Dad pun. Sorry. 

So today I had my last of 20 sessions of radiotherapy. I’ll kind of miss the daily visits to the hospital, since they mainly consisted of a nice chat with a few people, and a short lie down. What’s not to like? Plus, as tedious and tiring as the treatment regime can be, there’s something really reassuring about being ‘in the system’. All the cogs whir away merrily, and everyone knows exactly what to do. You just have to do as you’re told.

And then that’s it. Intensive treatment over. All being well, there’s another just over 9 years of treatment and monitoring left to go, but it all gets a bit light touch from here on. Meaning I get a chunk of my time back (although technically  I’ll pretty much be handing that straight over to my employer), and I also get the responsibility for looking after myself. For monitoring stuff, knowing when to ask advice, and when not to freak out. Let’s hope I can manage that. Especially as I’ll need to fit it in between the increasing number of hair-related activities that I’m needing to reintroduce. Plucking, waxing, shaving, trimming, dyeing, styling, you name it… never mind the hares, I’ll be running all over the place to keep on top of that lot.