Week 1 – Week 2 – Week 3 – Week 4 – Week 5 – Week 6 – Week 7 – Week 8

---

Effects suffered so far:
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. Strapped tightly to a hard base 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. Wednesday two consultations gave heaps more information, followed by another radiation dose. Then Thursday I had a double dose of radiation. One in the morning, another six hours later in the afternoon to make up for the public holiday. Again, that zapped my energy. Friday a final dose, before packing up and driving back home. No ill effects. Just 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 with 180-degree ocean views to the far horizon and cooling sea breezes, located central to Kingscliff. An older place, done up with each bedroom with its own bathroom and a brand new kitchen. A ten-minute walk to the supermarket, ten-minutes to Cudgen Creek, eight minutes to the hospital by car door to door. It’s hilly country, but I’ll try riding my push-bike next week.

Bloods taken on Monday to determine how well my kidney functions 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’s 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. Got to go home and lie down for three hours. Slept  poorly that night. The rest of the week is okay. Twenty-minute consultations every day. Nutritionists, speech therapists, social workers all want to know how I’m coping. Information overload by very helpful, nice 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 therapy 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 as a single continuous sweep of radiation, without stopping to reposition the beam.

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 has been inserted into my stomach just in case I can’t swallow whole food. Done before chemo began.

Sleep insomnia around 3 AM when the brain kicks in. Lots 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, more liquid veggie stews with meat, more wet meals.

Jude and I launched our double kayak on Thursday for a relaxing exercise 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. Overdid the paddle with the incoming tide and sea breeze taking us too far, resulting in a good solid workout getting back.

An easy hour drive home Friday midday on the new M1 motorway, with the rest of that day settling in, cleaning up, washing clothes.

---

Judith and Jack’s 57th anniversary – Sunday, 19^th October

Big day today! We’re celebrating Jack and Judith’s 57^th anniversary with the family at the Federal Hotel beer garden in Alstonville.

It’s amazing how she 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 to learn so much more about the magical creation of Earth.

Back for another week oftreatment tomorrow. Bye till next week.

---

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 lawns and scattered them 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 Kingscliff 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’d be taking if I were receiving treatment at Lismore Base Hospital. From our rented two-bedroom apartment with ocean views to the new Tweed Valley Hospital is just a quiet five-minute suburban drive. Money well spent — and better still, it meant I could start treatment 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 my 2 p.m. 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 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 inside 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 head rotates 360 degrees around my neck, and back again.

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 it 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.

I’d taken my massive anti-nausea pill an hour earlier, so then it was into the big, well-padded chemo chair for four hours on the drip. Grace, ever smiling, slipped in the cannula 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.

By late afternoon, I drive carefully back to the flat, absolutely whacked. The rest of the day I rest, 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 up my clobber and hit the beautiful M1 for a relaxing drive home to my lovely wife.

End of Week 3 Thank you to everyone who’s sent kind messages and 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. 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: part of 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

Each morning I wash it off to give the radiation a clear shot. The 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 at home when 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 slow 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 and took it three times in one day.
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, my own bed, and hopefully 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, and your words of encouragement. They do 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, an inability to synchronise my swallow forces me to clear my throat frequently. My nutritionist suggests I take little sips, or use a straw. She’s concerned liquid could enter my lungs, which could cause an infection.

At the beginning of the week, they CT scanned my neck while I was in my mask to redefine the target area. Next week, I start a new program targeting the remaining cancer. The final two weeks will be the hardest with the accumulated effects. Fingers crossed, I get through as well as I have.

In addition to the nutritionist, each week, 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.

Plus, in my case, I’m at a new facility staffed by cheerful folks who not only offer excellent advice and guidance; they deliver it in a way that lightens the burden of our treatment. Each treatment day, I look forward seeing to my new friends.

---

Week 6 – Treatment passing quickly.
Only 1 week to Go!

Week six went quickly and 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, so Imust 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 moisture balance, gentle debridement, and antibacterial action that nourishes the skin. I use the thin film during the busier daytime, the thick stuff at night.

I am amazed and delighted to still be surviving without pain relief. With only one more week of treatment, finger-crossed, I’ll get through with no need to use my feeding tube, and hope my skin burns don’t erupt or that I’ll need the mouth anaesthetic to continue eating whole foods.

Unfortunately, six weeks of radiation therapy is influencing my energy levels, and I’m now tired much of the time, needing to lie down after treatments for an hour to clear my head. 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 like to drink water on those nightly risings to help flush the Chemo out of my system, but, of course, that forces me to rise more often.

Of course, the radiation therapy accumulates and will continue to act on my body for several weeks after treatment ends. I’ve been told 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.

Saturday 22 November 2025
Yesterday was 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—a powerful neck muscle essential for bending, turning, and tilting my head. It also tangled around my jugular vein and the main nerve pathway connecting my brain to the rest of my body. The cancer had obliterated the lymph nodes in my neck 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 grew 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 effect 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 will continue to change my body over the next few weeks.

But I’m a rebel. A fighter. I have to be. After all, it’s this same spirit that carried me 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 is switched off. They accumulate in the body and continue to change it for several weeks—sometimes months.

Week 8’s torment reminds me of crossing oceans, when the sea rose in grey, malevolent walls that shattered into white fury. Helpless against its might, we’d peer through the portholes and silently repeat our 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 held.

Returning home after the last treatment, windless heat and scorching temperatures deepened the exhaustion already draining me as my body poured its energy into repairing healthy cells damaged by radiation. That final week of treatment 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 each day, but I was unsure how I’d manage pushing through 600 ml of water and 200 ml of 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 tongue meets throat. I first tried syrupy xylocaine, beginning 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 cheeks. My nutritionist advised using a cotton bud dipped in full-strength xylocaine to swab under my tongue and reach those troublesome ulcers.

At lunch I tried it before attempting 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 had a feeding regime.

Finding Calmer Waters:
Week 8 has tested me in ways the earlier weeks did not. The treatments may be finished, but their echoes still roll through my body like the aftershocks of a storm at sea. Yet just as those towering grey walls eventually settled back into long ocean swell, I know this too will ease. Healing is rarely tidy, and never quick, but each day brings a small shift in the right direction—a little less sting, a little more strength, a little more certainty that the worst is 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.