So January 31, assuming no glitches beyond my control, will be my last radiation treatment. I can't help but observe the strange ironies surrounding the past seven weeks and this phase of my treatment. And realizing what it all means with respect to this entire cancer journey.
For one thing, I am pleased the roads have stayed dry and the air warm during the early mornings I made the trek down to Morristown, making the 25 minute commute nearly enjoyable. Birds chirping in the morning. Feels like April. When I should be bundled in multiple layers, usually a big sweatshirt is all that's been needed for that dash across the street from the parking garage into the hospital. The warmest winter I can remember, in more ways than one.
Actually, radiation for oncology is neither warm nor bright. You don't feel or smell anything. The room is white, sterile, and cool. And while the therapist adjusts the table, the room has to be dark so the guiding laser pointers coming from the wall can be seen against the area to be blasted. I started believing it was a bunch of hype. Lay down, arms up, head turned to the right, hold still for a weird sizzling buzzing noise for twenty or so seconds (and since when does radiation make a sound?), then the big mechanical wall opens to let the therapist in to change my position for the next blast. Back and forth the white-coated therapists go in and out of the moving wall. I'm reminded of the opening TV sequence to "Get Smart". This secretive science that I really don't understand. But it's powerful and I have to take it seriously! Just be still, let us move you, the machines do all the work. We just walk in and out of the room through the moving wall...(cue the Get Smart theme in the back of my head)...
I received five separate blasts during my treatment. Concentrating mostly on my underarm, the back of my upper arm, and directly below my collar bone. Total time on the table is about 10 minutes. Most of that is taken up by the therapists walking in and out of the room and driving the machinery into its various positions. Time is eaten if you inadvertently adjust yourself or move. Don't try to hold still on the table when you have a head cold. Of course, you can't keep your eyes open when you sneeze, you also can't be still for radiation and sneeze. Or cough. Or itch. As I laid there, I wondered how I'd be radiated if I had Tourette's Syndrome or just was uncontrollably wiggly all the time. Radiation therapists, at least the ones I dealt with, are laid back, low-key, friendly, happy people. SO LONG AS YOU STAY STILL ON THE TABLE. Ten minutes is a long time to endure a dripping nose, wanting to cough, scratch somewhere, etc. And indulging in a scratch will only mean you get to stay longer on the table while they re-adjust you. Much harder than it seems!
About half way through my 28 treatments, the telltale pinkness finally became apparent. As the treatments continued, the pink became a dark orange. I was reminded of those bottles of QT from the '80s I slathered on when catching rays on the back porch. A well defined line between my radiated shade and my normal lily whiteness running across the top of my left side with a perfect triangle behind my arm and a circle directly underneath my collarbone. I guess that's from precise aim and holding still. Moisturize rigorously, I was reminded. Three times per day. More if you like! I saw the radiation oncologist weekly who commented on my skin. "Looking good darling! Still intact...But it will get darker! Remember, lots of lotion!" This is what a roasted chicken must be thinking. Yup, re-baste and go back into the oven for a while longer. I love decadent crispy chicken skin. Of all the years I baked in the sun, the few times I was stupid enough to fry in a tanning booth, never once did the center of my armpit ever see any rays. Until now. Virgin skin no more!
I realized that the pain from the radiation burns would be worse if not for the prior surgery and reconstruction. I remembered I have no feeling on the lower two-thirds of my new breast, and the inside half of my armpit. So I am tolerating that redness well, but I have to rely on what I see in the mirror to make certain skin remains intact. And even though it seemed to take an eternity to get the girls potty trained, the giant tub of Eucerin ointment I bought for their diaper rash will finally be used up. Who knew it would have so many uses? By visit 17, I officially became the shade that makes a dermatologist cringe. Ironically, I received positive feedback from the oncologist. "Great, hon! Your skin is holding up well! Consistent color! Remember, lube up four times a day now, and watch for weeping blisters!"
