In the hospital canteen, it looks to you like a man has died, without even finishing his coffee. He is not moving, and his head is thrown back, mouth open. No one pays him any attention.
We are beset with a thicket of appointments. First, Dr D. She says, how has upping the painkillers worked? You say, well, there's less pain, but I'm a zombie. I can't even keep up with the plotlines on Eastenders. She gives you a look which says - that
is serious. She suggests an alternative to the drug you are on, slower release. Over the coming days, you find that it works well, and you feel like you are back on the planet. Then, she takes your blood sample in preparation for the brief chemo session the next day.
At the chemo session, the nurse says, oh, I just need to take a blood sample. You say, hang on, I did that yesterday. She goes red, says, erm, it doesn't give us everything we need, and you think, well, what was the point of that then? So, they take your blood, send it for testing, wait for the results, then prescribe the drug - the evil Zoltar - you all know you're here for. There are no toxic drugs today, and you decide to think of this as positive, there will be no lost, hopeless, hellish week.
The ward is particularly grim, busy, packed. The man next to you, within four feet, is at deaths door, he looks and sounds it, practically smells it. Opposite you, where Bill once sat, is a chap younger than you, slumped in his chair, eyes continually scanning the room in search of an escape route. Often, his gaze rests on you for a minute, just as yours does on him, sizing you up, trying to work out how old you are. He looks like the stuffing has been knocked out of him. He looks like the man in the truck has run him over and got the spade out of the boot. The drugs dripping into his arm look very familar to you, Cisplatin, Pemetrexed, and you know what that means. His journey is your journey, maybe a month or two earlier. You are silent, solitary, companions, each unwilling to acknowledge the other. On the road from time to time you will look over your shoulder and see him, never speaking, his eyes fixed on you for any clue to his own future.
Around the room there are similar chairs with similar, older, people slumped, staring into the middle distance, resigned, not searching for a tunnel like your friend. In the corner, a man is unable to control his burping. This is not a nice place to be. Normally you can blank it out, retreat inside yourself. But today you can't ignore it, it seeps under and over your Englishness, your stoicism, and once that is breached there is nothing.
You have been on wards like this before, like when you were admitted after the first chemo session, they are becoming sadly familiar. There is something about the way the NHS does it, horrible lino, no separate rooms, curtains pulled around beds for private consultations that everyone can hear, reliant on us all pretending we are deaf. It is awful, all about money, not dignity. Here, writ large, is your future.
Later, that day, you attend a pre-radiotherapy session. The doctor says, we will need to do a CT, and you say, you can't use the results from a couple of weeks ago? In the end they do, adding some x-rays, and a tiny tattoo spot on your tummy.
The next day, at 8am, you return for the radio itself. They will target your hip, where there are "lesions" - you have never heard that word used in a positive context - which are contributing to your back pain. The chairs in the waiting room are a mean little joke, incredibly uncomfortable, and it is difficult to believe they are meant for cancer patients who so often have back pain. H, as always, is there, steadfast, by your side. She looks tired, careworn, and you think - she deserves better than this. Then, the nurse calls you in. She sits you down on the bed, says delicately, we'll need to loosen your trousers, pull them down a bit. You respond honestly - say, I've had so many procedures, you can't embarrass me, just do what you need to do. She smiles, connection established.
The radio machine is bought into view, as you lie, face up, legs slightly apart. For a second you are reminded of James Bond, the famous scene where Sean Connery says, do you expect me to talk? And Goldfinger replies, no Mr Bond, I expect you to die. Right now, given the choice between facing a Bond Villain wielding a big laser, and cancer, it's a no brainer - at least with one you'd have a fighting chance.
Then, almost before it's started, it's over. On the way out of the department, a sign reads - "There are currently 0 mins delay. We apologise for the delay", and you smile for the first time in days.
It is difficult to know how much the radio will help. Your body doesn't know what to do anymore, how to react. Painkillers constipate you, or make you feel you're not really there. Your thermostat is on the blink, so you shiver, or sweat, or both. Zoledronate makes you feel like you've got the flu. In your mouth is a metallic taste, but that's ok because mostly you don't want to eat. Nights are either fine, or not fine, broken by trips to the loo, or constant sweating, or eyes wide open at 1am. You can't climb the stairs, even at half pace, without wheezing, coughing. What is this thing? Incredible, the speed, scale, the power and
ambition of it.
Back in the restaurant, when it is all finally over, the man lets out a choke, then, head still back, starts to snore loudly, openly. Looking at him, you decide this is a good thing, as it requires no action from yourself.
