Each
day is a calendar square, each square empty except for my afternoon appointment written neatly in purple, the occasional lunch date added in black. Dance
classes are marked at the top of the day columns. Nineteen carefully
blocked days with 15 minutes extra noted every Thursday. Thursday is the day I meet with the
radiologist.
Is it a Space Pod?
Today’s
Science Lesson: (there will be a quiz later, so listen up). The Space Pod is the machine that effects
radiation treatments. Right, right, it
isn’t really a Space Pod (in case you were in any doubt), or a Radiator or a
Zapper (I’m just sayin’). It’s a linear
accelerator.
Electrons from an energy source shoot (accelerate) down a tube
where they impact an angled metal plate.
98% split away as heat; the other 2% radiate photons (radiation) down
the adjoining tube and spray them at my breast.
You can also send the un-split electrons down the tube. Electrons kill cells really well, too, but
they don’t penetrate very deeply and so don’t need a metal plate to catch them
on the other side of their target.
Radiation hits any stray cancer cells that might have avoided surgery
and damages their ability to repair themselves or to multiply. It hits normal cells, too, but they are
better able to repair themselves and so heal afterwards
The
linear accelerator is HEAVY and so is located in the basement of the Cancer Care Center,
but there are faux skylights in the Rad
room so it always seems airy and pleasant.
In fact the Rad area is about the most pleasant place on earth. The
staff learns my name, respectfully Mrs. Simon and never Ann. There’s never more than a few minutes wait
for treatment. The changing room (I
remove my top and bra and put on a short hospital gown) and waiting room are quiet and comfortable. There is hard candy in the
outer office, but in the inner sanctum of the radiation anti-chamber, there are
Dove chocolates. All questions are
answered. Everyone strives to make me
comfortable. It’s like a spa -- well,
almost.
This skylight has dogwoods. The other one has cherry blossoms.
When
I’m called into the anti-chamber, the merest possibility of radiating some
extraneous body part is prevented as they check my face against the picture
taken during preparation. (They
promised not to put it on the Internet.)
While I eye the bowl of chocolates, I state my name and birth date and
identify the left breast for treatment.
They’re thorough in all things so measurements and body placement are
precise and are adjusted every week as needed.
When I lay back on the
oh-so-narrow table, the nurse and assistant help me remove my gown and drape it
modestly over my right side. I place my arms in the brackets. If I
like, the technicians wrap my arms in heated towels although I've declined since the temperature hit the high
80s. The technician and nurse carefully align my tattoos with the
sensors. Once in position, I must not move. I am an itchy, twitchy
person, but they are strict! They tape the funny black plastic box over
the stickers on my tummy. Everyone leaves the room (but me), and the
gurney slides me into the Radiator, er, linear accelerator.
The
space wings rotate around me and lock into position. The square wing seen
on your right swivels out of the way.
It can be used as a soft-tissue CAT scan.
The rounded wing on your left,
is the one that will fry my cells. It is
angled so the rays travel through my breast and hit a metal plate beyond.
It has a rectangular screen with a smaller screen inset, and it if from
there that the photons whoosh out.
I hear a
mechanical hum; the nurse’s voice through the speaker directs, “When you’re
ready, inhale and hold your breath.” Holding
my breath pulls my heart millimeters out of the radiation beam. If I exhale before directed, the sensors in
the black box detect the movement, and the radiation automatically stops. The
first zap is 21 seconds (not that I’m counting, but 21 seconds is a bit of time
to hold your breath, I can tell you); the second discharge is seven. The wings rotate to a new angle. I hold for 12 seconds and then eight. The gurney slides out of the Radiator. Repeat once a day for 18 more weekdays.
2nd
Treatment: I can feel occasional sparks along the
surgical lines where the nerves were cut.
They are trying to re-grow, but the radiation keeps killing them
off. The little twitches tell me the
invisible, unsensed rays are working.
6th
Treatment: My consultation with the
doctor goes well. My breast is sometimes
sore, but there is as yet almost no reddening of the skin. Depression hits on and off. Today I probably feel down because I slept
badly last night. I have been obsessing
over the oncotype test which showed an 8% chance of metastasization years down
the road. This weighs on me. For the first time I get why they call
it the Life with Cancer Center. I had thought it a horrible name, stressing
that cancer would always be part of your life, but I am constantly aware that
death shadows me.
