Radiation 3

Exactly 7 months since my 48th birthday, I take myself to the Mater Hospital for the last day of my radiation treatment.

It is a beautiful day and, as I navigate the Willpower Mobile through the traffic, I have the windows down and enjoy the feel of a cool breeze through the fine cover of follicles sprouting on my pate.

I think: "It's great to be alive." And I talk to George. I have been doing that a bit lately because I'd like to believe he is still around, watching over all of us, especially Ethel and Al.

"Can you believe it?" I ask George. "Where have the last five weeks gone."

All in all, I seem to have weathered things nicely. The area over my scar is a deep pink colour and the nurses have said it may yet fester a few days after today. But I don't think so.

There is nothing unusual about the visit to radiation services. I park the car and, because I'm a little early, I mosey on down to the coffee shop under the hospital to get myself a coffee.

You wouldn't know it was my last day. It's the usual: check-in, chat, strip, chat, zap, chat, change, chat, out the door. Except when I leave, I shake the hand of Adam, the radiation therapist who has been at nearly all my treatments. I thank him and the other therapist.

Through the last few weeks I've picked up a bit of information about the process. Here are some gum nuts I have picked up: You can be radiated for weeks and weeks quite safely, because it all depends on the dose. You need a Bachelor of Radiation Therapy which you can do at QUT. They radiate for all cancers including leukaemia and can do your whole body at once if need be. The numbers they call out are calibrations to help them gauge the depth at which the rays enter your skin. It doesn't hurt when you're radiated - even if the skin is burned. The room is initially darkened so they can see the laser lights one the ceiling that help them guide the calibrations. Only in rare cases will people need to go through radiation twice.

From the man at the front counter, I also learned that some people they treat actually don't make it. Well, that bit's a downer.

As I leave the radiation room, Adam says I can dump the gown they have given me if I like or I can take it home. I choose to bring it home as I plan to have a ceremonial burning - something to put all of this behind me.

But I can't go home yet as I have to wait a few minutes to see Dr Cox and my nurse, Esther.

While I sit in the waiting room, I think about all the side effects I've been left with. Unfortunately, I believe most of these are permanent:

Firstly, I have vision changes, especially at long distances, things look much blurrier so I suspect I'll need to have the prescription for my glasses changed.

Secondly, I have pains in the joints of my feet. It is painful to walk first thing in the morning. I also have pains in my knees that I only notice when I jog, but not when I sprint. Also I seem to be cramping up a lot, especially if I had been sitting still for a while.

The allergies I had grown out of once upon a time are now quite chronic. Dust, mould, cat hair. So alas, I think I'll be keeping up my stash of antihistamines - but I hope this is for the short term.

My fingernails are like paper but I hope they will strengthen over time. They had six white lines across them which are slowly growing out. Each line, apparently, represents a dose of chemo which killed cell growth.

I imagine when my hair grows back it will have a different texture and also, it will be thinner.

As well, I have a persistent cough that I've had since I went to hospital. That's why I also have an appointment this afternoon with Dr Choo.

After my meeting with Dr Cox, I give her a hug. This is also a side effect of this cancer: I have become a hugger! Who knew.

The way I see it, life is too short to withhold your affection, to restrain yourself from such displays. Give love freely, I say. It's no use to you when you're six foot under.

As I leave Radiation Oncology Services for the last time, I realise the sky is a pristine blue, the sun is out. I really am very happy to still be alive.

I have a couple of hours in between meetings so I confess that I drive to West End without any real plan. I chance upon an Adventure-Trekking shop and go and blow some cash on a piece of luggage I want for my upcoming trip. I even sweet talk the salesman into giving me a 20% discount.

I get to Dr Choo's in good time and have to wait a whole hour before I get to see her. While I sit, I think about all the people who have helped me through this battle so far.

The experts are now finding that cancer patients go through some emotional turmoil once their treatments end.

