A GREAT DAY: LAST WEEK I GOT MY HAIR CUT!!

On Tuesday evening last week I left work and, for the first time in months, headed for the hair salon where lovely Becky sees to my hair. Why was this a red letter day? Why was I celebrating? Because I had not seen her since just before I started chemotherapy. Because for seven long months there has not been enough hair to cut. Because this was a milestone.

Six and a half months ago, on the 15th August to be precise, I started chemotherapy. Clearly, hair loss was one of the side effects that was discussed. I have talked in previous posts about how it affected me, and about the delights (not!) of the ice cap. Some people choose to shave their heads early in the process. That is what Michael, the wig person (see previous post), told me to do. I decided I was sticking with my own hair for as long as I could get away with it, grey hairs and all. However, I bought the wig, a number of hats and scarves, in order to be prepared. None of them has ever been used.

I am not sure whether it was inverted vanity, lack of caring, or the fact that I really did keep a lot of hair, but I never covered it up. There was always enough that it could pass for very wispy hair and, despite not being me at all, I decided that was enough. Added to that, of course, I wasn't going out very much, but even when I did, there was a certain pride in having my own, albeit depleted and horribly out of condition, hair.

Chemotherapy over, I expected it to grow back immediately. HUH, is all I can say. Weeks later, there were still wispy strands all over my head. However, two weeks ago, when combing said wispy locks, I noticed how long they had grown. Investigating further, there appeared to be a substantial crop of tiny hairs beginning to grow underneath. I hesitated, cogitated, ruminated. Then I rang and booked an appointment.

And it worked. Becky was wonderful, telling me she was amazed at how much hair I had and that I should be back to a full head of hair in a couple of months. When she had finished, she brought the mirror for me to see the back of my head. I could hardly believe it. It was certainly very short, but hair there was, all over my head. I was thrilled.

And now? Well, I think it looks rather good, and I have had lots of compliments, so I am delighted with the result. I am also delighted with the fact that it is apparently growing back largely in my original colour. We shall see. In any case, I do not appear to have turned into a blonde!

Molly sends her love.

Today, I went to work in Slippers

Now, I never thought I would write that. It is, however, true. I may have mentioned that I have hurt my right foot. I'm not sure what I've done to it and, yes, I do know that I ought to see a doctor and get it sorted out, but, hey, I've got other things to do and it hasn't gone blue yet.

The pain comes and goes, and is largely manageable with a combination of Ibuprofen and Paracetomol. Until yesterday, there was one pair of shoes that I was able to squeeze into, albeit with some discomfort. Last night, however, I noticed a small lump/pimple/protuberance on the side of my foot. Hmm!

This morning, it was still there. It was no worse, it was no more painful, but it was there. 'Never mind' I thought, 'if it is infective, it should now start to get better'. I got dressed, prepared for work, sorted out my handbag, packed my lunch, all with my slippers on. Came the moment to change into shoes. My foot had other ideas.

Faced with a foot that resolutely refused to be squeezed into the shoe, I faced a dilemma. I could hobble perfectly well in slippers, but I could not move in a shoe. What to do? The only choices seemed to be me in slippers or no me at all. It seemed to me a no-brainer. I had back to back meetings. I gathered my stuff, said goodbye to Molly Cat and set off for work in my slippers.

I was surprised to discover that driving in slippers is really quite uncomfortable. They are too thin and do not give you enough purchase. However, I got there without mishap. Feeling very self-conscious, I headed for the door, and was joined by a colleague and friend. I immediately explained that I did not normally come to work in slippers. She said she would not have noticed and enquired further. Understanding that I was not sure if there was a broken bone there (it has been going on for over a week) and that I could not get into shoes, she was outraged. Why was I there, she demanded? Had I learned nothing? Why was I not looking after myself? I pleaded meetings, feeling rather foolish, and followed her into the building.

Our new offices are lovely, but they are open plan and I do not warrant my own desk, so I have to hot desk. I was looking for a suitable place to perch when the aforementioned colleague and friend called me over:
 "Come and sit next to me" she said.
"But that's not a Hot Desk" I replied.
"No, but she won't be in. You might as well".
I acquiesced, and walked across, enquiring as to the reason for our absent colleague. There was a rather smug look on her face as my friend and colleague replied:
"She has a broken bone in her foot. She's been signed off for four weeks to make sure she rests it properly".

