🔔 Part 9 – The Radiotherapy Chronicles: Saved by the Bell

It’s strange to wake up and realise… there’s no hospital trip today: no mask, no chemo chair, no countdown on the fridge. For the first time in months, the day is mine again.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe how far this road has stretched six rounds of chemo, thirty radiotherapies, countless blood tests, and more tea than the NHS should legally serve. Somewhere between the cannulas and the nausea, the person I was at the start got stripped away and rebuilt, piece by piece.

Cancer treatment is one of the few times in life you willingly poison yourself to get better. Chemo, radiotherapy, they’re both acts of controlled destruction. Like dropping tactical nukes on your own body and hoping the bad guys take most of the hit. I used to think chemo just “attacked the cancer.” I didn’t realise it came for everything your taste, your appetite, your sleep, your willpower — and then circled back for seconds.

The last few weeks have been brutal. There were days I couldn’t even move — stuck in pyjamas, drifting between naps I didn’t want, too drained to stand, too restless to sleep. My blood count dropped, my neck burned, my head spun. But I kept going, because that’s what you do. You just keep showing up.

☠️ Pulling Back the Curtain

Well, here we are the finish line crossed, the bell rung, and the war (for now) declared over.

Six rounds of chemo. Thirty rounds of radiotherapy. A small brass bell on the wall and somehow, that one sound made every needle, burn, and sleepless night worth it.

Cancer treatment is one of the few things in life where you willingly poison yourself to get better. Chemo, radiotherapy they’re both controlled destruction, the medical equivalent of dropping tactical nukes on your own body and hoping the bad guys take the brunt of it.

Before all this, I honestly thought chemotherapy just attacked the cancer target acquired, job done. Turns out, it’s an equal-opportunity destroyer. It goes after everything: your energy, your appetite, your taste buds, your patience, and your willpower before coming back around for seconds.

And radiotherapy? That’s the daily frying session that leaves your neck feeling like a badly grilled kebab and your throat like it’s been sandpapered by an angry welder.

The last few weeks have been brutal. Two full days where I couldn’t even move stuck in pajama's, no energy, feeling sick, dozing in and out of naps I didn’t ask for. My blood count tanked, my neck burned, my taste disappeared again, and my reflection looked back at me somewhere between Ming the Merciless and a half-melted candle.

But here’s the thing: I made it. I got through it. I rang that bell.

And for all the pain, the exhaustion, the nausea for those few seconds when that bell echoed through the corridor, I remembered why I’d done it. For Lou, for my family, for my mates.

The battle’s over for now, but recovery’s its own campaign. Still, after everything — I’m here, and that counts for something.

⚖️ Expectation vs Reality

The internet only ever shows a snapshot the polished highlight reel. Those brief moments where I look upbeat, cracking jokes, pretending I’ve got this thing in a headlock. You see the smiles, the gallows humour, the brave face holding a cup of tea like it’s a trophy.

What it doesn’t show is the other 90% the quiet, messy, lonely stuff in between. The hours I spend flat in bed, staring at the ceiling, too drained to move but too restless to sleep. The nausea that rolls in like a tide, the dizziness that makes walking to the bathroom feel like an assault course, and the insomnia that turns every night into an endless 3 a.m. rerun.

You don’t see the burns that sting when I swallow, the mouth that feels like it’s lined with grit, or the way even sitting upright feels like a gym workout. You don’t see Lou tiptoeing around trying to make me comfortable while I pretend I’m fine.

Social media shows the warrior. Reality shows the bloke behind the curtain — tired, sore, and clinging on with a sarcastic grin and a half-empty bottle of paracetamol.

Because that’s the truth of it: this isn’t strength, it’s survival: one day, one zap, one pill, one grim little victory at a time.

🧾 The Final Scoreboard

Chemo: 6/6 ✅

Radiotherapy: 30/30 ✅

Weight: 13kg down (The NHS’s unofficial slimming plan)

Mood: Sarcastic with a splash of relief, it's over

Taste buds: gone, hopefully to return, time will tell

Hair: Starting to shed still going for the Ming the Merciless look

Every tick on that list is a battle won. A tiny victory. Each one got me closer to that final bell.

👨‍👩‍👦 The Supporting Cast

Nobody goes through this alone. Lou my rock has been there through every appointment, every late-night panic, every laugh and groan. My sons, my dad, my sister, my in-laws all part of the team that’s kept me going. And to friends like Mr D, whose dark humour has genuinely saved my sanity more than once thank you.

It’s a strange thing to say, but cancer shines a light on who your people are. Every comment, every message, every bit of encouragement online it all matters more than you know. And who can forget my Darth Vader Oodie, which became my comfort blanket thanks, Mr C.

🎯 Looking Ahead

After Wednesday, the treatment stops but the journey doesn’t. The machines go quiet, the drip lines are packed away, and the daily routine of zaps and infusions suddenly ends. But what follows isn’t instant freedom it’s limbo. The next few months are a carousel of 6-weekly hospital check-ins, blood tests, scans, and that long, nerve-jangling wait to find out if all this worked. Six weeks until I hear those words hopefully the good kind or face a different road entirely. And trust me, it’s not one paved with yellow bricks.

It’s strange, this in-between space. After months of being told where to be, what to take, when to eat, and when to sleep (or at least try), you suddenly have your days back but your energy and confidence haven’t quite caught up. There’s no roadmap for what happens when the fighting stops. You just… wake up, look in the mirror, and start figuring out who you are now.

Then there’s the question of what comes next. Do I go back into rail the industry that’s shaped my life for over 30 years? Find something closer to home, something less intense? Or maybe, for once in my life, just stop for a bit. Breathe. Heal. Let things settle before I jump on the next train.

Right now, I don’t have the answer and that’s okay. Because after everything, the goal’s no longer to sprint. It’s to recover, rest, rebuild at whatever pace my body allows.

And at the end of this month, I’ve got something far more critical than work on the calendar: my son Jonathan’s wedding. That’s been my focus from the very beginning a fixed point on the horizon when things felt darkest. I’ll be there, suit pressed (probably just about fitting), smiling through the fatigue, grabbing both my grandsons and holding them tight.

Because that’s what this whole battle has been for — to still be here for moments like that. And as I rang that bell, I knew: the fight’s been worth every single second.

🔔 Saved by the Bell

And then came that sound the clang of the end-of-treatment bell. My fourth bell, rung for my mum in heaven, who I know would’ve been standing there smiling and telling me to “keep going, lad.”

It’s hard to describe what that moment feels like. Relief, exhaustion, disbelief all rolled into one. Months of chemo, radiotherapy, and endless hospital corridors distilled into a single chime. The kind of sound that echoes deeper than your ears straight through your chest and out the other side.

For me, it wasn’t just the end of treatment. It was the start of something new. A slow rebuild. A chance to take stock, heal, and figure out what life looks like without daily hospital wristbands or the constant hum of machines. The fight changes shape from survival to recovery but it never truly ends.

And as that bell rang out,

I knew one thing for sure: cancer doesn’t get the last word.- I did!

Take Care

Love

Ash