Part 7 – The Radiotherapy Chronicles: “Livin’ on a Prayer”

🎸 Whoa, We’re Halfway There…

Yes, this one’s late. Sorry about that — last week flattened me, and writing wasn’t happening. But here we are, and the good news is I’m officially past the halfway mark.

Chemo 4/6 done. Radiotherapy 18/30 ticked off. More than halfway through this bizarre medical marathon. Or, as Bon Jovi put it: “Whoa, we’re halfway there… whoa-oh, livin’ on a prayer.”

No screaming fans. No guitar solos. No leather trousers (thankfully). Just hospital chairs, pee jugs, metallic coffee, and soup that wouldn’t pass quality control at a petrol station. Still, progress is progress, and 18/30 deserves a drum roll — or at least a less terrible cup of coffee.

🎶 Livin on a prayer 🙏

🧾 The Scoreboard So Far

• Chemo: 4/6 ✅

• Radiotherapy: 18/30 ✅

• Weight: 6kg down (the NHS’s unofficial slimming plan)

• Mood: Sarcastic with bonus fatigue

• Taste buds: Still waving strike placards quicker than a train driver

• Hair: Hanging on – victory in itself

  
  

🎂 Birthday “Feast” (Sorry Lou)

Food of Champions

I hit another milestone last week: my birthday. And what was my big celebratory feast? An amazing hotpot that I just couldn't taste at all so option b was on the menu, chicken cuppa soup. That’s it. No cake, no candles, no steak dinner. Just dehydrated chicken sadness in a mug is all my pallet would allow me.

To the horror of my poor, long-suffering wife Lou, this really was the highlight of the day. She deserved champagne and celebrations — instead, she got to watch me slurp beige broth like a pensioner in a care home. Lou, I promise you a proper birthday do-over when this circus is over.

🧠 The Halfway Mindset

Here’s the thing about reaching halfway: mentally, it’s both a relief and a reality check.

Relief, because the scoreboard finally tilts in your favour. You can say: “I’ve done more than I’ve got left.” And that matters when you’re dragging yourself in day after day.

Reality check, because halfway doesn’t mean easy street. If anything, I feel more tired than I did at the start. It’s like running a marathon: you know you’re over the hump, but your legs are screaming and the finish line still looks a long way off.

That said, being able to tick off each zap and drip gives me something to aim at. Every “beep” of the radiotherapy machine, every chemo bag that runs dry, is one step closer to being done. And that keeps me going.

🎯 The Radiotherapy Routine (18 Deep)

By now, I could do radiotherapy on autopilot. It’s become a parody of a military drill:

• Report to reception, present my biggest smile and the receptionist looks up and goes you are booked in Ash.

• March downstairs to waiting room, avoid the uncomfortable chairs.

• Strip off my shirt, jewellery, empty pockets, wait at ease for the mask.

Sir yes Sir!!

• Mask bolted down, don’t move, don’t sneeze, don’t think about it.

Radiographers exit stage left. Machine whirs like it’s about to launch me into orbit.

• A few zaps later, unbolt, march out, repeat tomorrow.

Eighteen times in, it feels less like treatment and more like basic training Only instead of polishing boots, I’m polishing off NHS coffee.

😷 The Night-Time Cough from Hell

its nice to share ?

Then there’s the new addition to my greatest hits: the cough from hell. It shows up at night without warning, lasts three to five minutes, and makes me feel like I’m choking on dust. Just as quickly, it vanishes, leaving me gasping and glaring at the ceiling at 3am.

Sleep is now a free-for-all. I take it when I can, like Army catnaps on exercise or metrolink night shifts where you grab 20 minutes between chaos. Proper bedtime? Doesn’t really exist. I’m now on a “sleep if you can, when you can” policy.

🍲 The New Menu (Sponsored by Beige)

Food has gone full survival mode. My current diet could be mistaken for a toddler’s tea party: chicken soup, chicken cuppa soup, porridge pots, rice pudding. Rinse and repeat.

Taste is gone. Texture rules everything. What’s soft? What’s safe? What won’t feel like swallowing glass? Gone are the curries, kebabs, and proper dinners. Instead, I’m eating like a pensioner in 1980s Britain. Not exciting. But it gets the job done.

🎁 The Encore: Friends, Gifts & Gratitude

This journey isn’t a solo act. I’ve had an incredible backing band keeping me on stage.

• To Mr C the mate who sent me the Darth Vader Oodie — you’ve made radiotherapy look like Comic-Con.

• To my beautiful friend and her girls who sent the Marks & Spencer hamper — your care package officially outshone every hospital meal.

• To Mr D — your dark, dark humour and unrelenting sarcasm have kept me going more than you’ll ever know. Never underestimate the effect you’ve had on my mental health. Thank you.

• And to everyone who’s messaged, liked, commented, or even quietly read along — you probably don’t realise how much that lifts me. Those little nudges of support are sometimes the only thing that gets me through a day.

  
  

🔮 Looking Ahead

Four chemos down, two to go. Eighteen radiotherapies behind me, twelve still on the clock. The finish line is getting closer. It doesn’t always feel like it — some days feel endless, some like small wins — but I know it’s there.

Halfway proves the other half can be done. Even if I’m crawling towards it in a Vader Oodie, gripping a mug of chicken soup, hacking through midnight coughing fits, and living on porridge pots.

This isn’t the glamorous tour I’d have chosen. But it’s my tour. And if Bon Jovi’s right, then prayers, porridge, and persistence will get me to the encore.

Because cancer doesn’t get the last word. I do.

All my love

Ash

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