Ouch. Well, I'm resting it in the evenings! And I will go to the doctor if it's no better by the weekend. Probably.

Computer Problems

This morning, I woke to find that Molly had turned off the computer again. At least, I assume it was Molly. Otherwise, I have a poltergeist.  Fact: when I went to bed the computer was working properly. Fact: when I woke up and tried to log in to my emails on my iPad, there was no WiFi. Fact: I came through to the study and the main switch to all the computer gadgets was off. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS POST - I AM NOT MAD.  I switched it on and returned to bed. The Wifi connected, but the internet did not. I decided to abandon it for an hour.

Later, bathed, breakfasted and calm, I returned to the study. The internet would not work. I turned things on and off (I am told this is what to do). I smiled at it. I swore at it. I closed everything down and woke it all up again. Still, the WiFi was, apparently, connected, but I could not get on to the internet. My calm was shattered. I was past irritation.

I stared at the Safari page trying to load my blog. It would not do it. In a whim (no more than that, honestly, I had no idea of what I was doing) I hit the Yahoo button at the top. The computer smiled and connected. There was grinding of teeth. Clearly, for some reason I wot not of, the blog website was blocking everything. I had no idea this could happen.

So, I am now back in business, but I do not understand what happened. There must be many more like me out there, struggling to understand why something that should be simple is not. Is there somewhere I can go to learn this stuff?

Molly Cat is Pleased to See Me

This week, I had to spend three nights away from home. I left here at 1200 on Monday, and did not get back until early evening yesterday. Naturally, I was deeply concerned about Molly. I spent hours agonising over whether the Cattery or intermittent home visits were to be preferred, and eventually plumped for staying at home. The logistics were awesomely complicated, involving teams of individuals coming and going. My cleaner came three times a day (7, 11 and 6), my PA dropped in, friends were coerced into visits. Nevertheless, she was alone each night.

I fretted. The first night I barely slept. Nightmare scenarios kept presenting themselves. Each time I started to fall asleep, I thought I could hear her wailing and jerked awake. I could hardly wait until it was time to text my cleaner. Molly, you will not be surprised to hear, was fine. I calmed down a bit. Anyway, work was so intense that I had no time to worry, and I was so exhausted that I did sleep after that. Daily texts and phone calls kept me apprised of her health and wellbeing. Everybody at the Centre I was attending knew all the details. Each morning I was greeted with "How's Molly?" from a number of different people.

Yesterday, I came home. I was extremely fortunate, in that they let me go a little early (people are so KIND - they kept checking if I was alright - and it was nothing to do with Molly), so I arrived home soon after five. I turned the key in the lock and eased the door open, dragging case and handbag behind me. As I stepped into the hallway, there was Molly not, as usual, in her hammock, but standing in the middle of the hall. She stared at me. Did I discern a moment of disbelief? (Of course not - poetic/author/blogger licence). Then I was through the door and it was safely closed behind me. I reached for her. To my amazement, she let me pick her up. We had a lovely cuddle for at least five minutes. This is very unusual.

The evening was strange and lovely and comforting. She was clearly unsettled and rather miffed. However, she would not let me out of her sight. She wandered round me, her eyes fixed on me, but would only rarely get close enough for me to pet her, and that usually turned into her biting/scratching me. We repaired to bed early, very early. I watched a little television. She circled me, sometimes coming in to be stroked. She brought toys. We played. Eventually, I switched off the light and snuggled down to sleep. This is normally the time when she disappears to any one of the many sleeping places she has. Not last night. As soon as I was settled, she came and lay on my feet, and she did not move all night.

And today? She has barely let me out of her sight. Bless her. I think she missed me. She certainly wants to be part of this blog!!

I'm Bored of being Ill

I got cancer. Back in June 2013, I faced the diagnosis and decided I could cope. The surgery was scary, but soon over. The chemotherapy was hard, but there was a sense of achievement at not succumbing to it. I may have felt like an exhausted pin cushion, but I was still standing and laughing. It took a rather disappointing length of time to recover from that, and I was much more tired over Christmas than I expected, but I was still able to entertain others and to enjoy myself. I was pleased with the meals I served up. Came 2014, and I started radiotherapy:  a doddle by comparison, but still very tiring.  Nevertheless, there was comfort in seeing the radiotherapist every day. Then it was over.

