Going to Radiation

Going to radiation is very annoying. I have to go five days a week. That really doesn't make any sense. If it's so good, why don't we go every day, seven days a week, until we're done?

The only thing I have to say in favor of this experience is, everyone who works for Dr. Trip (that's my nickname for him) is completely gung-ho about what they do over there at the Superconducting Supercollider Radiation Center. Man. I've never met people who are so into what they do. Whenever I have the slightest question or observation about what's happening, they jump at the chance to explain, explain, explain everything that's happening.

What happens? I don't pretend to understand all of this. I've previously had a CT of just my upper chest and neck ,and that scan is the guide for how they radiate me. It's a foreshortened view of that part of my body, and they get a look at all the numerous "slices" of my upper torso, all stretched out like a loaf of bread that's been pulled apart. All that information from the CT gets fed into the computers that delivers my radiation treatment. They are supposed to radiate just my breast and my lymph nodes on my left side — and nothing else, like my heart or lungs. They don't "eyeball" anything. It's all done with very sophisticated computers — state of the art, I'm told.

Five days a week, I go into the dimly-lit radiation room, where there is a machine that looks a little like a scanner and a hard "bed" you lie down on. I've got 4 Sharpie marks on my body now that are covered in clear stickers to protect the marks. Three are in red, right along my waistline. These are the marks they use to line up my body every day, corresponding to all these laser lines that are shooting out of the walls and ceiling of the room. One is in black and it's right at the top of my breast. It marks the edge of the "fly zone" of the radiation.

I eschewed their lovely exam gowns and I bring my own shirt every day instead. I lie on the hard bed with a wedge under my knees and they secure my feet with a little Velcro strap. My head's cradled in a plastic "bowl" thing. It allows for a bit of movement. That's good, because I must turn my head slightly to the right, so my esophagus doesn't get radiated. I have to raise my arms over my head and grab a kind of trapeze bar and stay that way for the entire time. They elevate the bed with me on it and my body gets close to the thing that the radiation comes out of. The technicians leave the room and close the lead door behind them. They see me on a TV screen on the other side of the room, and I can see a computer monitor that has all the data about what they're doing to me — not that I can understand it. The only thing I know is they can't mess it up because the radiation oncologist has input the data exactly the way he wants it and it's not possible for radiation to begin unless everything is precise. If there's any data highlighted in orange, that's wrong and they adjust things until it's no longer highlighted. There are no accidents. They can't radiate anything that's not supposed to be radiated.

The first thing that gets radiated are the lymph nodes on my back. Then the machine rotates around me three other times to get the other portions of the target area. When the radiation is being delivered, a lighted alarm goes off in the room. Each blast lasts around 10-12 seconds. Once when I had a different technician I commented that the blasts seemed longer than previous treatments. He gave me a very long explanation about it, but the upshot is, I wasn't getting more radiation than any other time. They just took a little longer to deliver the same dose. Again, the technology won't let them screw anything up.

A single radiation dose is 200X than what you get in an X-ray. I'm getting 33 treatments total. It opens a can of whoop ass on your tissues. Kill, kill, kill those cells. It's usually 10 minutes from the time I get out of my car and back again. That's how short the whole thing lasts. My skin is beginning to get a little red now and the area feels swollen. Remarkably, the few palliative steps you can take to help this don't do all that much — creams, ointments, etc. I'm not grossly uncomfortable yet but I've seen on other people how bad it can get. Mostly, I get extra tired sometimes. That's the cue for me to nap or go to bed early. Of course, I would rather ignore how I feel and keep doing what I'm doing, anyway.

Today's treatment will be No. 16. (Nov. 4). Almost halfway.

Things I Don't Want to Do

What is it about big illnesses like cancer that awake the sleeper cells of pagentry and celebration? I'm talking about the walks, runs, radio promotions, and all manner of public testimony about your disease. It is endless, the opportunity to lay yourself bare before semi-caring strangers. ("Oh, breast cancer," they're thinking. "Hope it's never me." Yes, you do hope that.)

I know, time was, if you had cancer no one even uttered that word. Maybe even you didn't know you had cancer. It was too awful to talk about. In the latter part of the 20th century we set about to change all that. And we did. The problem is, no one wants any limits on the discussion and the endless "sharing" of our stories. I know that no one in the Cancer Nation wants to bother me, but just once I would like a request for participation in an event to begin with the words, "We understand if you aren't interested, but we would like you to know about …"

Here are a few things I do not want to do just because I have been diagnosed with breast cancer:

1. Stand with 399 other women for a "bras across the bridge" moment. You're holding a bra (yours, maybe? one you don't need anymore? wink, wink) and you hook yours onto your neighbor's and form a giant chain of bras, so people will see … a chain of bras.

2. Buy a pink bracelet. Or wear one that's free.

3. Go on Christian radio.

4. Hand out refrigerator magnets reminding women to "feel your boobies."

5. Pose for a dreamy portrait of myself wearing my cancer cap, or worse, pose while I was bald.

Okay, so what is this blog about, right? It's a public statement about my experience, too.