During treatment, ordinary women who may often be unappreciated slaves at home are suddenly the centre of attention. People, professionals, strangers are caring about them, asking them how they feel and actually taking note of their answers. For most of us, this is a strange place to be. And you get used to it. It is someone's job to care about you. People listen to you talking about yourself, your aches, your pains, your fears.

Then all at once, there you are, your car keys in your hand, blinking in the sunlight and on your way, alone - possibly never to meet some of these doctors and nurses and therapists and receptionists ever again. You're back to being a schmo where most people don't get past 'How are you' and then, in my experience, you have to make it about THEM or you have no conversation. Most people are like this I find: lacking curiosity, one way talkers.

When I arrive at Greenslopes Hospital, I must walk past the Cyril Gilbert Centre and am strangely unaffected. It seems I have overwritten the bad memories.

It's lovely to see Dr Choo again and as I walk in, she laughs and says she's had good updates on my progress via Lee.

When I explain that I've come to see her about my cough, she expresses surprise that it's hung around for so long.

She pulls out her prescription book and tells me she's going to give me a steroidal spray for what she thinks is post-viral irritation of the airways.

Then she pulls out the forms I know too well - for blood tests. My heart sinks.

"I don't need a blood test, do I?"

Dr Choo explains that she has had several patients presenting with adult whooping cough, would you believe, so she wants to check me for pertussis.

Also, I'm to be checked for my white blood cell count, oestrogen & progesterone levels so she can determine whether I am truly post-menopausal now, and amongst other things, I'm to be checked for cancer markers.

As well, she's sending me for a chest X-ray to exclude metatastic disease and a bone density test. Hmmm.

Dr Choo tells me she is putting me on Arimidex and produces a booklet from her bookshelf.

From this I learn Arimidex is a hormonal therapy that is called an "aromatase inhibitor". In other words, it will reduce the amount of oestrogen in my body even further.

The common side effects include joint pain - that I can control through exercise (you beauty!) and fish oil - and loss of bone density so I must be religious about calcium supplements. From the booklet I learn that it can also cause upset stomach, lack of energy, thinning of hair, and headache. Fabulous.

I am to start taking this tablet after the weekend. I must take it at the same time every day ... for the next five years. Yes, I said FIVE years.

I can miss the odd one but it would be a worry if I missed, say, three in a row.

Since I finished chemo I haven't even taken a multivitamin. Now I am back to the world of pharmaceuticals. Yes, it's a bit depressing.

I am to check in with Dr Choo again in two weeks and after I say goodbye, I go down to the chemist on the ground floor and get my prescriptions filled.

The pharmacist is a pleasant Indian girl and she asks me if I've taken this medication before.

When I say no, she asks me if it's for breast cancer.

I say: "Yes, I'm worried about the side effects, but I suppose it's better than death."

I am grateful when the pharmacist explains that thousands of women take Arimidex and that to be considered "common", a side effect must affect one in 100 people.

She says: "It's all in the mind. Have a positive attitude and you might find you get no side effects."

I leave the hospital 2 hours after I arrive. It's peak hour traffic and a slow journey home - plenty of time to think.

So far so good. I've survived the rough seas and my ship has landed on a different shore.

I know life is a little different here but right now, I'm not entirely sure how. Chris has already told me that clarity about this will only really come much later in this journey.

Some people have already asked me if cancer has changed me. Physically of course it has. But I can't really be sure how it might have changed me in other ways although I am intuiting a little of it here and there.

Revelation doesn't come in one big flash. I am still piecing it together. The sliding door has opened and I suppose I'm on the other side. But it's all still pixellated. I am still deconstructed. At least I think I am.

When I return home, I leash up Spunky and go for a 5 km run. (My first in a couple of weeks!)

Al gets home and cooks a delicious meal of fresh salmon.

Afterwards he goes to his tennis night and I go for my weekly campaign meeting with Karen. Later the team pops over to Elysium for a quick drink. This is the last campaign meeting and we give ourselves a toast. We have done our best. That's all anyone can do. Win or lose, we have that to hang our hats on.

