Tomorrow I start my radiotherapy, some six months after a troubling PSA test, and more than three months since my hormone injection.
The latter has laid waste to my body. My genitals have shrunk considerably, which doesn’t really matter because I now have no interest in using them for recreational purposes. I have cute little man boobs which I try not to look at. My weight is unchanged, which sounds like a positive; except it is the result of extensive muscle loss countered by tummy fat gain.
My nights are interrupted by hot flushes and I find that trivial tasks exhaust me. My energy levels are low and I am frequently sad or depressed for no reason.
You might say that cancer is a good reason to be depressed; but the disease itself has never really worried me. I choose to believe that I will be cured. I have the advantage of being old and retired, so I don’t need to worry about the financial impact (thank you NHS) or being unable to work.
The only unknown is how my old body is going to react to the assault it is about to undergo for the next twenty days. I am about to find out.
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