors are useless at delivering jabs as they do it so infrequently and it’s a job best left to nurses who do it all the time. So I want to tell you that on this occasion I couldn’t have been more wrong, and the doctor delivered the injection in a professional pain free manner. I want to tell you that, but I can’t. For the first time I actually shouted out in agony. I can’t imagine what the other patients thought was going on.

Prostate cancer is tracked in various ways but the most common and widely used method is a PSA test that measures the total amount of prostate specific antigen (PSA) in your blood. It’s normal for a man to have a small amount of PSA, but a raised PSA level might indicate that further investigation is needed. When I was first diagnosed my PSA level was 5.03, which is relatively low and might not even indicate cancer. However, a physical examination and biopsy showed the Unwelcome Guest had set up shop.

Just a month after having my fist hormone injection my PSA was down to 2.61 and then six months later it was down further still to 0.8. So clearly the therapy is working and there is every expectation that when I have another PSA test in January of next year it will be even lower.

Last Friday Mrs Preen and I attended a radiotherapy treatment review session with Jenna the Urology Advanced Practitioner who we’ve met before. As ever she is excellent and a credit to the NHS. The bad news is she’s leaving to go work with one of the radiotherapy manufacturers, where I’m sure she’ll do a great job, get paid far more, but will be a great loss to our care service.

I have an appointment with my oncologist – still one of my least favourite sentences in the English language – in January. I asked whether, along with the PSA test, I’d have another MRI scan to take a closer look at the Unwelcome Guest, but Jenna said I won’t because there will be nothing to see, the cancer will have gone. I’m fully aware the Guest can make an unwelcome return, but I hadn’t appreciated that once the radiotherapy is complete, the current incumbent will have been booted out.

The docs then monitor my condition using a PSA test every three months until June and then every six months after that. If subsequent tests produce a similar result to that taken in January, then all is well. If the PSA level starts to rise, then that is a cause for concern.

I have another two years of hormone therapy in front of me and sure wouldn’t mind having my sentence reduced. Gabbing with one of the cancer crew in the waiting room, one of my fellow sufferers said some recent research indicated that 18 months hormone therapy might be sufficient. I put this to Jenna, who merely said I should ask the oncologist in January, but this got me thinking.

An unexpected upside?

Regular readers of the blog will know that despite having cancer I feel remarkably spry and chipper; I’m not depressed or downhearted. Some comment on how ‘brave’ I am and wonder how I continue to be so upbeat. Trust me I’m not brave and neither am I putting on a brave face. Most of the time I really do feel happy. If I didn’t I’d say so.

Here’s another thing: Whenever food is served in our house, Mrs Preen and the daughter laugh at me as I’m always the first to say how delicious it tastes. For the absence of doubt, we are both good cooks.

At the back end of last year when this whole cancer farrago kicked off and it was decided that instead of having my prostate removed I should go down the hormone and radiotherapy route the oncologist outlined its pros and cons and talked about the possible side-effects. She then made a throwaway remark, claiming one of her patients had once told her he’d never felt better than while on hormone therapy. At which I remember thinking at the time: yeah right pull the other one. Typical doc just trying to gee me up and make me feel better.

So here’s the inevitable question: Is the reason I’m feeling happy and content and food tastes so good a completely unexpected side-effect of hormone therapy? Am I enjoying some form of chemically induced euphoria which will come crashing down once the therapy finishes?


 

Radio Days (10): Half-time

Tomorrow the seasaw tips and I start on the second half of my radiotherapy treatment. Just 19 fractions to go and then the doughnut and I part company.

Many of my prostate pals have already done their time: Bassie and Chas have gone, and John has one session left. Unfortunately their places are quickly taken as prostate cancer seems all the rage these days.

The many new faces include Sir Alan, a transatlantic sailor and board-level businessman. He’s now in his 80s but sailed to the Caribbean and back when he was 65 and was messing about on his boat in the Solent last weekend.