Karen and I work out that I first committed to helping her in July 2010. Oh my god! It's been such a long road and here we are today, probably best friends.

On Saturday, Al, me and Ben are going to Sydney and then to Adelaide - it's the holiday we didn't have over Christmas or Easter.

Next week will be the election - something I've worked toward for 21 months. Another big part of my life is ending. Who knows what will happen? Whether Karen will win or not?

I have finished the first part of my treatment. In two weeks, my blood test will tell Dr Choo what the result of my treatment has been. Whether the cancer is in remission or not?

For now, I'm crossing my fingers.

For now, I'm am still working out my new world.

I'll keep you posted.

Radiation 2

It's a lovely day, a brisk wind blowing with a nudge of autumn in the air.

Today I start the second week of radiation and can report that so far so good. Apart from feeling a little tired by the Friday, I have no skin irritation yet and no real discomfort to speak of.

I have found out that I am to have 24 shots in total so I'm counting down them off one by one: 6 down, 18 to go.

As my days are now organised around the time of my appointments, I have started a reasonable routine.

This morning Ethel and Al go to collect George's ashes while I go to the gym.

This is the fourth week of my mission to somehow regain something of the fit body I used to have.

The first three weeks, I was too embarrassed about my bald head so I wore a hat. But the last few days, I haven't been bothered. It's just too hot.


Today when I arrive I think to myself that, after literally decades of regular gym exercise, I don't think I've ever seen anyone who looked like they'd been through chemotherapy. (You could call it a Double-X Chromosome Chrome-Dome Free Zone, all in all.)

I wonder what the other gym goers think of me but really, I don't care.

Now that the swelling from the drugs has receded a bit, I am able to fit into some of my old sports bras. I just stuff Fake Nicky into the gap and off I go.

Last week, the prosthesis got really hot and sweaty while I was on the running machine, so I just took it out in disgust and popped it into the drinks holder.

Still, it's useful missing a breast because it creates a handy space in which to stick my iPhone. Sometimes I take my iPod but I have to watch out because it falls through the crevice and can end up in my crutch.

I am winging this business of getting back into exercise as my research into the subject of mastectomies, breast cancer and exercise has proved largely fruitless.

Women wanting to get a little bit of their strength and conditioning back generally rely on the information shared by other breast cancer sufferers, as there's not a huge amount of information out there about the 'dos' and 'don'ts'.

As it is, I try not to spend any more than one-hour in there as it's important not to over do it. Even I know that!

All that time, I assiduously avoid my reflection, other than to check whether the tits are even. (A loose prosthesis tends to misbehave, somewhat. Especially at golf - I've only played once so far - where it ended up under my chin!).

Six months ago I had a fairly flat stomach and now, I have a Buddha-esque paunch. It is a little sad but what can I do other than breathe in - 2-3-4 and breathe out 2-3-4 while attempting to maintain good form?

After the gym, I have been trying to do some writing but today things are a little different.

Today, Ethel and I go to my mum's for lunch with a good friend of my parents, John. He and his wife Dell have just returned from a big trip around Australia and, on their journey, I kid you not, he has telephoned every single week to check on my progress.

John actually gave the toast to my parents at my wedding. As a dear old pal of my dad's, I think he realises how close I am to my father. Dad has had many sleepless nights since I was diagnosed, and I know John really understands his distress.

I am really glad Ethel comes out with me. As you can imagine, she has had to make a huge adjustment in her life lately. She and I share one thing at the moment: we are both trying to create a new 'normal' in our lives.

When Ethel and I arrive, John and Dell and another couple, Richard and Ruth are there. I think it's good that I made the effort to go because John looks relieved. Ruth comments on my 'good colour'.

It's only now, I guess, I realise that there seems to be a stereotype of 'cancer sufferers'. I think people expect us to be kind of pale and wasted and sickly looking! Maybe a bit like Dr Evil after a couple of months on the water diet?

