How is the radiotherapy going? I hear you ask. Because I have damn fine hearing for my age, which is nearly bus pass, except it isn’t, any more. Bus pass, that is, not fine hearing.
Bitter, me? No, because I’ve had better things to do for nearly three weeks now. Such as lying on a 45 degree angle couch – a clinical version of the ones the Minbari sleep on, in Babylon 5 – and assuming “the Goddess position”.
I like to think I’m the only Anglo-American bipolar blogger with breast cancer who can use both paganism, and their fan-girl love for Bab 5, to describe radiotherapy sessions. Then again, it’s not like there’s lots of competition.
It’s summertime – temporarily at least – here in S Yorks. And the living – when not at work – is often bare breasted. This is on the advice of the lovely folks at Weston Park Hospital, the regional centre of excellence for cancer treatment in Yorkshire & surrounding area.
A friend who is a few months ahead of me in her treatment told me sometime ago that I would have to heal enough to hold my arms above my head to undergo radiotherapy. If I’d done ballet like the little suburban girl I once was, I could probably compare the position to a dance one. I took piano lessons instead, and – much later, and for reasons that had nothing to do with learning how to play “Fur Elise” – I became a Pagan. Which is why I refer to that position – as demonstrated in my necklace shown above – as “the Goddess Position”.
The actual “zotting” – a technical term which I didn’t, sadly, invent – lasts no time at all, compared to riding the Firefly mini-bus to and from Weston Park. I’ve spent more time queuing afterwards for a tea from the RVS shop, than actually on the table, half naked, and with my arms extended, grasping what feels like two very short bicycle handles.
If you follow The Wheel of the Year which I more or less do, you’ll know the next festival is Lammas. Also known as Lughnash, for me, it’s the Pagan original of the Harvest Festival. Years ago, I used to mark the day by baking homemade bread, and reflecting on what I had harvested that year.
I’m off work on Lammas, so I may revive that pleasant – and pleasant smelling – ritual. Meanwhile, I’m off today, and thinking about my harvest.
The answer isn’t my writing, or the foxgloves, mint, and ivy which have flourished in the garden this year. It isn’t even how lucky I am to have a supportive, sympathetic partner, who still makes me smile, and laugh. I do realise how lucky I am to be with him.
My biggest crop is this: I’m still alive. Still comparatively sane.
Neither cancer, bipolar, nor other, more recent, potentially bad news, have sent me to the grave, or the ward. I’m still working part time, when not travelling to & from my metal couch. Still writing silly stories, such as the one on the previous blog. Still setting up, and taking, daft pictures of Doctor Who related stuff:
I’m also dealing with my disappointment over the fact that my cat is much less enthusiastic about his Dreamies “Treat Mouse” than I am:
Next week is – I hope – the last in which my more allegedly normal activities overlap with trips to radiotherapy sessions. The hospital unit has a bell which people can ring to let everyone else know that they’ve finished their treatment.
Am I going to ring that bell? You bet your sweet Dalek, I am. Meanwhile, I’ve got some laundry, and washing up, to do. Plus, a Treat Mouse who fancies having a roll on part – he doesn’t walk very well, being something of a Weeble – on Doctor Who.