As you can see from the picture I finally got one of the doughnut jockeys to take a snap of my insides. These are the screens they look at while I’m being nuked.

They take pictures of a series of slices through the abdomen. The white sections on either side are my hip bones and the central section is my prostate and bladder. I think the red circle indicates the prostate and the flattened orange circle is a lymph node. This has to be zapped as the cancer has set up camp there.

Lymph nodes and lymph vessels form a superhighway that allow fluids to be transported around the body. Unfortunately cancer likes to hitch a ride on this highway and uses it to spread, hence the need to take out this particular node.

Personally I don’t think I’ve ever looked lovelier than in the picture below, but the prostate shows clearly in blue. Just above that keen sailors will have spotted three tabs marked Pitch, Roll and Yaw, all rated at zero. So clearly the radio-waves I was surfacing barely ruffled the surface.

Prostate Cancer

If anyone has anything to add and can decode these pictures better than I, then please do so.

Cancer communication

Sometimes people talk about cancer in unhelpful ways. In newspapers a celebrity is said to be ‘battling cancer’ and if they die they’ll have ‘lost the fight’.

At times it’s suggested cancer can be beaten if only people try hard enough. I know why newspapers do this because it plays to the emotions, but it in no way reflects what it’s like to be a cancer sufferer. When people succumb to the disease, suggesting they’ve lost a fight or didn’t try hard enough to overcome it is odious.

My approach is to treat cancer with the contempt it deserves. I cycle to my hospital appointments and go to the gym twice a week ostensibly to keep healthy, but actually it’s my way of saying you’re not going to stop me living my life buster. Or else I just laugh at it and hope it feels ashamed of itself.

Of course I’m aware it may be the Unwelcome Guest who has the last laugh, but when a person dies, the cancer goes too. Deeply unsatisfactory for the host and presumably the Guest.

Radio Days (9): The early shift

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.

Radiotherapy
Early Morning Shift

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

St Thomas' Hospital

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?


 

Radio Days (8): Jim gets a bollocking

A bright beautiful autumn day sees me cycling down Albert Embankment, past MI6 and MI5 and then along by the Houses of Parliament where Big Ben is currently boxed in black scaffolding.

The turbid Thames is on my left and I’m thinking how lucky I am to live in the greatest city in the world when out of nowhere one of those huge junk trucks screams by me threatening to snuff out my stupid daydreams. Pay attention Jim and try to get to St Thoms’ in one piece. Locking my bike in the hospital car park I stride in.

The trouble with me is I’m nosey, I like to know what’s going on and I’m a bit pushy. So sitting in my gown waiting for the previous patient to complete his fraction, (This is what medics call individual treatments) I see the radiographers looking at computer screens which I assume show the luckless cancer sufferer’s prostate. Well this looks interesting and of course I want a look and as the team are a friendly bunch I walk over to take a dekko. This brings a sharp reaction, sit down Jim, you’re breaching patient confidentiality. Suitably rebuffed I back off before making my way to the doughnut.

For me this is fraction eleven and despite having decided that on balance I was going to have nothing to do with side effects, a few are kicking in. I need to pee several times a night, my bowel movements are, how to put this delicately, fluid and today during treatment such is my need to pee that it actually becomes painful. Now whether this is the product of nearly a dozen doses of RT or the result of the rays actually hitting my walnut sized prostate I’m not sure, but if it happens again I’m going to seek medical advice. Not nice, but still no signs of tiredness, though as I have more than 20 sessions to get through there’s still plenty of time for that.

Coming out of the RT suite I put my foot in it again. I thought you, dear reader, might be interested in what my RT team looks like when they’re at work, so I bust in like a walrus, whip out my trusty iPhone and take a snap. This is not well received, and I’m given strict instructions to delete it. Given these kind people are firing their ray guns at delicate portions of my anatomy I think I’ll comply. So as much as I’d like to show you my young and attractive team that pleasure is going to be denied. I think I’ve annoyed them enough today.