Indeed, many people seem to be surprised at the activity I am managing. Two weeks ago I even returned to being a soccer referree.

Physically, refereeing can be as hard or as mild as you want to make it. Some of the fatter ones will call a ball in or out from the other side of the field because they are too lazy to run. (I'm sure some would call the game from the change room if they could get away with it. We soccer girls call these ones "special". You know the ones?)

But importantly, it's a good brain exercise because it involves spatial awareness, observation and memory.

And it's good for my confidence, which, I have to admit has taken a bit of a knock in recent months.

The real test of that came last Friday when I had to attend a Youth Referees Seminar. There were 400 or so of us, mainly, well YOUTHS in an auditorium at Griffith University. And there I was with my bald head.

I wasn't as self-conscious as I thought I would be. However, at one point, I realised I kept trying to shift my prosthesis into a more comfortable spot. I fear, it was only later I realised it must have looked as if I was channelling my inner porn star.

So today at lunch, I am careful to keep my hands away from Fake Nicky and, instead, I enjoy the company and conversation.

Afterwards, I leave Mum and Dad's place with an Esky full of left overs for the family dinner. Score!

Ethel and I drive into South Brisbane but I'm in a bit of a lather. My appointment is at 2.55 pm and I don't allow enough time. I end up speeding a little as I think I'm running late. (I get every red light and there are ALWAYS roadworks on the M3).

At the Mater, I ask Ethel to park the car and sprint to the Radiation building. Virtually as soon as I sit down I am called in and as usual, everything happens quickly.

I know the routine like clockwork already: Strip, pause, chat, bed, chat, zap, chat, front counter, carpark, home!

We end up with a cruisy journey home with not much traffic. We pick up Harry from Capalaba and get home.

With no dinner to be prepared, I manage a short stroll with Spunky then settle down with a weak Scotch and soda.

Outside it is a cool, clear night with a crescent moon. In the bedroom I can hear Ben chuckling in his famous Scooby-Doo-esque way at something funny on Youtube. With Spunky at my feet, the world is otherwise quiet and still.

All in all, this is a great moment for breathing.

I for one, am not taking a minute of this thing called living for granted.

Radiation 1

Today Al and I go into South Brisbane for the start of my radiation treatment.

My appointment is at 12:40 pm so I opt to pass the morning as fruitfully as possible. I tell Al as it's a good 80-90 minute round trip into South Brisbane, if this business of driving back and forth is to be my/our lifestyle for the next five weeks, I need to work out a routine.

I'm not exactly nervous. I've been told the chief side effects of radiation are fatigue (the effects of which are mitigated for those who have already been through chemo) and very bad sunburn. I'm not particularly perturbed by the likelihood of either. I am managing my fatigue through regular exercise, and I have skin that doesn't easily burn. However, time will tell.

I do some ironing, I pay some bills. Before I know it it's time to drive in. I guess this is the thing about early afternoon appointments: they interrupt the flow of a day.

In the car, Al says he is happy to sit with me but I've been told it's relatively quick and easy, these treatments. The plan is that he'll go and distribute some flyers today after dropping me off.

It's a smooth ride in and, once I've hopped out of the car, I know I have to go downstairs and present to the desk there. While I'm there, I help myself to a free scarf, made by the Mater's volunteers. Who knew a mere triangle of material could be so useful!

Next, a lady called Ruth comes round the desk and gives me a quick run down of what to expect as she leads me to the waiting room. I have a dedicated nurse whose name is Trish I think, but she's away today. All of my treatments are to happen in Room 3. I am to moisturise the radiated area regularly, but not two hours before my treatment. Side effects will set in around two and a half weeks after I begin, so there's no need to panic that I seem to have come completely unprepared.

In the waiting room I make myself a cup of tea. I am distracted by an elderly gentleman who is putting the finishing pieces into a jigsaw puzzle that's laid out on a small table.

"You didn't do that all yourself did you?" I ask him.