(Later
that day) I had lunch with my neighbor, a
nurse and another breast cancer survivor.
She told me that breast cancer migrates to particular places. They will regularly check liver and
lungs. Should the cancer metastasize,
they will catch it early. I feel the
black cloud lifting.
9th Treatment: It takes me five minutes to drive from
my garage to the hospital parking lot, seven if the traffic’s bad. How
great is that? I’m fine in the mornings and still happily flail my way
through ballet class, but I've been pretty tired after the last
couple of treatments. I’m very tired of the whole cancer thing. I’d
like to do something else now, please.
11th
Treatment: Today the nurses attached a cone
to the accelerator. (Well, they called
it a cone; it’s an open-sided box with a metal ring set in the side
that points at you.) They positioned it a couple of inches from the lumpectomy
site. They drew a new target on me and
put on a new sticker (new sticker, yay!) in preparation for my last three
sessions. These are called booster
treatments and will consist of electrons (rather than photons) bombing right up
against the lumpectomy site, the area of greatest risk. (Remember how the linear accelerator
works? I told you there would be a
quiz.) Yesterday and today I have not been at all
tired.
After
my treatment, I asked the nurse more about the oncotype test. I didn't take notes, but I believe this is the gist: stray cancer cells
can be in our bodies. They just
float around suppressed by the immune system until or unless something triggers
them to multiply. More
relief! It’s a coulda, sorta, maybe
scenario rather than a screaming you’re gonna die! scenario. I no longer feel doomed.
12th
Treatment: The effects of radiation are
cumulative, and I feel the burn.
13th
Treatment: While I’m in the Zapper, I think, hey, I’d
like an end-of-treatment, sticker-off ritual.
I think of wearing gauzy scarves, skipping through a field of daisies a la
Isadora Duncan, stripping off the stickers and strewing them to the wind. I shout, "Sticker off! Sticker off!" and move in slow motion.
15th
Treatment: My fatigue level is up and
down. This morning was the first time I
did not finish dance class which was sad for me. After class I had a phone call, and I would
just like to say that my friends should put off having crises until I’m done
with mine. I mean, what’s up with that?!
17th Treatment: I've been quite fatigued (as
opposed to sleepy) for the past three days. Today, aha!, was the first of my
Booster treatments. They fitted the “cone” onto the Radiator, snugged it
up close to my lumpectomy scar, and the big, dopey electrons dripped out.
(You know that’s a metaphor, right? The electrons are tiny, they don’t
drip, and if they did drip, they’d fall right on the floor since the cone is
targeted from the side.) Anyway, the important thing here is that it
signals the beginning of the end. I have the weekend to rest (except
the Perfect Grandchildren and their attendants are coming to town, and my
sister is having a big anniversary party and then brunch the next day), and
then I’m in for my last two treatments. The skin right under my nipple is really red
and sore. I have gotten no further in creating a plausible sticker-off
celebration.
I’ve been tired all
weekend. Like really tired. Like napping tired, and Inever nap!
I am tired of being tired, and now my lumpectomy site is stinging a lot.
I say Bleh!
19th
Treatment: I was stoked all day because
this is my LAST treatment! Then driving
to the hospital, I was a little sad, maybe because I will no longer be actively
fighting the cancer. Anyway, I was over
it as soon as the treatment was over. The
nurse gave me a certificate of completion almost as if I’d actually done
something! I got instructions for
follow-up care (continue the same breast care for a couple of weeks) and will make a
follow-up appointment in two months.
We
grilled steaks tonight in celebration. My private celebration was in the
bathroom (alas, no Isadora Duncan) as I unpeeled stickers and chortled, “Sticker
off! Sticker off!” The newest sticker will have to wait a bit as
tugging at it pulls the sore skin.
However, its day is coming.
Next
week I enter the black hole of genetic counseling. There seems to be very little to available about that in advance. One quirky thing about it is that the genetic counselor got her masters degree at my old college. What do you think of that? She will
probably test, and I hope they are able to take the blood right then. It is so hard to go back and back and back
some more. Once they draw the blood, I
guess, deducing from the oncotype test, it will take about 10 days to get
results back. We’ll see, or rather I’ll see and
report back to you.
Sticker
off!