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[Note to readers: I am not posting prostate cancer (PCa) diary entries every day. To be honest, I can't keep up. The hormone therapy (ADT) that I started three and a half months ago has slowed me down, as has the radiotherapy (RT) which I started on the first of July. I've been warned that the effects of RT build toward the end of the sessions and even beyond, before tapering off. Thankfully my last session is July 28. Hoping to pick up the pace mid-August. In the meantime, I will post what I can, when I can.]
July 24. 2026
This morning, I was off to a flying start at the Arden Cancer Centre. Arrived early for my 9:15 appointment thanks to light traffic. Was called in at 9:13. Bladder scan was positive and I was ushered into theatre right away. The team was in good mood, joking with M, one of the TRs I haven't met before. Apparently, she had "saved the day" the day before when a late start due to routine system checks backed up appointments pretty badly. (News that made me even more grateful that they had squeezed me in early yesterday.)
I hopped up on the scanning table, pulled my pants down, and they quickly placed the modesty wrapper in place. Then it was just a few minutes before the targeting scan was happening. Whir, whir, as the massive VersaHD head unit rotated, imaging my innards in great detail, then:
Click! The machine froze and started going beep, beep, beep...
Naturally, my first thought was: Therac-25! Quickly followed by: "Don't worry, the photon beam is not on, there's no radiation happening, this is just the targeting run." Also: "Surely they can hear this beeping."
Turns out, they could hear the beeping, and they spent several minutes trying various measures to clear the error that was causing it before coming into the room. They assured me it was nothing to worry and an engineer was on his way. They also started checking the equipment to find a way to silence the beeps. Eventually, the beeps stopped and the engineer arrived.
The decision was made to proceed with my session on a different, identical VersaHD machine, and the bed was lowered. I pulled up my pants and was helped down. As I was putting on my shoes to walk to the other machine, I said something like:
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| 1980s radiotherapy machine, the Therac-25 (Original source: untraceable) |
"At least it's not a Therac-25."
To which several of the team responded, "What's that?"
But to my delight, the engineer launched into a very good summary of the Therac-25 incident.
This was a series of six massive radiation overexposure accidents involving a computer-controlled radiation therapy machine called the Therac-25, between 1985 and 1987, driven by race conditions, poor software design, and removed hardware safety interlocks. These software faults caused patients to receive up to 250 times the intended radiation dose, resulting in severe burns and multiple deaths. (Wikipedia).
Fortunately, when the details of these horrific incidents came to light, the entire medical technology world took notice, and the Therac-25 was subjected to intense scrutiny. A range of problems was identified:
The fallout reshaped how the industry thinks about safety-critical software. Nancy Leveson and Clarence Turner's 1993 investigation became a foundational case study, still taught in software engineering and systems safety courses today. It clarified the dangers of relying too heavily on software alone to enforce safety without independent hardware checks.
More concretely, the incidents contributed to tighter US FDA oversight of software in medical devices, spurring the development of formal standards such as IEC 62304 for medical device software lifecycle processes and IEC 60601 for electrical safety.
The Therac-25 failures also pushed the field toward practices like formal hazard analysis, independent redundant safety mechanisms, and rigorous change-control procedures for software updates, recognizing that a single software fix, applied without full re-verification, can introduce new failure modes just as dangerous as the ones it was meant to fix.
And that is why I was not too alarmed by today's glitch in the VersaHD that has been photon-beaming me. Although the hardware and software employed in prostate cancer radiotherapy today are orders of magnitude more complex than those of 40 years ago, I am confident they are far safer as well.
Yesterday's trip to Sainsbury's did not yield a suitable physical diary in which to record my "prostate cancer journey." But I did enjoy a couple of eggs on toast and a decaf flat white. I did not make a decision about which prostate cancer treatment path to pursue.
Sunday 29 March, 2026
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| Prostate identified in digital rectal exam (DRE) |
I always take a little time on Sunday mornings to reflect. It's a lingering echo from growing up in a churchgoing family. A regular topic of that reflection is gratitude. I am truly grateful for how fortunate I have been in life, and how to have had a life full of many wonderul experiences and people, a life that has lasted over seven decades so far.
All of which helps when you have to face the fact that there are cancer cells growing deep inside your body. Cells that could reach your spine and other organs and eventually kill you. Cells that are not going to go away without some fairly serious trauma. In the case of prostate cancer like mine that trauma is either:
A. Surgical removal or all or part of the prostate - an organ about which many of us humans remain relatively ignorant for most of our lives. (See diagram for location, relative size, etc.)
OR
B. A two-pronged attack through hormone manipulation and radiotherapy. The latter uses high-energy electromagnetic radiation to "zap" (target and damage) body tissue, specifically and hopefully, the cancer cells in the prostate.
The odds that either A or B will put the cancer into remission (no longer active) are about the same. Unfortunately, both A and B can have some serious side effects like incontinence, loss of erection and/or ejaculation, and more. I will delve into these in a future post.
