The Rock came with me for the practice run, which meant he finally got to witness the whole “head clamped to the table” situation in all its glamorous glory. What I didn’t know, until after, was that when I panic, my feet apparently started doing that frantic little running motion dogs do when they’re dreaming about chasing squirrels. Excellent. Nothing says dignity like involuntary dream-dog paddling in a radiotherapy mask.

I managed 7 minutes before they stopped the test run, and they told me the real sessions would be 9 minutes each. Nine whole minutes of being bolted down like a DIY bookshelf. But they also gave me two pieces of hope:

  1. I could bring my own playlist.
  2. They’d prescribe diazepam to take half an hour beforehand.

This wasn’t so bad – it would be like going to a spa minus those hunky therapists in tight white tee shirts.

Choosing music turned out to be its own psychological experiment. You can’t take your absolute favourite songs because then every time you hear them in the future, you’d be teleported straight back to being irradiated like a baked potato. But you also can’t take songs you barely know because what if they’re pants? And you can’t take fast music because that leads to toe-tapping and handbag-dancing urges; neither of which work when you’re clamped to a table. Slow songs were also out, because nine minutes can start to feel like nine geological eras if the music is too trippy.

So after far too much thought for a nine-minute soundtrack, I settled on some reliable Café del Mar and chilled electronic gems. Relaxing, rhythmic, and unlikely to trigger any future emotional spirals. Perfect. Superpoze The Iceland Sound was my favaourite.

LESSON 7: IF ANYTHING AT ALL ABOUT THE TREATMENT IS RAMPING UP YOUR ANXIETY LEVELS, TELL MAMA BEAR. IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHO YOUR MAMA BEAR IS, GO AND FIND HER.

(Edit: although, to be fair, she’s not ALWAYS right—Bump in the Road 1 coming soon…)