I’ve finished my first full week of radiotherapy. That means I’ve had eight sessions, with another 22 to go. Next week I have just four blasts as the machinery is being serviced tomorrow.
Thus far I don’t have any real pain from the radiation although, according to what I’ve read, that doesn’t start to kick in until you’ve had 15-20 sessions. It’s the last ones that are really sore. My saliva glands are really beginning to dry up though. This means my tongue generally feels like an escaped hedgehog in my mouth. It also leaves me with an almost unending tickly cough. According to the throat specialist the cough is somehow a good thing, although even he admits it is annoying. And he doesn’t have to live with it. (That’s Barbara’s lucky reward, presumably for something nasty she did in a past life.)
Away from the daily routine we thought we’d at last found something interesting in the neighbourhood. There’s a fairly historic monastery nearby dating back to the Moorish control of Mallorca. As we walked to the hospital we kept seeing it advertised a weekend market. Today we went. There must have been at least six stalls all with never-to-be-repeated offers on VHS tapes, escaped library books and very handmade jewellery.
There was, however, some interesting restoration work. Who’d have thought Artex dated back to the 13th century?