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| UK Prostate Cancer statistics from NHS via Prostate Cancer UK |
However, when I got downstairs, thoughts of cancer treatment were suddenly replaced by remembrance of something I didn't do yesterday: reconfigure the WiFi so that printer works properly. I remembered this because I need to print out the latest correspondence from the urologist if I am going to make the case for greater urgency.
The reason why I didn't fix the printer yesterday, when I realized there was a problem, will help illuminate my current situation. The problem occured while my partner, CC, was using the Internet, and I didn't want to bother her. This would not have been a big deal six or seven years ago, but these days CC suffers from chronic fatigue and is cognitively impaired due to two brain haemorrhages and an insidious genetic condition. All of which makes tackling domestic IT issues a lot more complicated than it used to be.
On the plus side, CC sleeps until nine in the morning most days, so stuff like reconfiguring the WiFi is best done at the start of the day. However, by the time I made my cereal and coffee and sat down to catch up on email and news this morning, I could already hear CC getting up to go to the bathroom.
When that happens I listen for her to walk back to her room because, if she is not planning to go back to sleep, she will typically call downstairs to ask for a beverage. Today she requested a ginger ale, not the usual tea or hot chocolate. So I took her a glass of GA and decided to do the WiFi tomorrow.
Which was fine because today I need to write down the big idea I had when I woke up this morning: Write a diary! My thoughts about the many days that have passed between the various stages of my prostate cancer diagnosis and treatment. The idea?
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| Prostate cancer (PCa) under a microscope |
Of course, like many writers, the thought "must write a diary" was not immediately followed by the act of putting pen to paper. No, my first impulse was to tell myself I needed to buy a diary to write in. Pretty sure I've seen A5-size diaries at Sainsbury's. So maybe the next step on this journey is drive there, grab a diary and an early lunch, and ponder my prostate cancer treatment options.
Given the stage I am at, technically known as Grade Group 3, Gleason 7 (4+3), organ-confined, the basic choice is between surgery to remove the prostate, or a combination of radiotherapy and hormone therapy to kill off the cancerous cells and the testosterone on which they feed.
Using drones to make movies and take pictures can be a lot of fun. It offers new ways in which to see our world, ways previously limited to birds and flying insects. I took up drone photography as a hobby last December (2025). I recorded this footage in January and added a bit of sound and text.
Here's a quick reminder that some parking rules are made for very valid reasons. Can you see the harm caused by this driver? Scroll down for a closer look.
I am writing this in the waiting room of the nuclear medicine facility at UHCW (University Hospitals Coventry and Warwickshire). I am about to have a bone scan to see if the cancer in my prostate has spread beyond said organ. This procedure requires me to be out of the house for about six hours. Not normally a problem, but…
…two weeks ago, Chey’s slow cognitive decline accelerated and it has not yet rebounded. This means that, for the first time ever, I felt the need to have a professional carer present in our home while I was absent from it.
On the plus side, living in Coventry means that we have access to affordable, professional, compassionate care. And one of those professional compassionate carers is currently at the house in case Chey needs anything while I am gone.
Arranging this care is partly a dry run for when I have to go in for prostate cancer treatment which could, probably will, limit my abilities to look after Chey myself for a couple of weeks.
So that’s the first pair of mixed emotions. I’d rather not have prostate cancer and I’d rather Chey had her full cognitive and physical abilities restored, but in the absence of those things we are fortunate to have access to care and support that we need. (A big shout out to Carers Trust Heart of England for it’s excellent work supporting carers.)
Another set of mixed emotions involves our dearly departed Lola, a lovely feline companion for the last five years. Sadly, she became ill three months ago and it turned out to be inoperable stomach cancer, so we had to say goodbye. That was also two weeks ago.
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| Lola |
Thankfully, Lola left us with many wonderful memories and thousands of cat pics! However, at the risk of sounding overly dispassionate and pragmatic, her departure has also eased the care burden on me, enabling me to focus more on Chey, while also supporting my mum (who it must be said, is healthier than both of us and looking forward to her 97th birthday next month).
So there’s #Hope that Chey will improve and my prostate cancer can be treated without a gap in care for Chey. And there’s #Gratitude that we are in a position to access the treatment and care we need. We both have books still to write and places yet so go.
Yes, as cruel months go, February, 2026 has been quite the contender (wry literary reference for anyone who’s had to read T. S. Eliot). But at least we’ve witnessed the first arrest of an heir to the throne in over 350 years!
As time permits I will be writing up notes on Chey’s health and mine. In the meantime, offerings to the weather gods would be appreciated. Seeing a lot more sun and a lot less rain would help, preferably before April.
P.S. I already made a website to share Chey's underlying health issues, it's called She's No Okay, Yet.
Back in 2017, I found out that I have something called congenital amusia, an inherited condition that can make it impossible to carry a tun...