Suddenly, I was on my own. There are still appointments to go to, but they are few and far between. 'Let us know if anything worries you' they said. And they sent me home, and back to work. So I grinned, gritted my teeth, and went back to work. And promptly fell ill. Where I had carefully protected myself from infection throughout the last four months, suddenly I was prey to every germ going. Rapidly, I developed a minor sore throat: nothing that would normally have bothered me. The cold that followed can only be described as minor in the extreme. It wiped me out. I spent three days almost unable to get out of bed. Three weeks later, I am still coughing and sneezing. Huh!

Then there are the muscle pains. At least, I assume that is what they are. My entire right side hurts; every muscle is sore; my leg aches. And now I have hurt my foot. Don't ask - it's a boring story. Suffice it to say that the foot feels as if it has gone through a mangle. I hobble about, feeling rather sorry for myself. Everything feels like rather too much trouble.

So, I'm sorry, but I'm bored of being ill. I want to get back to normal. I want to be able to do the things I did before. But, as I was told as a child, I want doesn't get. So, I try to possess my soul in patience and pray for acceptance. In the meantime, I'm dieting, and trying to exercise, and re-learning how to use make-up, and planning a party, and planning holidays. Oh no, I'm not giving up yet. Did you think I would? Surely not? What would Molly say?

Why Does My Cat Hide Behind My Computer?

Molly Cat is a character. She does what she likes, when she likes. She seems to think that my hands are a mix of scratching posts and biting points. I am sore! However, she has recently developed another quirk: she likes to disappear behind my computer screen, curl up there and snore loudly. I continue working. She does not bother me - until she stops snoring. 'Why?' I ask myself 'has she stopped snoring? Is she alright? Is she still breathing?'

Yes, I know, I'm pathetic, but do remember that I am a first time parent. Yesterday, I found myself poking her to make sure she was still alive. She was most disgruntled - and I felt totally ridiculous. But the question remains: why does she disappear behind my computer screen? It is a small space, there is nothing there except mess, e.g. BluTack, staples, CDs, post-it notes etc, and she is all but invisible. Is that the attraction? Does she like being in hiding?

I do not know. all I can tell you is that she is currently curled up on my extremely expensive computer bag looking very comfortable and totally inscrutable. I wish she would learn to speak human!

'Night All

I Missed Molly Last Night

Today, I had to be at a meeting in Edinburgh.  This necessitated travelling to Edinburgh yesterday, since it was impossible to do it from home all in one day. Edinburgh is such a beautiful city, but it loses some of its charm when you arrive in the dark, after 8.30p.m., tired and deeply regretting having left home at all, as you nurse a cold.

I stayed at the conference hotel. The lobby was spacious and the receptionist welcoming. I started to feel a little better. The room, however, was no more than adequate, and my low mood was not lifted by the dingy lights and the rather uncomfortable chairs. However, a glass of wine soon put things in a more cheerful light. I watched a little television (not that there was anything interesting on - I ended up watching endless re-runs of the news) then went to bed.

Now, clearly, I had not brought Molly Cat with me. When I left home, she was curled up on the sofa in the study. I had fed her, and made arrangements for somebody to go in this morning to feed her again. She would be fine, I told myself. Huh! I tossed and turned through the night. Every hour or so I woke up, dreaming that I could hear her crying. I had visions of her entangled in her toys. Why had I not put them all away? I thought of her choking on a large piece of food. Had I mashed it enough? You get the idea. I was wide awake at 6, unable to sleep again. At 7.30, I texted the person who had promised to go in to feed her at 7.

Answer came there none. I panicked. What to do? Who could I call? With difficulty I calmed myself, told myself I was being ridiculous. I waited till 8.30, then rang. There was no reply. The panic, this time, was all-consuming. With great difficulty I restrained myself from rushing to Waverley station. The most likely explanation was that she had left her phone at home, a not uncommon occurrence.

A text finally came in at 9.30. Molly was fine. Playing with her toys. Relief washed over me, although I rather think that the promise to be there by seven had not been kept. Now I am on my way home and will be with her soon. But I clearly have a problem: I may never be able to have a holiday again! Molly, what have you done to me?!

A Make-up Make-over

It is quite astonishing what you are offered when you have cancer. One of the things I was offered was sessions at 'Maggie's' (a national charity) which provides support to people with cancer. One of the things on offer was 'Look Good, Feel Good', where somebody shows you how to put on make-up to disguise the worst effects of the chemotherapy. I was sceptical, but eventually rang up to book. I had not anticipated that the wait would be so long. I had my session today.

