5. More Scans, More Answers

Just as things began to settle down a little, my back started to complain.

At first it was a little stiffness, then pain — the sort you try to ignore unless you’ve just had surgery for cancer. A conversation with the team in London quickly led to a decision: I needed to see them again earlier than planned.

That meant another scan. This time a PET scan, which involves an injection of radioactive “sugar” — an unsettling phrase that sounds deeply ominous. You lie very still while it lights up whatever shouldn’t be lighting up.

The results were not what we’d hoped for.

The cancer had made itself at home in my bones. A few vertebrae. The pelvis. The femur. It never rains, but it absolutely pours.

An MRI followed, and this at least brought some reassurance. Most of the affected areas weren’t causing any immediate problems. One spot, wedged awkwardly between a lower vertebra and a rib, explained the back pain. Uncomfortable, yes — but manageable.

For a short while it wasn’t clear whether I’d be allowed to go home. So, when they finally confirmed I could return at the end of the week, the relief was immense.

I would be home for Christmas. With my girls. Nothing else mattered quite as much as that.

Adjusting the Plan (Again)

The reality is I may have been living with this cancer for years. It’s slow growing — until it isn’t. Like the tumour in my face, it has a habit of long periods of quiet followed by sudden, unwelcome bursts of enthusiasm.

A meeting with the oncologist confirmed what the scans were already hinting at: this was a little more aggressive than first thought.

Of course it was.

The original seven-week course of radiotherapy has been revised down to four weeks, and chemotherapy added to the list — something to look forward to after I’ve recovered from radiation.

The radiotherapy itself will take the form of proton beam therapy, a more targeted approach designed to limit collateral damage. Fewer side effects, hopefully. Fewer unwanted surprises, ideally.

Treatment is set to begin on the 5th of January.

Another plan. Another adjustment. And, as ever, the only sensible option left: get on with it.

Getting Ready

Preparation for radiotherapy begins, apparently, with molten plastic.

A warm sheet is moulded directly to your face and left to harden into something that looks like a prop from a low-budget horror film. Once set, it becomes a mask designed to keep your head perfectly still.

Perfectly still, as it turns out, means bolted down.

I’ve had the pleasure of being strapped into this thing for a couple of planning scans. If you’ve ever had an MRI, imagine that — but with your shoulders pinned, your face immobilised, and absolutely no option to move even a millimetre.

It’s grim. Absolutely fucking grim.

Radiotherapy sessions are scheduled to last around forty minutes at a time, five days a week.

Forty minutes feels ambitious. Five days a week feels optimistic.

I cannot wait.