But I’m not done yet, I still want to see how they monitor the treatment so I’m hoping to persuade them to take a picture of their screens while I’m in the doughnut. Then I’ll stop being irritating, honestly I will…fat chance. 

Time chunks

When I was first diagnosed with PC, like everyone else I was scared, I didn’t know what it meant. Cancer packs a big punch, it’s the scariest bully in the medical playground, did I have weeks, months or years to live? Could it be cured, what treatment would I receive? Reading the Facebook Groups I mentioned last time I see that my experience exactly mirrors most others who get this vile disease. As time goes on you quickly learn, unless your diagnosis is particularly severe, that there are effective treatments and you may have many years ahead of you. Always bearing in mind that the Unwelcome Guest is a slippery bastard, an assassin in your midst, who can’t be trusted.

It’s not just your physical health that cancer messes with, it tends to trample on your mind too. Here’s what I do to keep my head in shape, it’s not the result of any professional counselling, but it works for me.

My treatment comes in chunks, first came the diagnosis then the start of hormone therapy and then a gap during which not much happened. That gap was the wonderful summer just gone, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Of course the threat of cancer was there in the back of my mind, but it wasn’t a constant scourge.

My RT comes to an end at the beginning of November and after that there’s another time chunk until the appointment with my oncologist in January of next year. So from November, through Christmas I’ll enjoy myself and not get too stressed. Of course stress will start to emerge just prior to my appointment, fearing the result of the inevitable PSA test, but I’ll leave that to another day.

The trick is to live in the moment, enjoy the here and now, and don’t get too stressed about the long-term. I’m 64 now, so thinking long-term is for the birds anyway.

Having just re-read the above I see  it comes across as obvious hippy bollocks, but It’s true for all that, so I’m going to let it stand.


 

Radio Days (7): Breakdown

Don’t worry it’s the machine not me. Mrs Preen and I walk into St Thom’s at 8.30 sharp for my Treatment Review and it’s clear something is up. Apparently, when the first radiographer arrived at 7.30 to crank up the Tomotherapy do-dat, the machine was having no part of it and refused to be cranked. More of this in a moment.

My Treatment Review is with Maggie whose beat is normally at Guy’s Cancer Centre, but she is filling in for Jenna who assiduous readers will recall from Radio Days (1).

As mentioned last time, this is not to see if the treatment is working but to check how I’m doing and whether I’m experiencing debilitating side effects. I tell her, I’m fine but do have to get up to go to the loo a couple of times a night and no longer pee with the intensity of Niagara Falls. But hey if this is what it takes to eject the Unwelcome Guest, then call me satisfied. Maggie is content with my progress, so Mrs Preen and I amble back to the waiting room to discover there’s going to be a lot of it, waiting that is.

With the Tomotherapy machine on the blink, we sit expectantly for the engineer to arrive from Guy’s to jack it up and give the thing a new set of points and plugs. News starts to filter through: The engineer is on his way (hurray!), but he’s stuck in traffic (Nooo!) and then I see a bloke who might be the engineer, though to be fair he looks more like an electrician. Are you the engineer? I ask, no I’m an electrician he says and shows me his mulitmeter.

I turn to Orla, a chatty Irish colleen and ace radiographer, who explains the RT machine detests being powered down completely, but a mains outage has done just that. The machine is furious and will not tolerate being treated in this cavalier manner. Questions circulate: Has the electrician got his little pack of fuse wire with him? Has anyone used fuse wire since the 1970s? So many questions but still no engineer.

We hear a faint rumbling noise: Power is restored! But the machine is still in a strop. Bits of equipment are trundled by and then suddenly a man with a laptop computer appears. It’s the engineer, he is amongst us. Tenderly, he brings the machine’s system back up, it is placated and consents to start lasering the waiting patients, who have been waiting patiently. Finally it’s my turn, I’m irradiated fit to bust and I’m on my way out at just after one o’clock. This is the first road block in an otherwise seamless treatment schedule. And now I get the weekend off and maybe a couple of glasses of wine to boot. Life is sweet.


