I’d heard the radiographers count down from three then tell me to relax dozens of times during the 15 sessions of radiotherapy that I’d already had.
I’d to hold my breath seven times during each session as the radiation was delivered (A very strange position to be in (Radiotherapy Part 1)). “3, 2, 1… and relax” was what the radiographers said through the intercom at the end of each hold to let me know I could start breathing normally again.
This time was different. It was Friday 26th February and it was a big day. It was my 16th and final radiotherapy session and it marked the end of the hospital-based phase of my breast cancer treatment. That’s why the radiographer guiding me through that session added “congratulations” after his final instruction to relax. Now for all I know they say that to everyone at the end of their last session. Regardless, I really appreciated the gesture. The moment deserved to be acknowledged. I’d been preparing for, having or recovering from treatment for seven months. Since last July, I’d had chemotherapy, major surgery involving a mastectomy, immediate breast reconstruction and axillary lymph node clearance, and finally, radiotherapy. Less than a month after I’d had surgery, my dad died. His funeral was in Glasgow on 1st February, I came back home to London on the 3rd and started radiotherapy on the 4th.
The day of that final session was an emotional one. I’d been in tears within seconds of waking up, from relief at having got to this point. I’d been expecting to burst into tears the second my last radiotherapy session was over but I was distracted by the radiographers chatting to me about how I felt the sessions had gone, asking about my plans for the rest of the day, getting me to sign the treatment completion form, warning me that the side effects from radiotherapy can continue to happen for another couple of weeks and giving me a leaflet about finishing treatment. My composure didn’t last long, though. I’d to have dressings reapplied to where my skin had reacted badly to the radiotherapy and I started to lose it as I walked from the radiotherapy suite over to the treatment room. Once inside, I sat down on the nearest chair and out it came. The tears only lasted a minute or two and I think I can be forgiven for feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the occasion. The radiography assistant who applied the dressings was very understanding. I guess they’re used to it.
There were more tears throughout the day when the enormity of what I’d gone through would hit me or I’d think of how different the day would have been if my dad had been around to share it.
I’m glad I waited a while to write this. I look back now and recall a lovely day. Cycling back from my appointment in the sunshine later that morning (Bike 8 – Car 7. Victory is mine.), I remember feeling immense gratitude towards everyone involved in my treatment. Just as I got back home I bumped into a neighbour I hadn’t seen for a while and we’d a bit of a chat. I got a massive hug from our cleaning lady. I had lunch with my tennis buddies, tea later in the afternoon with some good friends and lots of people got in touch to say congratulations. Andy, the boys and I finished the day off with our traditional celebratory family meal. You know the one (More good news)… lasagna, garlic bread and salad. This time the champagne was better than usual. We toasted ourselves and we toasted my dad.
In the end it was a day of huge relief and quiet celebration. It’s a day I won’t easily forget.