The first problem was getting there: I went to work first. Major mistake. Inevitably, I got caught and left far later than I had intended. When I arrived at the hospital, I could not find a parking space. I finally arrived, panting, out of breath, and in pain from the muscle in my back, about twenty minutes late. They could not have been kinder. I was ushered in, given a cup of tea, told not to worry at all. I started to relax.

The session turned out to be fascinating. Make-up has never really been my thing, but watching the transformation of each of us there, I could only marvel. Suddenly, I had eyebrows that looked completely natural again. My colour looked better than it had for years. I looked younger. Yet even peering suspiciously into the mirror provided, I could not say that I looked 'made up'. I gazed around. The same was true for every woman there, even those who were clearly in the throes of chemotherapy. Each and every one of us had a healthier glow, eyes that looked more sparkly, faces that were less splodgy. And it cheered us all up. As we swapped experiences and laughed with grim humour, you could feel the mood lighten, the sense that we all felt we looked less awful. And they gave us a wonderful 'goody bag' of all the make-up we had been using, apparently donated by the companies. I shan't have to buy anything for years. Fantastic.

I left on a high. I arrived home, and Molly Cat was waiting for me in the hall, in her hammock - where she has remained. She played with me a bit; she deigned to be fed; but she has eschewed the identical hammock in the study (alright, different colour, but I doubt it is that) and stayed firmly in the hall. Huh! is all I can say. I append the evidence.

'Night all.

Today I finished Radiotherapy

Altogether a rather strange experience. I arrived, parked, walked in. I was very conscious it was my last time. I hoped certain people would be there - they were not. Ah well. I settled into the waiting room. There was a delay of about 45 minutes - very unusual. I hunkered down. Suddenly, they called my name. It would be quicker, they said, if they took me to a different room. I was surprised. The last time there had been a delay they had told me I could not go to a different room. I looked around for my known and trusted therapists: they weren't there. However, I had no reason to distrust these therapists. Obediently, I went to the different room, leaving the little gift I had brought with the therapists in my normal room.

I arrived at Room 4. It felt very different. Nevertheless, I trusted. I settled into a seat - for about 30 seconds. Nice radiotherapist I knew appeared and took me back to the original room. I admitted I had been surprised, since I had previously been told that no other room could treat me. "Quite" he said, quietly. So good to know that there are so many double checks. My trust increased.

Soon after I was called in, treated. Everybody was encouraging about the last treatment. I was given advice about the next few weeks (apparently I have to be careful, because the treatment keeps on working) and they checked that I had relevant appointments.

Suddenly, I was walking back to the car. I was done. Fried, basted, cooked. There was no more. Now, I just get on with my life. So be it. Molly and I have had a lovely evening, except that, sadly, she does not like champagne, so I could find no excuse to open it. She has shredded my hands, but we have had a good time.

We both send our love.

Confession: I don't want to finish radiotherapy

What an extraordinary title. Could it possibly be true? Well, yes and no. Of course I want to finish treatment. The daily grind of getting there and finding a parking space; the discomfort of the arm in the stirrup; the embarrassment of not being able to leap in a lithe fashion on to the table; the increasing skin irritation (which is not at all bad, so far), the constant use of E45. All of this means that I long to finish.

HOWEVER:

There is at least one positive element to all this: I am still being treated. Somebody is doing something to my cancer. Odd, really. I'm a doctor. I knew that this would come to an end. I understand that monitoring will not and should not happen on a weekly basis. I am more than impressed with the treatment I have received.

AND YET

I do like the fact that

• Somebody is keeping an eye on me (albeit, only on my skin, and nobody is examining me)
• We are throwing things at the stupid cancer
• I am not alone in this - there is a camaraderie in the radiotherapy waiting room
• I can banter with the therapists and use the blackest of black humour
• I am still legitimately 'ill' and so can work slightly shorter days

Suddenly, it feels as if I am going to be cast adrift. No more constant attention, no more reason for being tired. Just me, my still mucky hair, and waiting to see what happens. Bizarre, really. I did not expect to feel like this. It will, of course, be fine. But it is very strange, although apparently not at all unusual!

Molly Draws Blood

What on earth am I going to do? Molly has always had a tendency to use teeth and claws, but I hoped to train her out of that. Huh! She has not proved to be amenable to such training. I think, although I cannot be sure, that she is even more prone to this since I have returned to work. Is that a reason for working from home? No, I thought not.

