Radio-holiday-mapping

Radiotherapy isn’t available on the island where I live. It simply doesn’t make sense financially. It’s easier—and probably cheaper—to send patients to London for a few weeks during treatment than to maintain a unit locally.

From my perspective, this isn’t a problem. At least there’s something to look forward to, and this period won’t be just about burning my body. It’s more than three weeks in England—“a bit of a break,” or as one of my colleagues joked, amused by my enthusiasm: radio-holiday.

Of course, I understand the risks of the treatment perfectly well, and I’m not trying to downplay it or approach it naively. I just think that with a diagnosis like this in my pocket, I simply can’t afford not to appreciate whatever I can, while I still can. And spending some time around cultural life has always been my thing. I also miss being seen as a regular person rather than miss Cancer. In London, where no one knows me, at least, I can just be one of the millions.

Thankfully, I won’t have to spend this time in a hospital—which would make me far less enthusiastic—but in accommodation near a hospital in central London. From there, I’ll need to go in for daily treatments, which will only take up a small part of each day. I don’t know what level of exhaustion or side effects will come with it, and honestly, maybe it’s better that way. I don’t want to get lost in ominous predictions—I see no benefit in that. So far, this mindset has worked for me, and I intend to stick to it.

The treatment itself only starts in three weeks. For now, I just had to pop over for a day for the preparation.

By the time I reached the hospital, however, I felt genuine empathy for those who are weakened either by cancer itself or by previous treatments. How on earth do they manage this? Especially if they can’t afford taxis… Flight, landing, walking, escalators, terminal transfers, trains, buses, more walking…

Since my appointment was in the afternoon, I spent about an hour in a shopping centre near one of the stops, but even there I was already close to collapsing from exhaustion—and all I really did was eat lunch. The actual appointments hadn’t even started yet. This wouldn’t be trivial even with someone accompanying you, let alone alone.

London is overwhelmingly crowded if you’re not used to it. Everything is digital, everything you have to do yourself—and figure out how to do it as well. I used to live here in the early 2010s, but now nothing works the way it used to.

For example, I managed to waste quite a bit of money on transport just by buying tickets from a machine and automatically clicking through when it warned me that paying with a bank card at the gate would be cheaper. By the time I realised what it meant and how it worked, I’d already bought half my daily tickets. And then I even forgot to use one, thanks to my newly acquired knowledge, which led to further waste. I wonder how elderly people—who make up a large portion of cancer patients—manage to figure all this out? If I wanted to be morbid, I could add that this is where I might start appreciating that my chances of becoming a little old lady have recently dropped significantly. Not funny. I know.

By the time I arrived at the hospital, I was just hoping the preparation would happen lying down.

Ever since an insensitive, blunt doctor traumatised me during my very first oncology appointment, hospitals—especially departments like this—trigger a strange, hard-to-explain feeling in me. I almost feel nauseous. I want to run. Anywhere. To the end of the world, into some small hut where I could live out whatever time I have left—doesn’t matter how, just not here.

And yet, it didn’t even happen here. So far, they’ve been kind. They even brought my appointment forward because I arrived early. That hasn’t happened to me in ages. Usually I wait endlessly. But even a short wait feels unbearable.

I look around. You can almost cut the suffering with a knife. Every headscarf-wearing face stares at the floor in resignation or waits with closed eyes. Waiting? Not really. Just… enduring. What’s the alternative? There aren’t even any windows in this radiotherapy section—nothing to look at, no trees, no birds. No internet either. All adds to the misery. I count the minutes and wonder whether everyone’s face looks grey because of the lighting, or because of the treatment, or if it’s just my mind casting this whole scene in something ominous.

Then a chirpy radiographer pops out. It’s my turn. For a moment I wonder what those who have been waiting much longer think as I’m called in immediately—but no one moves. No one even looks up. I feel relieved as the cheerful girl takes me in. A drop of life. A drop of hope.

Inside, I have to state—again—that I’m not pregnant. And even explain why I think so. Understandable, but it still feels like they’re stepping into my private sphere, as if even my bedroom secrets are slowly getting stamped and approved by nodding hospital staff. I’d love to ask back, “and how are things going in your bedroom?” But I remain civil. It’s not their fault. Just the situation.

After signing what feels like yet another version of my possible fate, we move into the CT room.

