Week 1 – Week 2 – Week 3 – Week 4 – Week 5 – Week 6 – Week 7 – Week 8 – Week 9/10
FLASH!
PET scan on Monday 2nd February 2026, ten weeks after last treatment, came back ALL CLEAR!
Breaking News:
Feeding Tube removed on Friday 16 January 2026, at Lismore Base in a 30 minute procedure Upper GI endoscopy.
Effects suffered during first three weeks:
Week one – Tired mostly from getting used to the system. Constipated by chemicals and pills. Insomnia – awake at 3 am
Week two – Dry mouth – makes chewing difficult. Sticky saliva – Loss of taste –reduces appetite.
Week three – Ulcers under tongue and top gums. Croaky voice – Loss of facial hair – beard’s going.
Week one:
Monday was a public holiday which I used to settle into a beachfront unit, a 15 minute drive to the hospital. On Tuesday, using my special parking pass, put me into the treatment area fast. Had a four hour session of drip fed chemo. Followed by my first radiation dose while strapped tightly to a hard base by a full mask over my face and shoulders while a new machine whirls around delivering precision rays to the tumour. Wacked by that, I went back to my beachside digs and collapsed till dinner time. Slept poorly that night probably by the steroids given to me.
Wednesday two consultations gave me heaps more information, followed by another dose of radiation. OnThursday I had a double dose of radiation. One in the morning, another six hours later to make up for Monday’s public holiday. Again, that zapped my energy. A final dose on Friday before I packed up and drove back home. Ending the week worn out meeting people, getting to know the system, and finding my way.
Welcome to Week Two update:
The big news of the week is that we moved into new digs. For the remaining six weeks, we’ll be staying in a two-bedroom flat located central to Kingscliff with 180-degree ocean views and cooling sea breezes. An older place, done up with each bedroom having its own bathroom plus a new kitchen. A ten-minute walk to the supermarket, ten-minutes to Cudgen Creek, eight minutes by car to the hospital. It’s hilly country, but I’ll try riding my push-bike next week.
Bloods taken on Monday to determine how well my kidneys function, so they can adjust the dose of Tuesday’s chemotherapy. Then a consultation with the chemo doctor, followed by a session of radiation. Chemo sensitises the cancer cells, making them more reactive to the radiation. A side effect, it lowers the body’s immune system, so hygiene is extra important. Two showers a day. Clean nails, no cuts please. They may not heal.
Tuesday was a big day. Four hours in the chair, receiving three litres of chemo via a drip. Toilet trips needed. That’s followed by a dose of radiation. I’m whacked. Had to go to the unit and lie down for three hours. Slept poorly that night. The rest of the week was okay. Twenty-minute consultations every day. Nutritionists, speech therapists, social workers all want to know how I’m coping. Information overload – by very helpful folks wanting the best outcome with the least pain.
A dose of radiation each day. Fast procedure, ten minutes in the mask locked solidly to a hard base while an amazing machine whirls around me, firing radiation beams into me from every angle. This new VMAT machine, or Volumetric Modulated Arc Therapy, is a modern radiation technique that delivers a high dose of radiation to a tumour while minimizing damage to surrounding healthy tissue. As it rotates, the machine automatically changes the shape and intensity of the radiation beam to match the shape of the tumour. The entire treatment is delivered in two rotations, back and forth without stopping.
I must take care of my skin with creams to slow down the surface burns. This process is cumulative. Mouth and throat ulcers will start to appear in weeks three and four. A feeding tube had been inserted into my stomach weeks before chemo began, just in case I can’t swallow whole food. .
Sleep insomnia around 3 AM when my brain kicks in. A lot on my mind. But I’m getting enough rest. Losing my taste for food. Dry mouth makes chewing unpleasant. Eating’s becoming a chore. Next week, I’ll try my meal more wet, like more liquid veggie stews with meat.
Jude and I launched our double kayak on Thursday for a relaxing paddle up Cudgen Creek. Crystal clear water in the mangrove swamps with a myriad of beautiful birds around us. We passed by a fledgling eagle in a branch near enough to touch it. We overdid the paddle, the incoming tide and sea breeze taking us too far, resulting in a solid workout getting back.
Judith and Jack’s 57th anniversary – Sunday, 19th October
Big day today! Jack and Judith are celebrating our 57th anniversary with the family at the Federal Hotel beer garden in Alstonville.
It’s amazing how Judith put up with me all those years.
We made life an adventure. Did everything together. We became a team.
Explore Nature, be amazed by the creation and enjoy the solace. We’re here not to build colossal edifices to ourselves, but to connect to the Nature and the other creatures and learn so much more about the magical creation of Earth.
Back for another week of treatment tomorrow.