Today, I went off to a Training Day in Loughborough. Leave aside the nightmare journey there (an accident on the M1 and a burst water main on the A6 leaving me with few choices), and the fact that I therefore arrived five minutes late, despite having left early. Nevertheless, I arrived. People were kind, and did not comment on my appearance.

When I returned home, Molly seemed keen to play. I was so pleased. Truth: she did not want to play, she wanted to use my hand as a cross between a scratch post and a biting stick. Both my hands are covered in blood. Alright, I exaggerate, but only slightly. There are lots of puncture marks, and there IS blood. And now she is curled up, looking so innocent!

So, what do I do next? There is a limit to how much punishment my hands can take! Would be interested in your ideas. 

Half Way Through Radiotherapy

Today was session eight out of fifteen. I reckon that means I am slightly more than half way through (although my brain is so scrambled I could be wrong). As I swung myself off the 'bed' today, the radiographer said 'You make that look easier every time'. Huh! I wish I could believe that. The truth is, I have just learned where to pivot my considerable weight.

Yesterday did not go so smoothly. They had a problem with the computers. The whole system was down. By the time I got there, they were running about an hour late. I was lucky. One of the other rooms was able to take some of our patients. I was only half an hour late getting in.

The strangest thing about the radiotherapy is that I ache all over. I am not sure if this is actually down to the radiotherapy, or if it is due to the fact that I am going out and walking a lot more, or whether the fact that I seem incapable of losing weight has anything to do with it. Whatever the cause, my back and my legs ache, and even getting in and out of the car is an effort. Bizarre. I am also increasingly tired, although that could just be because I am overdoing things. Whatever the cause, I am suddenly feeling tired and rather low. Boo Hiss. I'm fine, really.

So, sorry folks. This is not a cheerful blog. I don't know why, but I can't seem to dredge up any humour. I'll try to do better tomorrow.

Molly is well and sends her love.

Today I went back to work properly

Today, for the first time since my surgery, I actually went IN to work: i.e. I got into my car, drove to the new premises at Ruddington, talked to people, caught up, and attended meetings. How do I feel about this?

Simple answer - I don't know. I have ambivalent feelings. Arriving was strange. I had never been to the new premises and realised that I did not know how to get into the staff car park. I had to phone in to find out. A surreal experience: 'Please Miss, how do I come to work?' When I got in to the building, they had to tell me the codes, where to go, where everybody sat. Even more strange. However, there was the major upside: people seemed so pleased to see me. No, that's churlish. People WERE so pleased to see me. It was lovely. I felt warm and wanted and needed.

I was amazed at how quickly I walked back into role. There were clearly things that needed doing. I was going to do them. I moved from person to person, gleaning information, ensuring I had a clear picture. I now have a list of things I am going to pursue. Remember the resolution that I wasn't going to work ridiculous hours? Hmmmmm!!!

Of course, the fact that I am still receiving radiotherapy meant that I had to leave at 16.30, which was possibly a good thing. Radiotherapy took longer than usual (for some reason, they had problems lining me up with the machine). I finally got home at almost 18.00. Molly had been alone for hours. I thought she would be cross. She isn't. She's clingy and cuddly and affectionate. I like her this way.

So, I'm back. It will take a while to get completely up to speed, but I can feel it happening. I enjoyed being out of the house, and going in to work, and being productive. I need to be careful that I don't fall back into bad habits. But as I type I have a rather silly smile on my face. This could be a good thing.

I CAN'T BELIEVE I DID THAT!!!!! Molly Wins Again

I have mentioned Molly Cat before. She is the love and the bane of my life. When she first came, she was clearly half starved and incredibly thin. She has filled out since she has been here, although she is by no means fat. At the beginning, she used to slide between the dishwasher and the plinth to get behind the skirting boards of the kitchen cupboards. She would then push out the skirting board at the opposite end to get out. She clearly enjoyed this, and we found the black clips that were supposed to hold the wood in place all over the flat. I was less amused. As she has filled out, she has used the space she created to gain access.

Two days ago, the 'Man Who Does' was here. He does everything, from major jobs (repainting rooms, netting in half a balcony to keep Molly safe) to the most minor (changing the bulbs that I cannot reach even on the ladder). This time, he came in response to a piteous appeal for help from me. On New Year's Eve night I was rinsing out Molly's bowls in the sink when I noticed water gushing from the cupboard beneath. I hastily closed the taps and abandoned it, grateful that I had no scheduled visitors until after the 2nd. On the 1st, I texted him asking if he could fit me in on the 2nd. Bless him he said yes.

