中Of all the side effects, mucositis and the pain that entails were the hardest to ignore. Having lived with them for over two months, they always made their presence felt in my waking hours following any slightest movements of my mouth or tongue. Thankfully, my sleeping quality has improved since the saliva started thinning and stopped choking me. I’m back in the “business class” cabin! I never thought I would treasure something as simple as lying down flat for a good night’s sleep, but for a few weeks, it really was a privilege denied to me!
As prominent as it was, mucositis was actually quietly subsiding. How could I tell? The dosage of painkillers was a good proxy without having to directly examine the ulcers. The use of pain relief started to fall from the second week post-radiotherapy (RT), according to my records. By the time it’s week 3 post-RT, following the magical experience of waking up to plain-tasting water, I pretty much stopped using any. The pain of course was still vividly felt, and it’s nothing about being stoic, but it was tolerable and manageable for what I needed to do (mainly to eat and drink), so I felt it’s time to drop this dependency.
My records also showed how restraint my use of pain relief was. For every day during the seven-week long “course”, I stayed well below the maximum dose, thank goodness! Blessed was my liver, which was spared from working extra hard to metabolise the drugs.
Before long, four weeks elapsed post-RT. Who’s doing the follow-up at this important checkpoint? Of course it’s my consultant surgeon Mr J.
I couldn’t have looked more different just one month into recovery. By now it’s early winter, but I was wearing lighter layers and smarter outfits than the autumnal RT days, back to the “staff” look, basically. I briskly dashed down the hospital corridors, far removed from the day when I dragged my feet with the RT mesh mask “souvenir” in tow. It’s night and day!
I arrived thirty minutes early for my meeting with Mr J. Time to fulfil my promise at the RT department.
The new receptionist at the department thought I was attending my daily treatment session, so was a little intrigued when I said I didn’t have an appointment. Are ex-patients’ visits really so uncommon? I mentioned a few radiographers’ names so she could figure out the team which took care of me. It happened that they’re all busy with patients, but could be free later in the day. Ah, that’s fine, let's swap the order. I left some biscuits brought for the radiographers with the receptionist, and told her that I would pop back over after my meeting with Mr J.
Hello again, ENT Outpatients waiting room!
This is my fifth visit.
First visit —— pre-diagnosis, with no idea about what laid in store;
second —— diagnosis day, from unease to shell-shock;
third —— in between the operation and RT, no Mr J, unremarkable......;
forth —— right at the deep end of RT, with Mr J’s famous line, “you’ll definitely get better!”
How about this time?
Mr J knew straight away I was in pretty good shape as soon as I stepped into his consultation room.
With the operation and RT behind me, setting aside the discussion on the chance of relapse, I asked,
now, all residual cancer cells must have been eradicated, even though we can’t really prove it? So I’m now technically cancer-free, right?
Mr J knew exactly what the scientist in me was getting at.
No, not “technically”, you’re simply cancer-free! From now on, just enjoy life and go about with your normal activities. When I see you in three months’ time, you should be feeling even better.
Ah, he’s right. Even the most comprehensive health check can’t say with absolute certainty that not a single cancer cell remains in my body. Unlike scientific research, in clinical medicine it is often unrealistic or even impossible to eliminate every shred of the smallest of doubts. There has to be some leeway. Otherwise, would any patient ever be declared “cured” of a disease by clinicians? One has to live, come on!
Right, cancer-free......
I was expecting a lecture from Mr J on post-RT care, cancer surveillance and whatever else I needed to pay attention to. But no. He just dealt me this good news, plain and simple!
As we said our goodbyes, he sent his regards to my parents. Again. Only him.
Back to the RT department. No introduction needed this time. The receptionist quickly fetched my old friends.
“Hello! I’m back!”
“Hey, you’re looking great! How’s life?”
“Not bad at all. My energy levels are good and the side effects are gradually subsiding. Not quite back to ‘normal’ yet, but definitely much better than a month ago. I just had a follow-up with my surgeon, he declared me cancer-free!”
At the time, the country was in the second COVID-19 lockdown. I was so lucky to have completed the operation and RT in between the two lockdowns. Hospitals are high-risk environments and many medical professionals unfortunately caught the virus at work.
“So, lockdown again...... are you all OK?”
“Yes, we’re all well! Fingers crossed!”
“That’s good to hear! Here are some biscuits for your afternoon tea. I can’t quite enjoy these yet but I hope you like them!”
Senior radiographer D joined our socially-distanced little huddle.
D, you said you rarely get to see patients again after their last day of treatment. So, here I am.
“Oh, it was a casual comment but you took it seriously!”
The radiographers were my teammates. Together we completed the RT “project” in 30 days. There would be no “cancer-free” milestone without them.
Time to go home. By this, I mean my own home. Finally I’m fit enough to drive home and look after myself again.
So on this very day —— one month post-RT —— not only did I regain my independence, I also suddenly lost the cancer patient identity.