Skipping the light fandango with my guardian angels

TAKE aim, fire! My first encounter with Oldham 1, with lead radiographer Julie Davies, left, and therapy radiographer Jennifer Hunt

Chronicle managing editor David Whaley is sharing his throat cancer treatment experiences with readers.

Part four: under the zapper...


BEFORE the first of the 16 radiotherapy treatments got to work on my vocal cord tumour, Christie Oldham suggested we took advantage of their open-evening sessions.


These have been receiving excellent feedback from new cancer patients, since they offer a sort of pre-flight guided tour of the unit to explain to demystify what can seem a daunting experience.

Four of us were on the teatime visit, all with our partners, and Sian Burley of the Macmillan Cancer Information and Support Centre reassured us there would be plenty of help at every turn.

Radiographer Sarah Owens took us from the reception/cafe area through to the heart of Christie Oldham, which actually only occupies the ground floor of the building to the left of the Royal Oldham Hospital main entrance. The rest of the building is for ROH use, but to those locals treated at Oldham this is a massive boost, since it avoids the daily trudge across the city to the main Christie Hospital in Didsbury. I feel lucky to be being treated in Oldham.

Sarah showed us through to the inner reception, to which everyone reports on arrival every day. Beyond this are the consulting rooms and beyond that, the two “big guns”, the radiotherapy machines.

These are imaginatively called Oldham 1 and Oldham 2, each controlled by a bank of computers at which the radiographers monitor every step.

And so to our first encounter with Oldham 1. A large arm reaches out, but the machine is something of an iceber since nine tenths of its bulk lies behind the wall.

We were shown how patients are prepared on the bed. There are different set-ups depending on the treatment plan and type of tumour.

Sarah then moved the machine to show us what would happen. She answered our questions: how close it gets to you, how noisy is it?

In fact the machine is fairly undramatic. It makes little noise and you would hardly know anything is happening but for a quiet buzzing. An alarm sounds as staff leave the room for safety reasons, then there is the whirring noise as motors move the head into position before the buzzing begins.

Staff play background music - patients can bring their own on a player of some kind; this was to play a comforting role as my treatment began.

We had a few days to wait for the first session and though it may sound strange, going to the funeral of a good friend that morning gave me renewed strength for the fight ahead.

I was privileged to be among the hundreds of family, friends and sporting colleagues who said farewell to mesothelioma battler Trevor Lewis. He had been given a few months, lasted over 18 and walked his daughter down the aisle. Asbestos really is a bastard.

I had to duck the copious amounts of alcohol consumed at Royton CC in his honour afterwards as I had a date with a mask and Oldham 1.

We met radiographer Wesley Doherty in one of the consultation rooms and he again outlined our position, possible side effects and what was about to happen. A few minutes later I was in with Oldham 1 and three radiographers.

I don’t have any claustrophobic fears but can see why anyone who does might need stress-control training to ease their tensions. Lead radiographer Julie Davies explained that the first session was the longest under the mask, since two scans were needed to double-check all the measurements, which have a tolerance of only 3mm.

We were bang on. Mould room manager Tony Stenton and his team had done a top job.

After the scans the radiographers proceeded with my two-field attack — in other words, I’m being zapped from either side of my neck, and where the beams meet gets the maximum dose. As I heard the footsteps fade and the alarm go, I was alone. But I wasn’t.

In the background Procol Harum’s “Whiter Shade of Pale” was playing.

This was the music played on the organ by top local golfer Jane Fletcher to signal her keyboard practice was nearly over and her parents could start tea. It’s the first anniversary of Jane’s funeral on Friday. She was taken from us by breast cancer at 48, and the melody of that song echoed around the packed church that day.

Coincidence, maybe. But I am more than happy to have such local sporting superstars as Trevor and Jane as my guardian angels.

As for the treatment, there is no sensation, no pain. A few minutes later the team was back, removing the mask from its stiff clips and setting me free; bleary-eyed, but free.

“One down and 15 to go,” we reported to my sister.

“We knew it would go OK, we heard ‘Big Yellow Taxi’ on the radio this morning,” she replied. Dad whistled Joni Mitchell’s song every time he got up to answer the front door.

He’s been gone 10 years now. Funny how it only comes on the radio when we need it most.

Keep smiling!