That’s it!

Thirty sessions of radiotherapy, done over almost seven weeks.

I’ve been in Jimmy’s daily since before the lockdown, Janet very kindly chauffeuring most days, initially through heavy morning traffic, but more recently along almost-empty roads.

It’s been interesting watching the hospital procedures change. There was scepticism from the staff at first, then a change of attitude. First, they spaced out the waiting areas and made everyone wash their hands, later they stopped patients having someone with them, before finally seeming to get some PPE as they started wearing gloves, aprons and surgical masks. Today they even offered me a mask (I refused as I’d managed to get all the way to the desk without breaking social distancing or touching anything but noticed that the receptionist hadn’t changed her gloves since handing other patients masks).

Unfortunately, after having my brain zapped for the final time, I didn’t get to ring the big bell they used to have on the wall (everyone in the waiting room would cheer!). They’ve taken it down due to the danger of cross contamination.

Neither could I keep my mask to bring home (also a cross contamination risk). There goes my idea for next Hallowe’en’s costume. Although maybe that’s a good thing. I imagine kids of a more delicate disposition may have been rather freaked out when I loomed out of the shadows wearing it.

I’ll miss the visits in a way. The radiotherapy staff were very kind and approachable. The Leeds Cancer Centre is the poshest bit of the NHS I’ve been to. The daily trip has given me a change of scene, especially during the lockdown. Sitting chatting with Janet on the way there and back has been special, too.

Now what? As always, we’ve been fixating on the treatment ending. But now it has, it’s not really the end. Now we wait again, this time to find out if it’s worked, which may take 2-3 months.

But, before that worry begins, tonight we are going to have a party! There’s champagne in the fridge, we have guests invited (over Zoom, don’t worry), I’ve been allowed to choose a cake for my family to make (black forest gateau – it’s looking amazing), the sun is shining, and I feel very hopeful.

Phew! Radiotherapy for this week is over, and no more seizures so far. Just got two more sessions of having my brain zapped to go: Tuesday and Wednesday next week.

Then it’s 2-6 weeks for my brain to recover – the cancerous cells to be flushed and the healthy cells to recover – and a further few more weeks before an MRI scan to see if the radiotherapy has worked at all.

Back, in other words, to the waiting part of “testing-treatment?-waiting” cycle we’ve gotten used to this past year and a half.

Although, to be realistic, even if it has worked, it’s only buying time. Still, I’ll take a the chance of a few more years of newly-bought time with my family and friends at the cost of a few months of brain-frying. And I’ll be happy to be free from daily visits to hospital while on lockdown.

Plus, I’ve been very fortunate with side-effects so far. Sure, I’ve been increasingly fatigued, lacking even the reduced energy levels left by brain surgery, lots of my hair has fallen out (and so I just shaved it all off), my short-term memory is horrendous (almost everything I do has moments of that “what did I come into this room for?” bemusement) and my scalp is dry and sunburnt. And I had one overnight hospital admission for a seizure.

But compared to the list of side-effects I was given at the start of treatment, that’s really not bad.

I feel happy.

It’s Easter, the sun is out, my family are all at home, and I’m in the final furlong.

I’ll take that right now.

There’s exactly one week to go until my next MRI scan, and, as much as I’ve tried to hold it off, the “scanxiety” is starting to kick in again.

The first gave the worst result (with so much growth and more brain surgery needed), the second the best (no growth; watch and wait), so it’s impossible to guess what this next scan might bring. As I was advised right at the beginning, I’m trying to both hope for the best but prepare for the worst.

Recovery has been so much slower this time but, apart from a single seizure a month ago, has generally been towards rehabilitation. I’ve gone from bed-bound, to wheelchair-bound, to two sticks, to one, and now none at all for short spells. And that physical recovery has been very heartening, and has kept me largely occupied. At times I even forget that there’s no realistic hope of remission. But then along comes a scan and the enormity of my diagnosis comes back into focus.

I’m trying to prepare, as much as one can, for bad news. And the worst of all bad news I might receive is really rather bad. I’d like to say that I’m facing it down but the most I can manage is more of a brief sideways glance. As it turns out, it’s a lot easier to be glib about death when it’s not hovering over you. Besides, what’s the point of dwelling on the inevitable?

Hope is easier. But, as I’ve learnt, it can be horribly fragile. Still, hopefulness is my default setting, so I think I shall retreat into blasé optimism for the coming week.

After all, what’s the worst that can happen?

Tomorrow I see Mr. Corns again.

Tomorrow I get my latest MRI scan results.

Tomorrow I discover what’s going on in my head.

Has my tumour remained resected? Has it grown back? Which element of my diagnosis has won out, the low grade which promises years more life, or the fast-growing nature of the tumour, which… doesn’t.

I went into the last such appointment feeling blasé. Everything I’d read had lead me to believe that I’d have years of “watch and wait” before my tumour had grown enough to require surgery again. My assumptions proved unfounded. So now I don’t dare to assume anything.

Now I feel nervous.

Now I dread tomorrow.

I dread shattering my kids’ newly regained complacency.

Not that there’s much point in this nervousness. Tomorrow will bring what it does. And we’ll deal with it.

But, god, I know what I’m hoping for…