"No," he says, "Some of these pieces have been placed in the wrong place."

"That's a relief," I say. "It would mean you've had to wait kind of a long time if you've managed to finish a jigsaw."

I am quietly amused when another older gentleman joins the fellow and, over the next 10 minutes or so, the two begin an earnest discussion about the tricks and traps of jigsaws and those pesky pieces you put in the wrong place. Actually, it's kind of cute. They really take this jigsaw business seriously!

I open my Kindle but before I can read a single word, I am called in. Jeez, that really was quick!

A nice looking boy called Adam leads me into a room where the light is muted. He tells me he's a radiologist and there are about eight of them so I shouldn't bother trying to remember his name.

Inside the room are three other young people and all of them are involved in the process that is my first radiation.

There's also the same kind of machine I was originally measured up in. Here's a picture of it:

As I am dressed in shorts and a top, I am allowed to forego the whole business of changing into a gown, and instead am given a towel. I basically whip my top off in front of these strangers while trying to protect Paris from peering eyes. Dear me. She would make a very sorry sight indeed if she were to flap loose.

I edge up to the machine and lie down while I'm covered with a white sheet. I am face up staring up at the machine with my arms behind me.

At every stage of the process, Adam carefully explains what's going on as I can't see a thing from this rather vulnerable position.

A mark is made on the tattoos on my scar, the scar is covered up, the team circles me like a bunch of crazed mathematicians, announcing a series of numbers: 18.2 from the right side, 19.2 from the left and so on.

My scar is covered with the gel strip, the making of which I described in an earlier blog.

I am told that they will leave the room and they'll be watching me so if I need them, I'm to wave an arm.

I will hear a buzzing noise. I can close my eyes if I like but I won't be able to see any light so it doesn't really matter.

"How long will this take?" I ask and am told it will take 5-10 minutes.

The team leave the room and so there I am, lying still on this machine. I hear a sort of loud clicking noise followed by a low hum, and watch as this large round formation of metal and glass first focusses on my right side.

It seems to take ages while all the time, I'm aware that it's bloody freezing because of the air conditioning.

The room is still - just me with this machine clicking and humming - but in the background somewhere, very softly, a radio is playing a tune I can't recognise.

Then the machine moves across me to the left hand side. It moves quietly but I can't help thinking that there's something deadly about it. The radiation it exudes is powerful enough to kill cancer cells, powerful enough to damage vital organs if incorrectly used. I try to project positive thoughts about being cancer free.

I close my eyes and breathe.

And then, suddenly, the team is back in the room. It's done in a snap it seems. All over red rover and barely five minutes I reckon.

Wow! That really was quick and I didn't feel a thing!

After signing my Medicare form, I go outside and telephone Al. I arrange to see him in half an hour while I go across the road to the Coffee Club to enjoy a bit of my book and a Flat White Extra Hot.

All the way home, I read my book.

After we get home, I go for a 6 km run. This will be a good way to see how well I travel through the next phase of this treatment.

I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Tally ho!

Radiation Oncologist 2

This morning Al drives me to South Brisbane where I have my planning meeting at Southern Radiation Oncology Services.

I had a deep but unfulfilling sleep last night and wake feeling very dizzy.

In the car, I realise I am exhausted and wonder how I am going to get through the rest of the day. I'm meeting my sisters later, for a movie, maybe lunch but I feel disoriented and I'm having difficulty keeping my eyes open.

We arrive on the dot and Al drops me off as there is no point him being there.

This place is to become very familiar to me over coming weeks and is located in a street where roadworks are in progress so it all looks a bit crazy.

People receiving treatment and their taxi services receive free parking as part of the deal so I suppose that is one good thing.

I present myself at the front counter and am directed downstairs to Level c where treatment facilities are located.

At another counter, I'm given some paperwork to fill in and ask the lady how long I'll be. To my dismay, she says 'one to two hours'.

I repeat "One to TWO HOURS!!" and she clarifies, "Just over an hour." Okay that's better.