By the last week, I'd had enough. Virtually overnight, the accumulation of 23 visits finally revealed itself. Angry, sensitive, red, hot, tight skin. Muscle strain. Itchy and painful. Skin starting to break and in some spots looking ashy brown. Wearing a bra is not an option. And no, that's not as much fun as it may sound. Even cotton jersey is somehow painful. No, I'm not prancing about my home topless. All the Eucerin in the world doesn't help this other than keep me slimy and sticky. Chilled pure aloe vera gel helps. The doctor gave me a bottle of saline and soft soaking gauze strips. The saline chilled in the fridge is helpful. She ordered me a bucket-sized container of silver sulfadiazine large enough to spackle my entire upstairs. And an invitation from the nurse for a script of vicodin. I laughed. There was a time when I wanted to be this color. And I was. All over! Now I'm whining because I've forgotten how uncomfortable a burn is, but technically I don't feel most of the burned skin anyway. But apparently in need of more painkillers. I thanked her and decided I would work this out with ibuprofen. The doctor instructed me to take two days off. I nearly begged her to go back on the table. Please, let me go so I can endure more misery! I just want to be finished with this silliness. I want to be able to scratch and sneeze on a whim. But I was sent home discouraged instead, ordered to nurse my redness, feeling this odyssey will never end. With this time off, the earliest I would finish would be January 31, as my two days off would be tacked onto the end of my treatment schedule.
Fatigue is a weird thing but along with the burns, another real effect of radiation therapy and it's hard to pinpoint. It is not debilitating exhaustion. It's not corrected with napping. As I can see my active cancer journey coming to an end, I'm thinking a lot more. Is all this thinking tiring me out? This was supposed to be the easy part. Is this from the radiation or the sheer emotional weight of this experience wearing on me? Maybe a little of both.
Flashbacks of campy '70s TV, citrusy skintones and roasted poultry aside, I'm left with the concept that starting in February, everything will be a little different. Different and unknown is unsettling. Yes, I will presumably be free of cancer, just like I was before. But it's different this time. This is an experience that will live in me. I believe to be free of active cancer. But I'm still forever changed by it. Cancer is out of my body but it's not out of my mind. I'm not sure this can be avoided. Maybe it shouldn't be anyway. My entire life approach to myself will be - must be - radically different. Many more doctor's appointments, blood work, various screenings and probably some medications, at least for the next few years. Nothing can be just ignored or wished or willed away. But I don't even really mean that. That place in my mind that cancer will reside forever. And the other part of my mind that will keep the cancer part right there and not allow it to travel anywhere in my life where it is not welcome. While it's ambitious to believe you can be rid of cancer physically as well as mentally and emotionally, well good luck with that. Today I've determined it can't be done. And that it shouldn't be. And that's not a bad thing. My poor mind. I would imagine that little stresses someone out more than a non-early stage cancer diagnosis.
I have realized that there is a connection between the complexion of one's spirit and their physical well being; their will, emotions, and thoughts. Perhaps the mind can work in concert with the body to optimize or promote health. I have believed that spirituality - well not necessarily organized religion - plays a role in promoting health. Emotions play a role. And I have always believed stress control probably could be factor in overall health as well. While I always believed this in a practical sense, I never really knew how to explore this belief in a tangible way.
During the course of my radiation treatment I started to get involved with reiki. Reiki is a Japanese holistic healing modality that encourages stress reduction, relaxation, and thus restorative health. There is a trust commitment with Reiki in that you rely on a practitioner to provide you with healing energies through their hands on or near various areas of your body. I've had a few different practitioners work on me, and while all positive, my experiences have been wonderfully varied and rewarding. My reiki sessions have allowed me to relax completely and remove myself from the present to a place driven by positive visual expressions and affirmations. It is complete and total relaxation, and more powerful than I can readily express in words here.
Okay doubters, I know what you're thinking. It can't replace concrete, science driven data supporting various lifestyle behaviors that keep us all healthy. I don't believe it's really supposed to. But as a supplemental, holistic approach to the very stresses that concrete science has a harder time controlling, and those negative situations that I believe may contribute in some way to disease or pain, it's a great complement to other treatments. Sad to say the effort involved in getting to the place of complete absence of all that stresses me is a challenge, but the trip is well worth it. "Getting there" is something that requires practice. And in future reiki sessions I hopefully will be able to perfect my commute to "that place". It's a wonderful, joyous place to be.
So even though the trips to the hospital will slow down a bit, I have other amazing places to visit. This journey's not over. It might not ever be. But that's okay.
