Once you’re officially “in the system,” things move very fast, kinda like Amazon Prime but for medical terror. This was my first trip to the Beatson Cancer Centre (side note: if you’re enjoying this tale of chaos and emotional collapse, feel free to donate to the incredible humans there at www.beatsoncancercharity.org/donate). Today’s mission? A mask fitting.

A mask? In my head I imagined something mysterious, maybe even a wee bit “gimp chic.” 

They led me into a room, popped me on a slab like I was Tuesday’s special, and three angelic nurses explained they were about to press hot plastic over my entire face and chest. This blue plastic had tiny holes in it which, once warmed, moulded perfectly to your face. Think of a Fisher Price version of Hannibal Lecter. You can’t move. You can’t blink. You can’t even lick your lips unless you’ve previously trained with Cirque du Soleil. I hated it immediately.

After 45 minutes of warming, stretching, and tightening this contraption onto my skull, they marched me to the scanning room carrying this mask that looked like me but with added clamp thingies. I looked like I’d been accessorised by B&Q. I thought the clamps were decorative. Cute, right? The clamps were actually bolts that locked me to the table like a budget Bond villain.

The mask pushed so hard on my neck that my Adam’s apple considered early retirement. Panic rose. The MRI clunked away. The first scan was 14 minutes, followed by two 8-minute encores. When the first one finished I was shaking like a twink in a bear bar. They asked if I could continue but by then I was thrashing like someone who’d just learned the word “NO.”

They freed me from the torture mask, I sat up and immediately passed out. Thankfully Big Tommy (yes, real name) caught me mid-collapse like the world’s gentlest nightclub bouncer. They revived me with a Blue Ribband biscuit because apparently I’d decided breakfast was optional that day. Turned out the two extra scans weren’t essential anyway. Perfect! All that terror for nothing. That night, the nightmares began. Me. Mask. Table. Bolts. Blue Ribband. Rinse and repeat.

Could the day get worse? Oh aye. Absolutely aye.

That afternoon I had to toddle five minutes down the road to the dental hospital. The waiting room was heaving with screaming children, none of whom appreciated the emotional fragility of someone freshly traumatised.

Dr Teeth (who I only ever met this once) sat me down to explain that radiotherapy basically turns your gums and jawbone into divas. Very high-maintenance, very prone to drama. Because of the risk of decay (he used the word necrosis, which frankly felt a bit rude), they recommend removing any tooth with fillings or crowns before treatment. And because saliva production will also drop, plaque will party hard in your mouth, followed quickly by tooth decay.

So, even though the tumour was on my neck, my mouth was about to suffer collateral damage. Yay! After an x-ray he said my teeth were in great condition except one back molar with a filling. His recommendation? Yank that one and maybe another seven just to be safe. Seven? Seven teeth? For “safety”? Safety of what? Safe from the perils of a Curly Wurly?

I chose to remove only the one and accept my fate like a hero with slightly worse dental insurance. I asked when it would happen. “Ten minutes.” TEN? I’d barely processed the idea of losing a tooth, never mind signing up for same-day service.

I texted The Rock to say I was getting a tooth out but, in my panic, wrote: “teeth being extracted now. Will be longer than thought.” Plural. TEETH. This immediately transformed The Rock back into The Worrier, who sprinted down to the hospital like I’d texted “goodbye cruel world.”

He arrived just in time to find out they’d already yanked the thing with the dentist apparently needing to brace one leg on the chair for leverage, like he was trying to start a lawnmower. By the time The Worrier arrived, I was off buying new jammies in John Lewis as a reward for surviving the day. I was not, as they say, popular that evening. You do get prescription toothpaste afterwards which is so strong it feels like it’s trying to exfoliate your soul but you get used to it.

MISTAKE 1: EAT BEFORE YOUR SCANS (UNLESS THEY TELL YOU NOT TO). OR, AT LEAST, HAVE SOME BLUE RIBBAND IN YOUR BAG.

LESSON 4: YOU ARE STILL THE BOSS. MAKE THE CHOICES THAT FEELS RIGHT FOR YOU.

Touch wood, I made the right call about the tooth, but it made me care for them like they were rare gemstones from that day forward.