The Binder Clan Downunder
Week 3 — Almost Halfway and Feeling Positive
I’m home — at my desk, looking out over the wide Richmond River, grey and ruffled this morning by an overnight southerly change. It’s cool at last, a welcome break after weeks of hot, dry days that bleached the lawn and scattered it with leaves.
Week three went well. I’m now almost halfway through treatment, and the good news is the cancerous lump is smaller. The treatment is working.
Monday morning, I drove north to the Tweed Valley Hospital alone — Judith had other appointments this week. The hour’s drive on the new motorway is such a treat compared to the twisty backroads full of potholes I would be taking if I were receiving treatment at Lismore Base Hospital. From our rented two-bedroom apartment to the new Tweed Valley Hospital is a quiet five-minute suburban drive. Money well spent — and meant I could start treatment three weeks earlier.
First stop: pathology, for blood tests so Dr Pawan Bajaj, my chemo oncologist, can adjust the dose based on my kidney function — which dipped to low this week. Then back to the flat to unload my clobber before returning for a 2 pm radiation session.
By now, I’m on first-name terms with the technicians. John greeted me as usual — cheerful banter before I recite my name, address, and treatment area — then up onto the narrow treatment bed. Once my head and knees are precisely positioned, the mask comes down and locks tight. Now, my head can’t move a millimetre. In the beginning, it was claustrophobic.
The team leaves the room, a siren sounds, and the process begins. The techs usually play loud hip-hop or funk, but this time I asked for silence. What bliss. I drifted off to a calm, quiet place for the ten-minute process. During it, I caught a glimpse of the radiation head and noticed a multi-notched shield where the green ray emits. Afterwards, I asked the cheeky sailor-girl tech if that changed the beam’s shape — she said yes, it’s a multi-finger shield that constantly reshapes the beam as the radiation head rotates 360 degrees around my neck, and then back again.
Susie — Captain of Chimere
Terrible Tuesday started pleasantly enough with a visit from the radiation registrar, who brought information on immunotherapy. A dear friend from our world-sailing days, Susie — Captain of Chimere — had written to suggest that form of treatment after a family member’s success with it. I’d thought it might be a more natural approach, but it turns out science has found a way to use the body’s own immune system to fight these runaway growths. The registrar explained that my neck and throat cancer doesn’t fit the protocol — the gold standard is still radiation and chemotherapy — but immunotherapy might be considered if this treatment isn’t 100 percent successful or there’s a recurrence.
Grace_Chemo Nurse
I’d taken my massive anti-nausea pill an hour earlier, so into the big, well-padded chemo chair for four hours on the drip. Grace, ever smiling, slipped the cannula in so smoothly I barely felt it — she’s got the knack.
First up, a litre of magnesium/steroid mix to ramp up the metabolism. That takes an hour. Then Grace dons her protective gown and thick gloves to handle the black-bagged chemo — the toxic stuff, which takes another hour, including my first toilet break. The last bag, I’m not entirely sure what it is — maybe just saline to flush the veins. After four hours, I’m free — straight to my second radiation session of the week.
Late in the afternoon, I drove carefully back to the flat, absolutely whacked. The rest of the day I rested, trying to regain strength. That night, little or no sleep — I think the steroids keep my mind ticking over.
Wednesday, I’m low-energy but it’s an easier day — just one radiation treatment, then home for a snooze. I sleep much better that night and wake up full of energy, ready to dive back into my projects.
Friday is Freedom Day. After my last radiation treatment, I pack my clobber and hit the beautiful M1 for a relaxing drive home to my loving wife.
End of Week 3 – Thank you everyone who sent kind messages of encouragement. Each one lifts my spirits and keeps me steering a steady course. Onward to Week 4!
Week 4 went swimmingly — and I can finally say I’m over the halfway mark.
Three more weeks of treatment to go, then another three for recovery before the big assessments begin. That’s when we’ll find out whether we’ve knocked this cancer out for good. With a PET scan (a CT scan with a tracer dye that cancer cells love to absorb) will highlight anything that shouldn’t be there. Fingers firmly crossed.
The Beard… Well, Parts of It
This week’s most visible casualty: my beard. Radiation beams don’t care about style — they’ve carved a patchy path through my grey whiskers. It may come back; it may not. Either way, it’s a small price in the grand scheme of things.
Voice Lost, Voice Found
My voice decided to go on holiday last weekend. It’s back now, but sounding like a frog with a hangover. More challenging, though, has been the skin reaction on my neck — especially the right side. Think painful peeling sunburn, only deeper.
I’ve worked my way through a pharmacy’s worth of creams:
Sorbolene — soothing but not strong enough
Flamigel — better, kept things moist and healing
StrataXRT — the premium stuff, expensive, forms a protective film and actually seems to be making a difference
Radiation dermatitis
Each morning I wash it off to give the radiation a clear shot. That routine is becoming a ritual.