He duly arrived on Thursday morning. I felt rather bad, but he seemed happy. He fixed the sink (a rotten seal) and changed all the bulbs that had blown. Then I remembered the skirting board. I showed him the various black clips and he said he could do it immediately, which he did. Much contentment all round. Until Molly woke from her siesta.

I went in to the kitchen to feed her and noticed that she was prowling around the now closed access to behind the cupboards. She can no longer fit between the dishwasher and the plinth. She kept looking at me, but she has always kept away from there when I was around, so I didn't think much of it. Until about ten minutes later, when she started to howl.

It was terrible. She sounded as if she was being tortured. Her cries would have rent the hardest heart. I was in the study. I rushed to find her. She was pacing the kitchen, staring at me as if I had deprived her of all that was most precious in life. I checked her food, her water, herself. Nothing appeared wrong. I picked her up, gave her a cuddle, took her back to the study. As soon as I put her down, she bolted for the kitchen and the cacophony started again. My nerve lasted less than five minutes.

Picture the scene, dear reader: me, on my knees, trying to wrench the skirting board out so that I could allow Molly access again. Eventually, I succeeded. NO, it is NOT funny!!! I returned to the study. There was silence from the kitchen. Eventually Molly rejoined me. To say she looked smug would be an understatement.

I don't know what she hides under there. When my cleaner looked the following day all she found was one of the baubles from off the Christmas tree. There may be objects further in, where we cannot see. In any case, I am sure it is her special hiding place, which I am not supposed to know about. From now on, it stays open. I CANNOT BELIEVE I did that.

Today was the first dose of Radiotherapy

An interesting experience, and one I found more challenging than I had expected.

My appointment was for 15.30 and they suggested I arrived fifteen minutes early. Parking is never easy on that site, so I decided to leave home at 14.15. The first challenge was what to wear. It looked cold outside, and I clearly needed to be able to display my top half. Trousers and jumper seemed in order, but it has been so long since I have worn anything other than a Kaftan that even that felt strange. Molly was asked, but did not vouchsafe an opinion.

Eventually, dressed and accessorised, I left for the hospital. I was lucky. A parking space became available within about five minutes, and I was able to sit in the car listening to the radio and relaxing for half an hour. This was A GOOD THING. Nevertheless, as I picked my way through the puddles to the entrance I was aware that I was more tense than I had expected to be. 'Why?', I asked myself. After all, nothing terrible was going to happen. Answer came there none, and I really do not know why I was so tense, but I certainly was. I was glad that I had taken my beloved iPad and so could play Sudoku while I waited.

They had said I would be in and out in fifteen minutes. Hmmm! This might be true on subsequent occasions, but today it took almost exactly an hour. It was nobody's fault: it's the system. But I do wonder if we could not simplify the system? It goes like this:

1. Register and be shown to the waiting room. Sit and wait, with iPad, for about five minutes: very grateful that it happened so fast.
2. Collected by charming radiographer who first asked to confirm all my details (name, address, etc.) then explained in exhaustive detail what was to happen. She also told me that I would be asked to confirm my details again. I wondered why, although I did not ask. Is it likely that somebody would take my place in the intervening few minutes? She also gave me my complete schedule for the next three weeks.
3. Shown to a different waiting room. Resort to iPad again. Wait no more that ten minutes, then collected by a different charming radiographer. Shown to the 'Room'.
4. He re-checked all my details (why?) then explained everything to me again (why?). Remember, I had already been through all this at the planning meeting. 
5. I was helped on to the couch. It is not made for people like me. It is made for fit, lithe young things who are no bigger than a size 8. I struggled. They helped. Eventually, I was positioned. I felt like a lump of lard attached to a beached whale. Ah well - that's more or less how I look.
6. Laser beams come at you and machines move around you. It is most interesting. I forbore to ask too many questions, but it really was fascinating.
7. The actual thing takes about ten minutes and, provided you can lie flat on a narrow bed (which I can, once I'm on it!) there is no problem.
8. They help you up and usher you out, with smiles all round.

And that, really, is it. I go back tomorrow for the next dose. I have checked the appointments and need to change some, but they tell me that should be possible. They are friendly, professional and positive. So why was I so exhausted when I got back? Goodness knows, but I think it will be easier tomorrow.