Then I'm directed to the nurse named Bronwyn who obviously doesn't remember me (I'm just another bald head in the crowd) and says exactly the same thing she said last time: "Bronwyn, spelt the same... there aren't a lot of us around."

She's lovely and friendly and, to be honest, a little disheveled like a lot of these wonderful hard working nurses I meet. She is hard not to like.

I'm handed another form and dutifully go and sit in the waiting room. I make myself a cup of tea and fill in the paperwork. I've brought my Kindle so bury myself in Keith's life story.

About 40 minutes since I arrive, I am called in and am taken through a sliding door immediately abutting the waiting room. I have no idea what to expect.

There are two nurses who lead me through, an older one called 'Mary' and another whose name tag I can't read, but she's young and pretty.

They are friendly and engaging and lead me into a room where there's a huge machine. I'm told I'm to have a CT Scan, something I've never had before but I think Harry had one years ago when he had a bad infection.

The first thing they do is produce a small digital camera and they take a picture of me.

Next I have to undress. I'm wearing a dress which is the wrong thing to wear as the bit they need to scan, obviously, is my chest.

There's some argy bargy as I learn there are no changing rooms here so they just hold up a sheet while I disrobe and take of my bra. It really feels odd because I'm standing in a room with two strangers under an unforgiving neon light.

Part of the CT Machine is a bench on which is a white sheet. As I'll discover, the sheet assists the nurses in making the small adjustments they need in positioning you correctly.

I lie down and I have to say, it's really quite uncomfortable as my neck is arched over this hard bit and my bum is wedged against another hard bit to stop me sliding down.

I have to take off my gold necklace but can leave my gold earrings in.

All through the process, the nurses do a good job of telling me exactly what is happening, although I have to ask questions to find out why.

Once I am properly positioned, they go to either side of the machine and read out some measurements indicating, I suppose, where the geographical positioning of my torso.

As if by magic, my radiation oncologist, Dr Cox materialises. I give her a warm greeting but there's no small talk as a green marker is produced and I feel her making some marks on my chest. She draws a dotted line marking a parallelogram, ending with a flourish.

Just as quickly as she materialised, she dematerialises and then the younger nurse is placing a piece of clear plastic over the area. I'm told they are tracing the marking.

I ask why and it's explained that this provides a templated outline for some gel material that's to be fabricated and will be placed over that area so it matches the shape.

Then the nurses place stickers on the area, marking entry and exit points I guess.

There's a lull in the activity as we're waiting for this gel stuff it seems, so I ask Mary what the difference is between "radium" treatment and radiotherapy as I hear a lot of older cancer patients talk about this "radium".

While we wait, Mary explains that radium used to be the treatment they used in the old days. They were part of what was known as 'live materials' treatment involving either radium or cobalt. She says it used to be very laborious and time consuming for the ladies, especially when the substances were approaching the end of their half-lives. Interesting.

A few minutes later, the said gel material is brought in from a room I can't see - it's like magic, abracadabra! - and it's placed over the area that Dr Cox has marked out. Mary shows it to me and I see the shape is quite thin.

Now I'm ready to be scanned and the bench moves slowly under the white arch of the machine.

"You must work with some large women," I observe.

"Oh yes, and some big men. You're a lightweight by comparison," the younger nurse says.

"Has anyone ever got wedged here?" I joke and Mary says she did. We have a laugh over that one.

Now I'm all set and the two nurses leave the room, telling me not to move and that the procedure will only take a few second.

They're right. It does actually only take maybe one, maybe two minutes.

The bench I'm lying on moves slowly back and forth under the white semi-circle that arches over me. There's a kind of glass strip on the edge and it looks like little laser lights are chasing each other over this.

Unlike the MRI scanner, the machine is quiet.

"All done!" I hear as the nurses re-enter.

The last step in this process is that I am to be tattooed! Mary says I'll feel four pin pricks

"Can you tattoo a heart saying Mum?"