TerribleTuesday was terrible: The steroids to hype up my system and anti-nausa pills before Chemo won’t let me fall off to sleep, so I’m very weary on Wednesday. Best sleeps are at home in my own bed without those meds.
Swallowing: Still Winning
The really good news? No new ulcers. I’m still eating normally, which isn’t always the case for throat cancer patients at this stage. Some start using their feeding tube around week four. Mine remains a backup — and for that, I’m very grateful. Keeping the swallowing muscles active is said to help recovery, so every bite feels like a small victory.
Let’s Talk Constipation (Because Why Not?)
Here’s the less glamorous part: The meds and treatment are slowing everything down.
And by everything, I mean digestion. It happened twice this month — a full week each time. Miserable.
This week’s breakthrough came thanks to a nurse who gave me direct, no-nonsense advice: “Hit it hard.”
So I took her advice. Tripled the dose of the constipation drink. The next morning — bliss. Complete evacuation. A triumph only someone in this situation truly appreciates. I floated through the rest of the day.
Heading Home
Now I’m packing up to return to my beautiful wife and my own bed, hopefully for a long, peaceful sleep. The routine is intense, the side effects are real, but progress is progress — and halfway feels like a mountain climbed.
Onwards! Thanks for following this journey. I very much appreciate your words of encouragement. They help me cope.
Judith will be joing me for Week 5. Everyone treating me wants to meet this extraordinary lady.
Week 5 – Treatment passing quickly.
5 Down – Only 2 to Go!
Week 5 passed swiftly with Judith accompanying me to treatment at the Tweed Valley Hospital. I suffered no further ulcers, although my facial hair has been lost where the radiation beam strikes my face. But the worse result is the painful radiation dermatitis at the two major beam strike zones. They have greatly worsened. And, as well, an inability to synchronise my swallowing forces me to frequently clear my throat. My nutritionist suggests I take smaller sips, or use a straw. She’s concerned liquid could enter my lungs that could cause an infection.
My nutritionist and speech therapist
At the beginning of the week, to redefine the target area they CT scanned my neck while I was in my mask. Next week, I will start a new program targeting the remaining cancer. The final two weeks will be the hardest with the accumulated effects.
Each week, in addition to the nutritionist, I see a speech therapist, Chemo oncologist, and Radiation oncologist plus a radiation nurse. Each records a detail account.
We are so fortunate to be Australians where excellent medical treatment is available at an affordable cost.
And, in my case, I’m at a new facility staffed by cheerful folks who not only offer excellent advice; they deliver it in a positive way that lightens the burden of the treatment. Each treatment day, I look forward to seeing my new friends.
Georgia – Only seventeen but she manages the radiation check-in desk ever so well. One of my favorites.
Week 6 – Treatment passing quickly.
Only 1 week to Go!
Week six went quickly. It also went very well on the new programming of radiation, required now that the cancerous lump has shrunk so much. Hey, my throat almost looks normal again!
I am really lucky that no further ulcers have developed. The one under my tongue has grown larger, and causes some pain, but I can still eat whole foods. Although I require my food to be rather sloppy wet – to help it slip down my throat. This last week, I started suffering from having to clear my throat far more often. And I choke more often. I must be careful.
But, the major drama is the radiation burns around my neck where the beam passes. It’s gotten much worse this week. I’m treating the area with a combination of ointments: StrataXRT, a thin film that locks in moisture, and Flaminal Hydro, a thicker gel combining a gentle debridement and antibacterial action that nourishes the skin. I use the thin film during the busier daytime and the thick stuff at night.
I am amazed and delighted to still be surviving without taking pain relief. And, finger-crossed, with only one more week of treatment, I hope to get through with no need to use my feeding tube or use the mouth anaesthetic on the ulcer to continue eating whole foods. And that my skin burns don’t erupt .
Unfortunately, six weeks of radiation therapy is affecting my energy levels. I’m now tired much of the time and needing to lie down for an hour to clear my head after treatments. Terrible Tuesdays, my Chemo day, I rest most of the afternoon and sleep poorly at night with the steroids they give me. And that, coupled with my need to get up several times a night to void my bladder, means I’m not getting enough rest. Especially, as I drink water on those nightly risings to help flush the Chemo out of my system.
The radiation therapy accumulates and I’ve been told it will continue to act on my body for several weeks after treatment ends. My loss of taste could take more than a month before it begins to return.
Onwards to my final week, let’s finish this!
