And so it begins…

Surprisingly, I didn’t sleep. At all. Today was Day One of Treatment, and apparently my brain decided the best way to prepare was to rehearse every possible disaster scenario between midnight and dawn. I got up at 05:30 to check my bag for the 47th time. Jammies? Check. Toiletry bag? Check. iPad and chargers? Check. My sanity? Missing, presumed dead.

The Rock didn’t sleep either, which made the whole thing feel like we were both about to sit the world’s most important exam but with no revision notes and an invigilator called Fate who hates us.

We arrived at The Beatson a full hour early (because – obviously) got a coffee, and wandered up to the ward. I didn’t realise each ward is cancer-specific, like Hogwarts houses but significantly less magical. I was in the Head and Neck ward. Two other newbies were already in the room, also starting treatment that day. It was strangely comforting, like meeting fellow contestants on a bizarre reality show you didn’t sign up for.

Then came the first radiotherapy session. Now, I’ve always been a nervous pee-er, but this was next level. I must have gone to the toilet eight times in the hour beforehand. If they’d hooked me up to a hydration monitor, it would have short-circuited.

True to their promise, 30 minutes before the session they gave me a diazepam, and off we toddled to Treatment Room 1. The staff were instantly amazing. They are the kind of people who radiate competence and warmth. Best of all, The Rock was with me, and Mama Bear was waiting.

The room is huge and echoey, with a long table covered in white paper. Very “clinical spa day.” You take your top off, lie down, and then they go to the cupboard and bring out The Mask. The infamous torture device. They try to soothe you by painting a blue-sky-with-fluffy-clouds scene on the ceiling, but frankly, unless those clouds are passing me a martini, it’s not helping much.

Then the [insert many many sweary words] clamps. You can’t move. At all. I tried licking my lips and discovered you can only move your jaw about half a millimetre. Basically a hostage in your own face.

Mama Bear told me they were ready then abandoned me in the room (which felt rude) and the machine started its mechanical song. I gripped the little handle things like they were the last two crisps in a tube of Pringles. Mama Bear spoke through the microphone, keeping me calm, while I focused on breathing and, apparently, doing a full on Riverdance routine with my feet. She told me later I’d upgraded from dream-dog paddling to the London Marathon.

And then done. Session 1 complete. Only 29 more to go. Easy, right?

I got a huge hug from both The Rock and Mama Bear, and we minced back to the ward for chemo. Now, chemo involves being pumped full of fluids. It felt like about 60 litres, though it was probably more like three. They load you up with anti-sickness meds, then ceremoniously bring out a mysterious black bag containing your chemo drug. They hold it at arm’s length like it’s radioactive soup. Fair.

Because it’s in a black bag, you have no idea what colour the drug is. (Post-edit: I googled it. Cisplatin is “deep yellow to orange-yellow,” so essentially pee-coloured. Charming.) An hour later, I was officially infused with platinum—the only metal I wear, darling. No rose gold for me.

Then the nurse plonked 20 cardboard pee bowls beside my bed, The Rock went home, and I spent the entire night peeing out those 60-ish litres.

The next day, The Rock came back, and we headed down for Round 2. Same process. Same mask. Same attempt at cloud-based relaxation. Mama Bear hugged me again afterwards and told me I was doing great, and I’d likely feel rough at the weekend, but that was “just the chemo doing its job,” which made it sound almost productive.

The rest of the week became a routine: hospital at 2:08pm (yes, very precise), home by 3pm. Almost manageable. Almost easy.

LESSON 12: JUST DO IT. IT’S TERRIFYING. IT’S AWFUL. IT’S SURREAL. BUT ONE DAY, FUTURE YOU WILL LOOK BACK AND SAY “BUGGER ME, I ACTUALLY DID ALL THAT.” AND YOU’LL BE PROUD. I PROMISE.