Today is day 77 since diagnosis and today is the day I went to my chemo induction group. I know it is foolish but I found myself having a bath and getting out a suit and tie, determined to look okay, regular and being seen to make an effort. It made me smile at myself and reminded me of two things. Firstly the Danish Labour party leader, who I think became prime minister, who when challenged by a comrade about the message that wearing designer clothes and looking like a model gave to the working class, she reply instantly, “We can’t all look like shit”. The second thought was of the advice given by Deborah James in her book F*** Cancer: How to face the big C, live your life and still be yourself. She gives a vivid account of living in pyjamas and getting smelly until a friend got her showered, into clothes and out of the house. She is very clear that for her putting on lipstick and high heels definitely helped her to cope. I may not be up for lipstick and high heels, at least not yet, but I get the sense of making the effort and being kind to myself. So thank you Deborah, you helped today.

I arrived with my partner at the appointment time and sat with several other couples in a waiting area until the nurse called through to a small seminar room. A room that the nurse at one point explained had been “lavendered” in response to a service user survey that had noted how drab the environment was. One wall was an entire landscape of lavender in bloom and vividly purple. I could understand how that might be difficult to live with if I had to work there day in day out. The nurse was a lovely person who smiled and told us all that we were going to get her talking to us a group, ten minutes as individuals and of course our first appointment dates. She also informed us that two people in the group needed to have up to date blood samples taken. We looked at each other and wondered who the lucky two were. It felt like a form of Russian roulette.

The nurse handed out the letters for our GPs with our first appointment dates on them. Firstly mine said I was due 21 cycles for six days each, which was a bit of a shock until my partner pointed out that it had been filled in wrong. Not a confidence booster, but by then the fire alarm had started up and the nurses where not sure if it was real or not. The nurse continues until it became came clear that the alarm was in radiology down stairs. “That’s fine” said the nurse “its the people down stairs burning, we will carry on”. Thankfully the alarm stopped after a while leaving it to the imagination what mayhem had occurred in radiology.

The second shock was that my first chemo appointment is TOMORROW!

That was not in the plan. I am thrown, I had plans which did not include being poisoned, at least not yet. I coped as usual by taking copious notes from the talk and noting all the advice and the accompanying shopping list that went with it. Before we saw the nurse for my individual ten minutes I had ordered an “in your ear thermometer”, bamboo soft children’s toothbrushes, several litres of mouthwash and bottles of hand sanitiser. Thank goodness for Amazon prime is all I can say.

We went to see the nurse for our ten minutes after having taken advantage of the free coffee and biscuits. You know it serious if the cash strapped nhs lay on refreshments. This was a quick whizz round the ward with its rows of recliners and drips, reminding me of the dialysis unit I had spent sessions in during a three week period in Jamaica in March this year. The difference was that this felt more industrial and battery hen like, but that is a result of the huge need the service is trying to fulfil.

Nurse had one more surprise for me. I asked about the steroids I knew I was going to get and was expecting to have to take a pill a day. She rummaged and came up with a box of 28 Dexamethasone. I looked at the label it said boldly, “Take FOUR tablets TWICE DAILY. for three days starting the morning of the day before chemotherapy”. The alert amongst you will have spotted that I had already missed my first dose. Well this is a fun start thinks I. We quickly negotiated a speedy first dose and one for the evening.

We walk out to the lift and descend to the ground floor and note the chocolate and drinks machine, the Macmillan information area, including a wig and head wear parlour and the fruit stall out side the oncology building. Home, via a quiet meal and my first dose of Dexamethasone, where I scamper off to the GP surgery to hand in my letter , book my next testosterone killing injection and provide some dosage information so that I can reorder electronically.

So I return home not sure how much of an influence the drugs are having on me, stopping on the way to get a paper ,the largest box of Maltesers I could find and to write this. Priority in my life now is to drink two litres of water a day, carry on my life as normally as possible and not to panic.

Tomorrow is the start of the consequences of my decision to have chemotherapy, it is the real start of the journey. I plan for the worst and hope for the best, but will be really miffed if there is no fun along the way.