Accelerating to the speed of light

They tell me that the chemotherapy could cause some memory and concentration changes during the treatment, which the doctors call mild cognitive impairment (MCI) or "chemo brain" , but that all will be back to normal after my treatment ends. Not noticed anything yet but if I start repeating myself on here you will know it's the drugs talking and nothing to do with me.

Sometimes when I'm lying there on the treatment couch, which is hard and very metal, I feel euphoric, on a bit of a high even,  thinking, hoping the machine is making me well again. Other times I think what the fuck has happened to me, what am I doing here in this strange room? This was never supposed to happen to me. But it did so get on with it.

I wrote a post on here on Saturday but I deleted it by mistake. I have no idea how or where it went to, a complete mystery. I tried everything to recover it but there's no sign of it anywhere. I wonder where these things go to when they disappear like that? If you see it send it back to me please. And that's why there's been no news for a few days. I must be careful where I put my fingers in future, so to speak. I think I must have been showing off, typing without looking at the keyboard, or maybe it's the chemo playing tricks on me.

I'm now in my fourth of five weeks of treatment, which seems incredible to me, but there you are, I'm down to single figures of sessions to go, nine in fact. All seems to be going to plan and no more hiccups along the way. I'm quietly confident.

There are nine young women in the team on LA5 and I think they've all had a turn treating me. I don't know where the NHS finds them but each and everyone of them is pure dead brilliant. They are obviously highly trained and skilled, but what impresses me most is their ability to make me feel at ease, relaxed, as if I'm the most important patient in the whole wide world. Not to mention their ability to help me cope with the loss of dignity involved in the whole process. It's got to the stage now where I'm looking forward to seeing them every day and wondering how I'm going to cope when I no longer see them.

There are always two radiographers with me and they have the task of getting me into position for the treatment to hit the spot. There are three laser beams aimed at my bum; one from each wall and one from the ceiling, which have to be aligned exactly with the crosses which were tattooed on me by the oncologist a few weeks ago. Once I'm face down on the couch I'm not allowed to move anymore. I'm allowed to breathe but that's all.

The girls then have to jiggle about with my bum, one on each side, until all the lasers are in alignment with my tattoos. So I have two young women fighting over my bottom. Their hands are nice and warm, and somehow or other they make it all feel quite normal, so that I don't feel any loss of dignity. Thank you one and all. You are a credit to the NHS and I shall never forget you, no matter what happens afterwards.

Then they leave me on my lonesome in the room, which has very thick lead and concrete walls to keep any radiation inside and to keep them safe outside. The accelerator delivers it's doses of proton particles to my tumour at just under the speed of light, which is about 187,000 miles per second, or was last time I checked. This is all quite astonishing to me. Of course there's nothing to be seen, but I still check to see if I can spot any of these protons flying through the air, but to no avail.

One needs faith in these situations. A bit like belief in God, nothing to be seen but he's up there somewhere. Or so I'm told. The accelerator works it's way around to each site and does the deed. It has a kind whining sound it makes as it works away. Meantime the radiographers are watching from the room next door to make sure I'm OK. And then it's all over for another day.