After three months of treatment for breast cancer, discovered during a routine mammogram, Sue Fox looks forward to the future with optimism.
THE gantry of the radiotherapy machine swings over me to the strains of selections from Phantom of the Opera. Listen To The Music Of The Night, croons Michael Crawford as the rays begin their work zapping any remaining cancer cells.
Other patients and I are sitting in the waiting room "coffee club" of the cancer centre and swapping stories of musical accompaniments during our treatment. One tells of hearing Another One Bites The Dust on the radio at surgeon "George Clooney's" consulting rooms. The next time she went it was Stairway To Heaven. Was someone trying to tell her something? Not really, she laughs, as she had come through operations, chemotherapy and now, radiotherapy, and was still bouncing and large as life.
There's a wonderful atmosphere in the radiotherapy department. The place that had seemed so alien and scary to me on my first visit is now friendly and comfortable. Many want to chat about their experiences, some want a moan - but not many. I think we're all just really happy to still be here.
There are some sad stories, too. I am close to tears as I listen to one man tell me that both he and his wife spent their working lives in the same industry and have ended up with throat and lung cancers. Neither of them were smokers. "Are you going to sue the company?" I ask as he tells me that many of his colleagues are suffering from the same problems. "We're trying as a group to get compensation," he says. "But the company are prolonging things and some workers have already died."
My troubles are insignificant compared to his, but they seem big to me, mainly because I still can't get my brain into gear. This last part of my breast cancer treatment, three weeks of daily radiotherapy, does not start well. The first day, I forget the special velcro-fastened top that I'd been given to wear. Never mind. I just have to strip to the waist this time. The next day, I throw the whole one-way changing rooms system into confusion by going in the "out" door. Don't worry chaps, I'll get the hang of it.
I am warned that as time passes I may start to suffer symptoms similar to sunburn, but it's not that bad, and with some help from the aqueous cream that I'm given by one of the radiotherapy staff, I just glow and tingle slightly.
Towards the end of the treatment, I get to see my oncologist, "Dr Amazing", who tells me I have the best possible chance of recovery, thanks to my two operations to take away the nasty bits, a daily dose of Tamoxifen and the radiotherapy. He actually thanks me for going through it all, although I should really be thanking him.
I reckon I know now what is meant by "cancer battle" as I do feel as though I've been through a fair old fight to get my health back. I'll be seeing Dr Amazing again in three months to check I am doing okay, then Mr Clooney in six months. No one tells me when I will be told I have the all-clear, but I'm hoping it won't be too long and that the result will be good.
"Be prepared to feel depressed after your treatment is over," I am told. I can understand why, as the daily hospital visits have almost become a way of life. I feel lost when they are over but I am determined to be upbeat. So how come I am venting my bad temper on my poor long-suffering husband? I really must calm down.
He suggests we go away for a trip in the caravan and I'm more than happy to agree. We arrive in the Lake District, armed with a good supply of wine, and looking forward to some relaxing days and bracing late-autumn strolls. Instead, the weather worsens, the lake floods, swamping the caravan site, the wind howls and the lightning flashes. "A dramatic end to your time off," laughs the husband.
A few weeks later, I can't believe it's time to go back to work. I am really nervous about returning. What happens if I've forgotten everything and can't do my job? I drive to Darlington with my heart in my mouth.
First thing, I've forgotten the passcode to get into the building. This really isn't going well. But I arrive at the newsroom to the warmest of welcomes, lots of hugs from my colleagues and some beautiful flowers. It's really good to be back.
And so I get to thinking about my three-month breast cancer journey, a journey I so nearly didn't take because I couldn't be bothered to have a routine mammogram. If it hadn't been for that last-minute decision to go for the scan, my cancer would have been taking its insidious hold and I would merely be wondering why I continued to feel so tired.
As it is, I have been given a fantastic chance of survival and I am so grateful for that. The medics I have met along the way, especially Mr Clooney, the breast care nurses and Dr Amazing, have been wonderful without exception and I cannot thank them enough for everything they have done for me.
And what have I got to show for all this treatment? Well, I still get a bit weary, I have a slightly numb left arm near where the lymph nodes were removed and my left breast is somewhat smaller than the other one (no problem, as I never was a big-boobed girl) . But most of all, I have a very neat scar which, when I look down, grins back at me.
More importantly, this episode has taught me to value every day, be positive and enjoy life. So you see, like my scar, I've come up smiling.
Comments: Our rules
We want our comments to be a lively and valuable part of our community - a place where readers can debate and engage with the most important local issues. The ability to comment on our stories is a privilege, not a right, however, and that privilege may be withdrawn if it is abused or misused.
Please report any comments that break our rules.
Read the rules hereComments are closed on this article