A day in the life of – Chemoradiation (CRTx)

As I near the end of my chemoradiation, I thought that I would do a day in the life of, with a bit of info about the radiation aspect of it in particular, because it’s interesting as hell.

Most of my recent treatments have been in the morning, which is good on the one hand because you get it out of the way early and then have the day to yourself but on the other, it’s fucking brutal having to fill your bladder so early in the morning and hold it. It also means that I piss like a racehorse for the rest of the day. Adding insult to injury is that despite the best intentions of Zeus in attempting to spare my bladder, it still cops some of the radiation, which means that each piss is accompanied by a not-so gentle reminder I’m unwell, in the form of a hot poker to the bladder.


As per a previous post, the chemo aspect of this side of treatment is pretty easy. I take three of these puppies in the morning and again at night, within half an hour of eating. Sounds simple right? It is, except for “chemo brain”, which is an actual thing I’ve found, which sometimes makes me cut it pretty fine in terms of sneaking into that 30 minute window.

Below is a pic of the tablets:


As discussed, this is a pretty fucking smart drug. It is almost completely inert until such time as my liver converts it to Fluorouracil or 5-FU, which then travels directly to the tumour itself, where it basically tricks the tumour into giving it a hug and then it kicks it in the balls and steals it’s lunch money. OK, so it doesn’t commit robbery, but it does interfere with the DNA/RNA of the cancer cells which prevent it from reproducing. If it can’t reproduce, then the tumour can’t grow. It also works by starving the cancer cells of nutrients they need to just continue being cancer cells. That also leads to cell death and as the DNA is fucked, they can’t replicate and so the tumour shrinks.

Where it really comes into it’s own though is the combined effect it has with radiation. Tumour cells don’t like being irradiated at the best of times, and they like it even less when they’re struggling for life. Kind of like almost drowning, and just when you get to the edge of the pool, some bastard kicks you in the face and holds your head under water until your name is changed to ‘Bob’.

Fortunately, of all the side effects that Xeloda can cause, the only unwelcome visitor I have had to endure is fatigue. The fact that I am coming to the end of the treatment and have escaped the more sinister symptoms is a huge relief, kind of like doing a a really big poo for the first time in months, which also happened recently, but thats another story.

Full to the Brim

An hour or so before treatment, I start to drink as if I’m in a bar and they’ve just called last drinks, or pretty much a Tuesday afternoon.

It takes between 30 and 45 minutes for water to reach the bladder according to various websites. I thought during the first round of CRTx that I had shortened it to around 15 minutes but eventually realised that wasn’t the case, and that it was rather a ‘trickle down’ effect.

Prior to starting treatment, I had a ‘planning CT’ scan. Unfortunately for me, I took their advice to have a ‘full bladder’ to the extreme and turned up resembling the Hoover Dam. I now have a new found respect for my wife, having to endure multiple ultrasounds when pregnant with our spawn. Unlike my wife however, I have become the master of the ‘strategic wee’ and am able to let out little bits at a time so that my bladder is still full enough for treatment, but not so full that the therapists have to wear wellingtons while cleaning up the flood that was my bladder.


Anyways, they take that CT image, and fuse it with the staging MRI I had following the diagnosis to make a incredibly detailed, 3D image of my pelvis. Going throughout that image are a number of different coloured lines showing the directions of beams that Zeus will administer from, and different coloured ‘clouds’ which show the principle radiation zone, as well as the areas that they administer lower doses to, such as areas where my lymph nodes are, to make sure that nothing is left behind. The end result is that my pelvis will resemble Hiroshima at the end of treatment…barely inhabitable and forever stained with the blood of Miguel (I don’t know whether any of the victims of Hiroshima were named Miguel – I suspect not).

Treatment itself is a walk in the park, most days.

I try to avoid eye contact with the other patients in the waiting room except for Terry. He’s a good bloke who has rectal cancer as well. I gave him my paper once after I had finished with it and now I am his best friend. I think he has a ‘radiation shirt’ in much the same vein as I have my ‘chemo’ shirt because he’s always wearing the same thing.

Anyways, it’s somewhat surreal sitting in the waiting room of a radiation oncology clinic. But for two other people, each of whom I saw once and never again, I am by far the youngest person in the room, and by a long stretch as well. People are shocked when I tell them the type of cancer I have because, as you might have noticed, I’m not a 65 year old man.