 

Radio Days (6): Radio Regime

The picture shows the writer about to be posted into the doughnut of doom for his daily dose of Tomotherapy at St Thom’s in London.

I thought a blog describing the process I’m go through every day during my radiotherapy treatment might be of interest to three different audiences:

  1. Those who are about to undergo it and don’t know what to expect
  2. Me, for when I’ve forgotten all about it six months down the track
  3. The idly curious and medical procedure fanatics

I attend the hospital about an hour ahead of my appointment and pop my list of appointments into a plastic holder just outside the treatment room where they are retrieved by one of the team. With my bowels flushed either naturally or chemically, I sit waiting until a radiographer tells me to ‘start drinking’.

Hopping nimbly to the water fountain I fill up a jug with the requisite 350ml and drink thirstily. There is now a gap of about 45 minutes while the water makes its inexorable journey to my bladder swelling the prostate into a target that can’t be missed.

Times up and I’m told to get changed into the fetching gown you can see in the picture. I sit outside the room where the RT machine lurks making small talk with the team until the previous patient is done and dusted.

The change-over is generally quick and I go in. The bed is adjusted to my height and I lie down on a small blue mat which they use to hoick me into position. Every day, at this point I’m asked for my date of birth and the first line of my address. I’m considering having this tattooed on my chest.

With Jim positioned correctly, a button is hit and I glide into the machine’s embrace. First, they scan my prostate to check for empty bowels and full bladder. There is a thunk of compressed air, nothing to do with me, and the scanning process gets under way. Once complete the table slides out and I wait while (I assume) they check they are happy for the treatment to go ahead. If all is well I slide back into the doughnut, there is a rattling sound and their ray guns let loose on my unsuspecting prostate. THIS DOES NOT HURT.

During treatment, there is a constant high frequency rushing sound combined with a rattle that I’ve described before as a wheelie suitcase being dragged across cobbles. I like to imagine it’s me going on holiday.

Treatment complete, the noise stops, and I glide out and jump off the table. Taken together, the scan and treatment take just over ten minutes.

I’m given back my appointments sheet, occasionally times change, after that I wave goodbye to my trusty band of radio-ladies (all female team today) and make my way to the Boris Bike stand and cycle away, ready for another day.

Tomorrow I have a Treatment Review which will also see Mrs Preen in attendance. This is not to see whether the treatment is working but rather to discuss any side-effects I might be facing. None so far, so it might be a short conversation.


Fit for the course

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.


 

Radio Days (5): Motion

Apologies, but once again this blog is heading straight to the toilet. In fact thinking about it, it’s probably best read with the Benny Hill theme tune playing in the background. Not familiar with Benny Hill or his theme? Then click here.

If you’ve read the previous story, Radio Days (4), then you’ll know that when placed into the radiotherapy doughnut, one’s bowels must be empty and one’s bladder must be tightly packed with 350ml of water. I gather the amount of water varies from patient to patient.

Rafiq, my go-to radiographer, told me that to help this process I should self-administer an enema at home prior to visiting the hospital. I’ve done this before during my treatment and they always seemed to take forever to work. So I decided to, for want of a better phrase, shove it where the sun don’t shine, and then bicycle to the hospital, which is only 15 minutes away.

I’m about 10 minutes into the ride when it becomes immediately apparent, that this enema is one of the quick acting kind, and I need to go to the bathroom now, right now, or preferably sooner. I’m Desperate Dan.

Being past the halfway mark it’s too late to turn back, so the only option is to ride like the clappers to St Thomas’. To pedestrians and drivers my Boris Bike becomes a blur, I’m in motion. I overtake a number 77 bus and veer in front of a taxi and get screamed for my trouble. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Plunging the bike into its stand, with my pants still unsoiled, I charge headlong into a hospital toilet and make it in the nick of time. You can stop playing the Benny Hill theme tune now.