I guess I am not one who finds comfort in numbers. This communication is to my friends and acquaintances, and yes, an occasional passing stranger reads it, too. But I'm not trying to get anyone to do anything. I don't think my "story" is going to change much for someone who's not a cancer patient, and as for those who are being treated for cancer, well, we pretty much know how to find each other, don't we?

Radiating Waves and a Tall Boy

I had 21 weeks of chemotherapy, altogether. I felt every moment of it.

But now I've had nearly four months' respite from active cancer treatments. I feel much better. They stop giving you chemotherapy, and then you feel better. I feel almost normal, except for the fact that I still get tired fast (been puttering around the house, trying to find places for items displaced by the ongoing home renovations). I am not so interested in going back and being a cancer patient again.

So it was without much enthusiasm that I visited the radiation clinic today to discuss my upcoming treatment.

Nurse: So, when do you want to start?
Me: I don't want to.

(LATER)

Me, to Dr. : Why am I even in here? There are people out there in the lobby who can't even walk they're so sick. What is the deal?
Dr.: You had some bad luck.
Me: Oh.
Dr.: Those people out there, I'm just trying to buy them some more time.
Me: Oh.
Dr.: I'm trying to stop any illness at the microscopic level. Prevent you from being one of them someday, five, ten, twenty years from now.
Me: Yes, I was planning to be around for a while.
Dr.: Just think of this as your daily, 10-minute appointment at the 7-11.
Me: What, do I get a tall boy in a paper bag when I come here?
Dr.: Ha-ha. Sure, if that's what you want.

Between Scenes

Nothing is happening to me right now. It's been four weeks since my surgery and I've healed just fine, no infections. I'm waiting to start radiation.

We took a vacation from this again, just Roland and me. We went to San Francisco. We ate at Cafe Zoetrope in North Beach, went to wine country in the Russian River Valley, met up with friends at a burger joint on the Embarcadero, and visited Alcatraz. This is me on a hilltop in the Russian River Valley. It is insanely beautiful there. Boy, you have to be stubborn to be a winemaker, is all I can say. The other photo is a posted sign at Alcatraz, obviously.

They try to feed you this crap about Alcatraz not being such a bad prison, just a cold and boring place to be. Why, there were even families living on the island, and they had Christmas caroling and gardens, and everything. All the cells and stuff are on the second floor of the building, which means there is a basement/ground floor that the public doesn't see. I bet that was nice, too, back in the day. Still, it was kind of strange how the Western sun streamed in pleasantly through the barred windows.

We also saw Spoon at the Fillmore. They gave a good show of old and new favorites, plus a couple covers.

In Dreams

Some people who know me know that I've always had a bone to pick with That Big Sports Celebrity Who Is Also A Cancer Patient. My spouse argues there is no backlash to foment against this guy, so my bumpersticker ideas ("I'm 6ick of [him]"; "7 is enough already") won't go anywhere.

Celebrity, upon retirement from his sport, declared he would work tirelessly to bring awareness to the problem of cancer and offer support to those affected. When I looked for support for my young child, I did find some help from an agency that is funded by Celebrity's foundation. Yay, he really does do something, right? But the main agency where I get support for myself doesn't receive a dime from Celebrity, even though someone he once cared about is affected by breast cancer.

Whatever.

One of my recurring dreams is, I am working in a restaurant. (I waited tables for 5 years.) Last week I had this dream again, and believe it or don't, Celebrity was in it. He was a waiter, along with me. He was stacking plates and folding napkins and shuffling menus. We knew we had cancer in common and that our current work was a good service to others (see how the unconscious mind loves wordplay?).

So I find it interesting that Celebrity's out-of-retirement announcement hinges on his desire to uh, something about shouldering the burden of cancer. This just rings as disingenuous to me. Why not be truthful? He loves being loved for the thing we loved seeing him love. Dating the Rock Star, the Preppy Fashion Designer, and the Semi-Talented Waif Actress got boring. There were rumors about him seeking high, statewide office, but I just couldn't see him in a suit, sitting in a meeting about the State Preservation Board with the delegation from East Texas. Those political people are too boring and unsophisticated for him and the job itself is a drag.

I suppose it's possible to be completely self-aggrandizing and yet doing good for others. But I don't buy it that the first seven times were for just himself, but this next time is for the Cancer Nation.

Drink the Bubbly of Your Choice Because

I just heard from Dr. Solemn. He told me that the pathology came back and there is no cancer in my tissues.

I'm Okay

Surgery yesterday went fine. Solemn and IH did their thing. They discovered the cavity from my previous surgery, at end of a little corridor inside my breast, almost like a small chamber at the end of a cave. Solemn re-excised the tissue, IH filled in the cavity with fat from another spot in my breast and closed the incision. He didn't reposition my nipple (thank God) as he planned to, because it made an acceptable return to its proper place on my breast, once he was done with his work.

I'm a little stiff and sore, but really want to avoid the pain meds, as they keep me awake at night. Last night I got up and watched a show about people wanting to know what their houses were worth, a show about a couple wanting to move so the wife would have more room for her doggy day care business (don't you want them for neighbors?), an infomercial about total cleansing, and the rerun of CNN's talking heads, blah blah blahing about Hillary's speech last night.

Okay, I'm rambling about nothing, so I'm going to go. Back when I'm more lucid.