"No, I'm not that artistic," says Mary. "Now the first one will hurt the most because it's near your sternum."

She's not kidding! I feel four sharp jabs.

"I can't believe people put themselves through this on purpose." I say. "The only tattoo worth getting is the one you regret."

And so it is done. Another plastic drawing is made of the area and I can now get changed.

Soon I am speaking to Dr Cox in the waiting room (Yes, it's odd isn't it? She'd discussing my medical details in a public place.)

My first radiation zap will be on March 19th.

She goes through the kind of cancer I have (multi centric, lobular - she describes it as "the insidious kind")

She goes through all the side effects I can expect - in my case mainly skin irritation and fatigue.

At this point I receive one piece of good news. I thought I would be radiated from the front, but Dr Cox says she's going in from each side (sounds like a battle manoeuvre doesn't it?)

This means that my heart will not be affected.

Dr Cox also says that, as I have a small frame, the treatment will not be as toxic to me (a smaller area is involved) So you see, there's another good thing about being on the slimmer side.

Because I'm not that fat, it means she can get access to the area without affecting my ticker. It also means I don't get wedged in CT Scanners!

I ask her if it's likely I'll be able to undertake any sport during treatment and explain my desire to return to refereeing.

And now I get the second piece of good news. She strongly encourages me to get back to my normal routine as quickly as possible and, if that involves activity, all the better.

After Dr Cox, I am then lead into another room by a lady called Narelle who has to tee up my appointments. I have to pick a timeframe, rather than a specific time slot. The mornings are not available as they're left for ambulance, Gold Coast and other entries. So after some discussion, I choose the 12 noon to 3 pm time slot.

Keep in mind, I have to drive in EVERY day, for treatment that goes for 15 minutes and allowing some time for sitting around.

It's kind of depressing, the way this treatment will suck time. But I suppose, I am giving time so I can buy some time. That's one way of looking at things.

Now I'm all done! My sister, Nicky picks me up and we drive to the Dendy Cinema at Portside.

We have to wait for Fiona who has gone to the wrong cinema so we buy ourselves some groovy shoes that are on sale.

My sister Fiona joins us and we end up just going out to lunch. It's one of life's pleasures going out with my sisters. Really, we can talk about anything.

So by the end of the day I have pepped up because, at the back of my mind, I'm focusing on the positives.

My heart will not be affected! I can referee!

Really, how much better can it get?

Radiation Oncologist

Exactly four months since my initial diagnosis, with my rescued and nicely manicured wig in place (thanks to Maria and her sleight of hand), Al and I drive through a rainy Brisbane afternoon to meet my 'radiation oncologist' for the first time.

I've rescheduled this appointment no less than three times so I'm glad to finally be meeting her.

The Radiation Oncology Mater Center (ROMC) is directly opposite the Mater Mothers, and I can't help observing the juxtaposition of birth against a process generally associated with dying.

Located in a fairly old red-brick building, I present myself at the front counter and afterwards, go to sit in a virtually empty waiting room. I don't know how long this is going to take so look around for some reading material.

I am quietly amused to note the stack of novels on offer. Just how long do people have to wait here? A cursory inspection reveals that, thankfully, it's more a 'Mills and Boon' rather than a 'War and Peace' kind of waiting period. The tea urn, microwave and television also do not augur well, suggesting one should get comfortable.

It isn't too long though before I'm called in by Dr Judith Cox. She's older than I had imagined, a lady with a trendy short cut who immediately strikes me as being open, kind and friendly.

In what passes for her office, there's a little bit of a kerfuffle as we realise that several pieces of information are missing from my file and she's not 100% on the details of my case.

She doesn't know I've had a mastectomy, and then, I can't remember if I had one or two lumpectomies.

As we wait for the missing paperwork to be recovered, I launch directly into my pressing concern: whether I can wheedle my way out of radiation.