Then, often as they are about to enter the final round of a game show I’ve been annoying the other patients by answering the questions aloud, before the question is even finished, my name is called and it’s show time.

I lie on a gantry, on my back, place my legs in a custom mould and pull my pants down so that the elastic of my underwear is just covering the top of my shaft. The therapists are kind enough to hold a towel over me so I can retain what little dignity I have left as they shunt me and twist me into the optimum position, and so that the three tattoos they gave me during the planning stage (one on each hip and one on the front of my pelvis, right above my shaft) are lined up with the lasers that bounce around the room.

The lights are off at this stage and it’s kind of like being at a rave, except that I’m not drunk and I need to wee. Once, one of the therapists touched my penis. I’m sure it was ‘deliberately accidental’ but since she is helping a brother out and helping to make me better, I didn’t make a big deal out of it. The lights come on and the therapists flee the bunker like rats from a sinking ship.

On a good day, they only take a couple of quick x-ray images of my insides before the radiation treatment begins. On a bad day, they do a full 360* ‘cone-beam CT scan’ which itself only takes less than a minute, but ends up adding between 3 and 5 minutes to the total time because the therapists then need to check everything.

It’s then a waiting game, and this is by far the worst part. You lie there, perfectly still, looking at the illuminated ‘Caution – Radiation imminent’ sign near the door and hope that it remains illuminated. If my bladder isn’t full enough or I haven’t dropped the kids off at the pool and my ass resembles a Tarago then the light goes off, the door opens and I know that I’m in for a long day.

On good days, and fortunately I’ve only had a handful of bad ones, you feel the gantry being moved remotely and it locks into place. Then the fun stuff starts.

Most of you reading the blog will have seen the video I posted of my mate Zeus and I spending some quality time together. In total, he does a full rotation, stopping 7 times to hit me with his rhythm stick. When the radiation is being administered, it sounds like a swarm of robotic bees. Interspersed with that mechanical drone is a grinding noise as the less in the collimator move, shaping the radiation beam so that it hits the tumour, and doesn’t completely napalm the rest of my pelvis.

Zeus is a linear accelerator, or LINAC for short. He is, quite simply, a fucking marvellous bit of gear. He’s huge, think the size of a truck, but also nimble as Jarryd Hayne as he revolves around me. Basically, he makes x-ray beams, in the form of photons, and high-velocity ones at that. The photons are accelerated from the body of the machine, into the arm which holds the head, before being directed through a series of buffers and into my ass.

Inside Zeus’ head is what called a ‘multi leaf collimator’, sounds fucking impressive, right? Below is a picture of what I’m talking about, because it makes it easier for you to grasp if you can see what I’m talking about:


The ‘leaves’ are those metal stick looking things and they move. As you can see from the image above, that machine is probably irradiating an apple. In all seriousness, those leaves move while the radiation is being administered, to shape the beam to make sure it goes where it’s supposed to, and doesn’t go where it’s not.

Each pass Zeus makes lasts between 25 and 33 seconds. After he does that for the seventh time, the warning light goes off, the door opens, I pull my pants up, jump off the gantry, exchange pleasantries and sprint to the toilet, or, if I have done a strategic wee before hand and don’t feel like I’m about to do the reverse Moses, I ask mundane questions which allow me to provide the information contained herein.

Anyways guys, this was a longer post, and if you’ve made it to the end, you should be applauded.

Until next time, be kind to your colon, and each other…

3 thoughts on “A day in the life of – Chemoradiation (CRTx)

  1. Thank you. I am onky 38 recently diagnosed with stage 3 rectal cancer. A mum to a crazy three year old. Been searching blog after blog for sone understanding of this world I am in. Am having chemorad at mo. Your blog is so positive and love your dry sense of humour. Thank you for sharing

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks Claire, very nice of you to say.

      There are a few ‘blue’ posts as well but I like to think that there are more up ones than down.

      It’s a rough trip but the alternative isn’t worth considering!

      I wish you all the very best and if you have any questions, feel free to email me at geoffakidd@gmail.com.

      Be kind to your colon, and give that little terror of yours lots of hugs 😊


    2. Ah thank you. You had ne in stitches and it was like reading exactly how iv been feeling. I look forward to reading the rest of your blog.


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