Catching my breath in the waiting room prior to my treatment, I chatted with fellow patients who have Unwelcome Guests of their own. Both the presence of cancer and its treatment affects people in many ways. One fellow sufferer was clearly on edge and nervous, blurting out all his feelings to me, a complete stranger. Suddenly realising this might be inappropriate, he apologised. Of course I’m only too happy to chat and said so.

Like me, he’s on hormone therapy, though his course is a great deal shorter than mine. Inevitably we talked side-effects and he claims it’s impaired his thinking as he constantly forgets things. This is a side-effect I wasn’t aware of, and I’m pretty sure my brain is no more scrambled that it was a year ago when I started out on the hormone rollercoaster.

We all have to drink between two and three litres of water a day to help maintain the healthy tissue that might suffer a radiotherapy blast. This causes some complaining, with one older gentleman saying that drinking so much water is making him feel ill. I’m no doctor but I’m guessing the combo of cancer, hormone and radio therapy is more likely to make you feel rubbish than guzzling a drop of H2O. He did moan a lot, perhaps his wife is waterboarding him.

Treatment three complete and as I’m leaving Rafiq and Hodma tell me I won’t be seeing them again as Hodma is having time off and Rafiq is moving back to Guy’s Cancer Centre. Rafiq is a football fanatic, supports Liverpool, but is a steward at Stamford Bridge where he keeps Chelsea fans and their visitors apart. He’s a bit worried about their next fixture, the Cardiff game. I’ll miss both of them.

So far, no apparent side-effects for me from the radiotherapy, but watch this space.


 

Radio Days (4): First Blast

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 7th November. I’m quite interested to see how I progress and whether side-effects do manifest themselves. You’ll be hearing from me.


 

Radio Days (3): It all kicks off tomorrow

My course of radiotherapy starts tomorrow, and I can’t deny I’m approaching it with a degree of trepidation. My birthday falls right at the beginning of September and kind friends and family have made the celebrations to mark my 64th trip around the sun last a full week, but these must now draw to a close.

My treatment takes place at St Thomas’ Hospital which was unexpected as all my previous consultations, scans and tests have been at Guy’s.

Coincidentally, we have a family friend who is a senior medic at St Thomas’ and she has given me two excellent pieces of advice which I’ll do my best to follow.

First up, I am being treated by the NHS and as marvellous as it is, there will inevitably be delays and days when I’m kept waiting around, perhaps for hours. Her advice: Accept this as an inevitability, take a book and don’t stress. I’m continuing working while being treated but making meetings on time or making meetings at all could be tricky.

It’s likely I will get side-effects from the treatment, some of which may be unpleasant, but all being well these will be temporary. Her advice: Acknowledge this and take it in your stride; it won’t last forever.

Years ago, I was a journalist and inevitably got into some scrapes; postings in Sarajevo, Mogadishu and DR Congo spring to mind. I was never remotely brave but if I knew we were going on a potentially dangerous assignment I always wanted to get on with it so as to leave it behind as soon as possible. Rather what I’m feeling right now; let’s do this thing.


A blog well worth looking at is Dan’s Journey Through Prostate Cancer. He was diagnosed in November 2010 and has kept a very informative an enquiring blog ever since. His writing is now a fantastic resource which contains a huge amount of technical and informative information.

Taken almost at random here he is on relationships:

When you tell someone that you have cancer, be ready for the relationship to change, most often in a direction that you didn’t anticipate. Some of those closest to me couldn’t handle the news and were the ones I could least depend on for emotional support, while some who were mere acquaintances prior to the diagnosis became my rocks.

I learned that I had to be the strong one in the relationship, even when I didn’t necessarily want to be. I also learned that I had to set the tone on how and when to talk about–shhhh–cancer. My approach was to talk about it openly, honestly, and with humor. I had to make fun of this somehow.