I talk about all my other friends with radiation, Kim who hasn't had chemo and I don't think she's had radiation either, Chrissy who didn't have radiation, Cathy who didn't have chemo, Mary who didn't have a mastectomy. Why do I have to have all four, including the hormone treatment? I'm going to have the other breast off. I'm pitching as hard as I can with Al also offering up any arguments he can.

You see, if I'm to have radiation, that will add weeks to my treatment.

But most vexingly, it will mean that I will have to wait six months until I can have a reconstruction and then, my options will be severely limited because of the extent of damage radiotherapy can do to your breast tissue.

The business of getting on with my life will be severely retarded.

As it is, initially, Dr Cox thinks I've only had one lumpectomy and she leads me to believe that perhaps radiation is unnecessary.

I can't believe my luck!

But when Dr Cox says she needs to see the results of all my procedures before she can provide a definitive answer, my hopes are quickly dashed.

I am interested in what the pathologist had to say about the results of my mastectomy: "The sections show residual classical lobular carcinoma in situ... There are three foci of residual invasive lobular carcinoma in this area measuring up to 2mm. There is extensive lobular carcinoma in situ throughout all quadrants of the breast. Further 2mm focus of invasive ovular carcinoma is present in the lower inner quadrant. The invasive and in situ carcinoma appear well clear of margins of excision. There is no lymphovascular invasion. There is no invasive ductal carcinoma identified. No lymph nodes are identified..."

To a layman, it would appear that surely, all is good? The margins are clear. The lymph nodes are not involved.

But Dr Cox is concerned about the occurrence of carcinoma in the inner quadrant which is the area closest to the sternum.

She produces a pen and starts writing in my file. She adds up the findings in the pathology report for each procedure I've had so far and it's close to five centimetres when she's finished.

I've already been through this with Dr Lambley so I'm not surprised.

Dr Cox says that my breasts are not particularly big (really!) which means the occurrence of carcinoma closer to the chest wall is a concern.

The verdict, alas, is that she strongly recommends radiotherapy. In fact, the look in her eye suggests I'd be a fool not to go through with it.

At this stage, it looks like five weeks with around 25 shots to be given in that period although this is still to be confirmed.

I ask her about side effects and she mentions skin changes in the treated area.

I ask her about fatigue and, apparently, if you've had chemotherapy, you won't notice any difference. (The fatigue can be chronic if you only have the radiation).

Dr Cox says I'll need to present next month for a 'planning meeting' and then, I'll commence radiation three weeks after my last chemo.

Apparently there is presently a 6-week wait for access to this service but I'll be sweet as I've come in to see her early enough so I'll be in the queue.

I can't say I'm excited. In fact, I feel as flat as, well, half my chest. It sucks.

That's five more weeks of being treated like a 'patient'. Five more weeks of hospitals. Twenty five more days of sitting in waiting rooms. An extra 50 hours minimum of travelling.

I know I should be grateful. Yesterday I spoke to Eddie who is doing some landscaping for us. He wanted to know about my bald head so I explained my situation.

Eddie used to be a bodybuilder. But he was also a smoker and you can tell from the raspy voice and the cough. (It's funny imagining him pushing weights and stopping in between sets for a drag on a Winfield Blue). Eddie had radiation and chemotherapy for both thyroid and pancreatic cancer he tells me. He received his treatment at the Atomic Research Centre in London. As a result of his chemo for thyroid cancer, the poor bugger lost all of his teeth. They fell out one by one. He was in his early 50s at the time.

He showed me his teeth and tapped them with a finger. "All false," he announced.

"Well, here you are live and kicking so I guess it's all worth it," I said.

"Yup," said Eddie. "I've got nothing to complain about."

"Yeah, we're really lucky, Eddie," I replied.

I'm lucky I have such great support - from medical staff, from family, from friends.

I'm lucky in so many ways.

Today my race simply got a little longer.

I'm just going to have to dig deeper for that second wind and hope like hell that when I cross the finishing line I won't be completely cactus.

What is there to do but buckle down.