Today I have what they euphemistically call my "Radiation Planning Meeting". It sounds so cosy and civilised, doesn't it? Please don't be taken in my it. We won't be sitting around a big table in a nice modern conference room, chatting about planning until they wheel in the coffee and biscuits after 45 minutes. Oh no chance. This is cancer treatment, there's very little that's nice about it.
Looks like I'll be stripped down to the waist like a huge lump of meat, then strapped onto a table which will then propel my body towards some futuristic green lights, and then it will be "ouch" "ouch" and "OUCH" several times while they make tattoo marks on my chest so that once radiotherapy gets underway in a couple of weeks, they have target practice marks so they know where to aim the rays.
Hello, I'm needle-phobic? Does cancer care? Oh no, it loves to have a laugh at my expense. Frightened to death? Absolutely, I am. The whole procedure sounds so clinically impersonal and inhumane.
WM doesn't know it yet, but he will be whisking me off straight afterwards for a mint hot chocolate and a very comfort-food cake, or maybe even several. That is, if I survive the next couple of hours. Wish me luck!
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