It took me a couple of days to really recover from the mask fitting debacle, and the thought of my impending radiotherapy was filling me with something bordering on dread. But the day was set – I was to start on the 15^th of Feb, and it would happen every weekday for 6 weeks straight, 30 sessions in total. Nothing I hadn’t done before, but having to do it all while completely blind, kind of made it a brand new experience. So while I was very keen to get started, I would be lying if I said there weren’t also some feelings of trepidation there.

We arrived for my first session on a Thursday, at about 1pm, and the receptionist with the kind voice buzzed me in to the corridor and so off we went, Dad holding open the door while Ma led me through it.

‘Jen!’ I heard as we turned into the radiotherapy corridor (RT from now on – touch typing ‘radiotherapy’ in full every time takes almost as much out of me as this unnecessarily long explanation has).
I recognised her voice immediately, though I hadn’t heard it in over a year (since I last had RT).
‘OMG, you found me!’ I exclaimed as we rushed together in a massive hug, that I can still feel the warmth of, even now.
It was my friend E, one of the beautiful UCLH staff who I feel so grateful to have an ongoing friendship with, after crossing paths once upon a time and then again. You might remember (though I wouldn’t expect you to) she made me the most beautiful Pirate Clarence card when I finished last time. It is still on display in my flat and I cherish it. We also both decided to dye our hair fun colours last time I was in – her purple, me blue.
She explained that she no longer worked down in the RT basement, but had moved over to the new building, the exciting one built specifically for Proton Beam Therapy, a newish targeted type of RT treatment, which I think is used mainly with children. I’ve been inside the building a couple of times for MRI scans and it is very fancy.
Anyway, E saw that I was in again, so she came over to give me the big familiar hug that she didn’t realise how much I needed. I had no idea how she knew I was even in again – you were all patiently waiting to be updated since this pesky case of blindness has made everything take longer, especially the task of touch-typing each post with the help of a little robot friend named Voiceover (catchy name, I know – I call her Delphi) who recites back to me every key I press. And gosh, have there been a few updates lately! She said a colleague asked her if she knew I was back in again, and she’d replied that she already knew and was planning to pop across to see me. It warmed every single part of my body and soul to think that there was an underground network of Jen friends at UCLH, all looking after me and letting each other know when they spotted I was in. It makes the prospect of the hospital being done with me an even sadder one. And although there have been a lot of stories of various people massively dropping the ball with me lately, UCLH has been a sort of home to me over the past 7 years, and many of my thoughts and feelings about the place and its many varying forms of inhabitants (and the connections formed within) are ones of love and joy. And being visited by E that afternoon was very much steeped in that. I could have cried with joy; in fact I probably did.

So after my beautiful reunion with E, I sauntered off to my designated Zapper, Linac C, with a new, rediscovered spring in my step. Those acts of kindness that we may sometimes wonder if we should do – if it’s worth it, if it’s too much – are always a good idea. We never know how much of an impact we can make to someone in just a few shared moments.

Before too long, I was called in, and Mum, Clarence and I got up and followed the radiographer in. I had my fully sequinned blazer on, of course. Never not making some sort of statement, and it is almost always time for sequins (except that I can’t actually wear it during the zapping itself, as it has a non-regulation collar).

‘Hey Jen,’ a kind Northern voice greeted me as I arrived. ‘Welcome back! Are we still going with Beatles music?’
My jaw dropped. How on earth had she remembered me at all, let alone what music I listened to last time I had RT? Once again, whether I nearly cried or actually did, I couldn’t say.

And so on went the Beatles, and we all sang along as they got me in place. Clarence danced and smiled away, and Ma stood nearby, and they asked me to recite my name, address and date of birth, as I had been asked many hundreds of times before. And that was when I started to unravel. I had taken my cursory Lorazepam (only one this time), but before I could finish saying all the things, I started crying and my voice broke up. I was hit by such a strong feeling of not wanting to do this. I wanted to be anywhere else, to be doing absolutely anything else. It is such an unhelpful thought, and one I don’t usually permit to hang out for long in my head. But when it creeps up on me in a place like that, I am a slave to it, and I broke down. The tears started falling as I apologised to the room.

L and P immediately stopped what they were doing and came over to me. They let me know it was completely fine. Mum put her hand on my leg, reminding me that I’m not doing any of this alone, and L started talking about the Beatles, telling me that she was from Liverpool herself. Aha, that was the accent! Then we chatted a bit and before long I was back to laughing again, surrounded by a group of friends. Then P gave me the small bit of information that would go on to help me over the next 6 weeks – even though it might feel like I’m trapped under my mask, clamped down to the bench and unable to move or escape, if I were to just sit up, it would immediately come away. It’s not actually holding me with any strength, despite what it might feel like as they loudly clunk the clips down around my head.
‘I mean, please don’t just sit up,’ he said quickly with a laugh. ‘But just so you know you could, if you needed to.’
I don’t think I could accurately communicate with him just how grateful I was for that information, or thank him quite enough. That little bit of kindness extended, that little nugget of information shared, made all the difference. I was ready. They clamped down the mask, the amount they had been instructed based on my fitting, and it was fine. I wasn’t in pain at all, like I had been for that scan, and they seemed happy with it. And so, with a final check in with me, and a little leg squeeze from Mum, they all said goodbye, cranked the music (I noticed that Help by The Beatles was playing…), and out they all went, leaving Clarence and me and the Zapper to our own devices.

It went smoothly. Around 10 minutes and three songs later (Yesterday, Twist and Shout, Here Comes the Sun), it was over, and they were coming back in to extract me – I’d done it! My first experience of having RT completely blind.  Now I just had to do it 29 times more…