Inside the Royal Marsden
3 September: It is frightening to be referred to the specialist cancer hospital. No running away or hiding under the duvet – this is for real. I have been delivered to the door by the Charing X ambulance and Kathy is waiting for me inside.
Meeting the oncologist
Kathy looks relieved to see me. We are an hour late – just my luck that the ambulance driver has never been here before and took the scenic route via Shepherd’s bush. Kathy is worried that the clinic might close without seeing me,
Kathy is a retired senior nurse, with a lifetime’s experience and expertise, who has kindly taken me under her wing, comes with me to appointments whenever she can and visits me regularly. Just the person I need – I can’t thank her enough.
We see Professor Harrington who immediately puts us at ease. We go through the details of my case. There might be options for palliative treatment available to me. Prof Harrington will obtain notes and test results from St Georges and Charing X and if he thinks it is worth going ahead, I will be booked into his clinic a week today.
Prof H’s expertise shines through. He is sympathetic, clear, straightforward and thorough. I feel safe. Kathy, who has been listening intently, is very impressed that he is reading the list of questions I have brought upside down. Awesome
“Oh, so luverly sitting abso-blooming-lutely still”: Getting set up for radio therapy
I attend the clinic the following week. We are going ahead with treatment, starting with a small course of Radio therapy. I am taken straight to the radio therapy room to be measured up. It is essential for the patient to be positioned very carefully, to lie flat and remain absolutely still throughout the procedure. Difficult for me because of my swallowing problems.
I am put onto a narrow couch, lined up with the help of a head rest, knee supports, green laser beams even a tiny tattoo, all pinned down with a neck brace – a piece of plastic, moulded to the shape of my face.
The procedure itself is delivered by giant metal plates on long arms, which circulate around me in a kind of stately, robotic dance. I think they deserve a nice bit of Mozart to accompany them.
The five daily sessions are over very quickly. Gwil insists that I take a taxi home. Vauxhall Bridge is closed, leaving the other bridges and surrounding streets very congested. One journey, when the Kings Road and Oakley Street were gridlocked clocked up £52. (the driver kindly knocked £20 off)
Now I have to wait a month for my next appointment with Prof Harrington when we find out how well radio therapy has worked. The Royal Marsden no longer feels scary – it has become part of my world.
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Recollections of Life in Bed 17: May and June
Bed 17, Florence Nightingale Ward, my bed, is next to the corridor in a 6-bed bay. the bay is half empty because of coronavirus. It is a bubble, a world of its own, shut off from the outside world.
From here, I watch all the passing traffic in the ward. It’s fascinating to observe the way the nurses work. Some are very “shouty” to each other and to their patients – I rather dread their shifts, others are models of quiet reassurance. Over four weeks’ stay, I get to know them all, and most people have a smile or a wave for the dotty old lady, quietly knitting, in bed 17.
It’s a busy life. I can hardly keep track of all the clinicians who come to see me Nick the dietician, diabetes nurses, podiatrist, Haydn the physio, Mark the OT, the stately procession of doctors every morning, Ben the counsellor, the constant stream of nurses coming to stick needles into me, Myuki and Fiona the Macmillan nurses. Emma and Linda, the lovely staff nurses who help me get through some very wobbly moments.
Ever resourceful, Gwil finds a way to visit despite the lock down. He comes to the door of the ward – mask on, hands sanitised – with a wheelchair, the nurses hand me over, down we go to sit in the garden for half an hour and then he hands me back. Thank you, nurse Hannah, for your flexible – and safe – approach.
Knitting – the best therapy.
At times of stress, I knit compulsively. Doesn’t matter what – any knitting will do. I am making squares for a patchwork blanket, using bright rainbow colours. I need 96 squares to complete it. Undemanding, but enough to keep me calm, my mind and hands occupied, I think of knitting as my equivalent to *mindfulness and it really works – better than medicine or talking therapies.
It is also a great icebreaker. People ask me what I am doing and tell me about their projects. The nurses do cross-stitch or embroidery to pass the time on the nightshift. Myuki has some lovely jumpers her mother knitted. On the ward round we discuss the bonnet the registrar is knitting for her sister’s baby. I discuss yarns and needle sizes with a nurse in Resus at Charing X (shouldn’t we be talking about me – not just my knitting?)
*one of the on-line craft suppliers (LoveCrafts) has introduced a programme called “Mindful Making” to celebrate World Mental Health Day. Good for them!