There are two cheerful, impossibly young women. Normally I might worry about their experience, but right now—even if they were still in school—I’d rather be with them than back in that waiting room that feels like a house of mourning.

They’re kind. They offer me coffee. They explain the process. Big breath in, hold for 30 seconds so the heart doesn’t get damaged—how reassuring—and then breathe out. Don’t worry, we’ll practice.

Then they casually mention I’ll get three small tattoos. As if it’s just a side note. My mind immediately goes to the last time I saw something like that—our dog getting tattooed in the 90s, without asking for it. Even that isn’t done anymore. And on humans… well. Never mind.

Tattoo. Great.

It feels like I’ve lost the rights to direct and write the script of my own life.

We practise. Deep breath. Hold for five seconds, then out. We go in increments of five, but sometimes I have to repeat it because the amount of air isn’t right. Who knew you could take a deep breath the wrong way? By twenty I feel like screaming that I can hold it for fifty if I have to, just let’s move on already and let me go! But I pretend to be patient. Three weeks is far too long to sabotage myself this early. By thirty, I regret ever thinking about fifty. I won’t be planning any free diving adventures—just hoping my heart and lungs make it through this one.

Okay. Now into the machine.

For now, I’m lying there half-naked, arms above my head, in the middle of the room. Completely still. Three of them adjust me, examine me, as if I were some kind of sculpture whose fate they are deciding. I’ve read so many times how exposed, how vulnerable—almost humiliating—this can feel after someone has been cut open or had a breast removed. Laid out like some kind of trophy.

Thankfully, I’m more or less at peace with the result of my surgery, so I didn’t feel humiliated. Just… painfully alone.

These three women chat away, trying to lighten the mood—or maybe it’s just routine to them, maybe they don’t fully feel the weight of the situation anymore. Who knows. It doesn’t matter. I don’t even hear what they’re saying. It’s just background noise.

Right then, I am completely alone with my fate. With the thought that if I don’t breathe correctly, it’s my heart that will pay the price. And I’m the only one lying there exposed, bare-chested, under watchful eyes—like some kind of Eve who doesn’t get a fig leaf.

There’s a kind of loneliness only those who’ve been through something like this understand. Even if someone is there holding your hand, it doesn’t reach your soul. This is something you have to do alone. Something you have to survive alone. We come into the world with this loneliness, and we leave with it too—we just spend our lives trying to forget until something like this happens.

They say men can think about ‘nothing’. Not a man…I’ve never been able to do that, but in a situation like this, it would have been a very useful skill. Instead, I found myself fantasising about snapping, throwing everything to the ground and storming out. Fuck it all. Fuck cancer. Enough already.

But the thought became so tempting that it was hard to talk myself out of it. By the time I managed, it was over. And although by the end I couldn’t feel my arms anymore, I did manage the 30 seconds.

On the second try.

They reassured me I did really well. I just need to practise holding my arms up, because it will take longer in the real sessions. I don’t know if practising will make it easier, but I already suspect this won’t be an easy ride.

Then came the promised tattoo. Three tiny dots. It didn’t hurt, you can barely see them. But somehow, it scratched my soul more than anything else. It feels a bit ridiculous to fixate on this after a major breast surgery that didn’t affect me nearly as much. But my grandmother’s strict voice is keep on popping into my head who was a conservative soul, convinced that tattoos were a signal of poor choices and a criminal past.

It does not reflect today’s reality at all, I know…

In fact, I appreciate the artistic aspect enough that my phone holds several AI-generated breast tattoo designs, which I once considered as a way to hide my scars if I ever felt insecure about them. But that would have been my choice. This isn’t—and that gives my grandmother’s conditioning an immense power.

Now I am marked in a way that goes against my choice. I had to accept poisoning, burning, and being cut open—parts of my body, and of my femininity, taken away—after becoming ill, which of course wasn’t my choice either. I’m starting to feel exhausted from this loss of control.

I really need a little positive energy here, and that “radio-holiday” I keep fantasising about—to be a relatively good one.

No kids. No random people to give me the draining ‘cancer look’ in the supermarket. No boring daily family chores. Just me and London. The city life I never truly liked in its entirety , but perhaps exactly what I need right now. Perhaps this can be a little lemonade I make out of my recently handed lemons.