THERE was none of that stiff upper lip nonsense when they broke the news. On the contrary, it was as if someone had punched me in the solar plexus and followed up with a kick to the sensitive regions that were now causing problems.

It all began when my GP, a delightful and highly-talented Burmese young woman, suggested I should have a check-up. This included a blood test. It was routine.

But there was nothing routine about the findings of the biopsy that followed a few days later. It revealed prostate cancer.

She reached across the desk and grasped my hand, a gesture of comfort and support. Was I all right? Fine, I replied. But this was far from the truth.

I was scared.

Further investigation was needed. How big was the cancer? What was the best course of treatment? More trips to the Churchill Hospital for scans and consultations. There were three options for treatment – surgery, chemotherapy or radiotherapy. As the blighter was deemed to be ‘aggressive’, the third was chosen.

Getting down to the nitty gritty, it would call for 37 treatments, given five-a-week over seven-and-a-half weeks, travelling a total of 2,738 miles between my South Northamptonshire home and the Churchill.

I tried to remain positive, deciding I could tackle it alone. The last thing I wanted was for my family, who live in different directions and many miles away, to feel guilty for not being constantly on the spot. Guilt is something we can all too easily – and unwittingly – inflict on our children.

Besides, daily journeys to Oxford were nothing new. I’d done it for more than 15 years while on the Oxford Mail. It would simply be a matter of returning to the old routine. Yes, I could handle it myself...

But this was something new. Other people became sick – not me; the Big C wasn’t in my vocabulary.

And why me? I was kind to old ladies and no-one could claim they had seen me kicking a stray dog. As the start of treatment approached, bravery began to evaporate. It was then matters were taken out of my hands.

“You can’t be driving all that way, every day, and having treatment,” said my friend Barbara. “You’ll be exhausted and before we know where we are. you’ll have an accident.”

There was no appeal against this judgment. Barbara, one of the most caring people in the world, can be ultra-assertive. With that she and her husband Todd recruited a team of chauffeurs who would assume driving duties each day. Ann, Barry, Gwen, John, Sue, Kevin and Tim, friends with busy lives of their own, volunteered. He drew up a spreadsheet which showed drivers and reserves for every day, departure times, handy phone numbers and a list of notes that answered most questions. Monty’s battle plan for El Alamein couldn’t have been more thorough.

But what else would you expect from a man who spent more than 20 years in America, designing aeroplanes. As he often says, if he omitted essential details, people were likely to die.

I was overwhelmed by this kindness, yet more was to follow.

Tom Hill, director of my cherished Helen and Douglas House, suggested the time would come when I wouldn’t relish the daily journey, no matter who was driving. He had a word with the hospices’ founder, Sister Frances, in her capacity as one of the Little Sisters of the Poor, whose All Saints Convent grounds provided space first for Helen House and then Douglas House.

She spoke to Sister Jane, who deals with much of the domestic side of life at the convent, and she in turn put a guests’ flat at my disposal. It could be a bolt hole or somewhere to rest up after treatment, she said. In the event I stayed over on Monday nights, grateful for its peace and tranquillity.

Barbara and Tom’s prophecies proved true.

If my cup was running over with all this kindness, it reached deluge proportions when I met the young team on Varian 4, the radiotherapy machine that was to deliver the daily dose of treatment. Radiographers Christine, Suzanne, Aoife from Ireland, Kam, whose family comes from the the Punjab, student Lori and trainee Luke, swept away all fear and misgivings.

Parading around a treatment room, sans trousers, before a group young enough to be my grandchildren, could have been embarrassing for all parties – even without their having to tug my lower torso and buttocks into the right position for those radio waves.

Their cheerful approach, their warmth (apart from Lori’s hands that are notoriously cold on most occasions) and their genuine concern, removed that.

What of the treatment? It was seven to 10 minutes of lying still while a dome-like appliance targeted waves at the offending areas. No discomfort. No pain. As easy as falling off a log – or in my case the treatment table itself. But that is another story.

The 37 days passed quickly. Yesterday was time to say goodbye. There was a lump in my throat. It is a matter of waiting to see if the treatment was successful. I will not consider the alternative. After all, I have many things to do and people to meet before the man upstairs calls me to account.

Luck was on my side when that initial blood test revealed what it did. The cancer was in its early stages. Others are not so fortunate.

If I can be permitted to give just one morsel of advice; it is that – men and women alike – should ask their GPs for routine health checks and blood tests.

Take advantage of screening programmes. Pain is not always present in those early stages. Give yourselves a fighting chance.