Week 7 – Final Treatment
This last week of treatment saw my pain levels soar as my mouth ulcers grew larger, And no longer could I eat whole foods easily. The coughing that sometimes came when swallowing also became a bigger issue as did my lack of energy. But I managed.
Friday 21 November 2025 – A BIG Day — a monumental one.
It began at first light as I prepared my body for its final round of radiation. For seven long weeks, this body of mine has endured the greatest assault it’s ever known. Thirty-five doses of radiation. Seven cycles of chemotherapy. All aimed at battling a malignant cancer that had wrapped its invasive tendrils around my right sternocleidomastoid (SCM) muscle — essential for bending, turning, and tilting my head. The cancer also tangled around my jugular vein and the main nerve pathway connecting my brain to the rest of my body. The cancer had obliterated my neck lymph nodes and was on the verge of spreading to more vital organs when the treatment began.
Yesterday, during my final session, the tumour no longer bulged from my neck like a grotesque pork sausage. In its place, the painful mouth ulcers had grown bigger. Swallowing now feels like a battle, requiring the numbing relief of Xylocaine and the help of a feeding tube directly connected to my stomach to ensure I stay hydrated and nourished. Plus, the effects of seven weeks of treatments have drained me of energy. My body has shed weight, and yet it still demands more energy to destroy the cancerous cells than I ever needed to cross an ocean with Jude.
It’s been quite a journey. One that did not end yesterday with my final dose of radiation. That final treatment may have ended with the ringing of the bell in front of all the carers who had looked after my every need during this arduous, somewhat frightening journey. But the cumulative effect of radiation over the next few weeks will continue to change my body.
But I’m a rebel. A fighter. I have to be. After all, it’s this same spirit that carried us across countless oceans with Jude by my side.
Week 8 – Ongoing After-Effects
The effects of being bombarded with radiation do not end when the beam was switched off. They accumulate in the body and continue to have an effect for several weeks—sometimes months.
Week 8’s torment reminded me of crossing oceans, when the sea is grey and malevolent walls shatter into white fury. Helpless against its might, we would peer through the portholes and silently repeat the mantra: This too shall pass. Over and over, like a lifeline. This too shall pass. And it always did—so long as our minds stayed strong and our resolve solid.
Returning home after the last treatment was a windless heat and scorching temperatures that deepened my body’s exhaustion making the energy to repair healthy cells damaged by radiation.
That final week of treatment also brought a cascade of mouth ulcers so fierce I could no longer swallow water without choking, and food now refused to slip easily into my stomach. Unable to keep myself hydrated or nourished, I turned to the only option left: the feeding tube, that slender stem poking from my belly since before treatment began.
I’d kept it clean by running 60 ml of water through it every day, but I was unsure how I’d manage pushing through 600 ml of water and 200 ml of a high-protein nutritional supplement three times a day, on top of whatever extra nourishment I’d still need.
The mouth ulcers were in the hardest place to reach: under my tongue, with the worst tucked right at the back where my tongue meets throat. I first tried the syrupy xylocaine. I began with a diluted gargle for twenty minutes before attempting my sloppy breakfast. It helped, but I still had to eat with great care or tears would streak down my face. My nutritionist advised me to use a cotton bud dipped in full-strength xylocaine then swab under my tongue to reach those troublesome ulcers.
At lunch, I tried that before attempting to eat watered-down beef stew. Practice makes perfect. After holding my tongue aside and following the thin skin web to where it joins my lower jaw—Ouch!—I finally found the sweet spot. And at last, I found a feeding regime that worked.
Finding Calmer Waters:
Week 8 has tested me in ways the earlier weeks did not. The treatments may be finished, but their echoes still rolled through my body like the aftershocks of a storm at sea. And yet, just as those towering grey walls eventually settled back into long ocean swells, I know this too will ease. Healing is rarely tidy, and never quick, but each day brought a small shift in the right direction—a little less sting, a little more strength, a little more certainty that the worst was behind me. And so I hold to the same mantra that saw me safely across so many oceans: This too shall pass. It always has. It always will.
My Mate for seven weeks kept me firmly on my back 🙂
Week 9 & 10 – After-Effects, the finale.
Short and sweet — my mouth ulcers seemed to disappear as my radiation burn around my neck faded to a nice tan, and my swallowing returned to normal. At the same time, miraclously I found energy enough to work in my workshop and the garden.
Suddenly, I was talking to the Nuitionist and Speech Therapist about having the feeding tube removed from my belly. But, alas, with Christmas now only a week away, that won’t happen until some time in January.
Then there’s only a PET scan (Positron Emission Tomography) early in February. It will look for any remaining gremlins hiding out in my body. Around here, we’re so confident of an all clear, we’ve booked early February flights to our lovely Banyandah waiting for us in Tasmania!
River Drive – the night before the last week of treatment.