Radiation: Routine. Weirdness Factor: 8
June 1st, 2010
Radiation, mercifully, has become routine. As of tomorrow, I will be 1/3 of my way through the 33 days.
Here’s how it goes. I arrive around 7:40 AM and check in. I wait for the tech to fetch me, usually 10 minutes later. I go down to the basement and don one of the awful awkward green gowns that doesn’t actually close in front.
Memorial Sloan Kettering, where I went for my second opinion, had really nice front-closing gowns. I should ask them to send me one.
I gather my things and see one of the techs. Chris or Leslie or Zach lines me up on the hard table in the cold, windowless room. I unfasten my gown and take my right arm out. I ask Chris how his wife is doing, since she is about to have a baby any day now, or Leslie about her two young daughters. Zach just got back from Europe and has many stories to tell.
They redraw any of my Sharpie marks that are starting to fade. In the old days and in some places still, patients are tattooed with their radiation markers. I am glad to know that they are sparing me more permanent alterations to my body. Nonetheless, it surprises me the level of detachment that I now feel. I am unfazed by these people drawing their strange dark squigglies all over me with their stinky pens.
There are lasers on the radiation machine (nickname: Cyclops) that line up with these markings to make sure they are dosing the right regions of my body. Once a week, they take x-rays of me to make sure the marks haven’t moved or that my body hasn’t changed shape and that they are still lining me up correctly. I guess they figure, what the hell. I’m getting a bunch of radiation so what difference will 18 more x-rays make? (That’s 3 x-rays a week for 6 weeks.)
I lie on the table with my right arm above my head in a little armrest (although that makes it sound much more comfortable than it is). My neck has to crane all the way to the left to keep my head out of the beam’s path.
I get 5 doses from the beam. The whole thing, start to finish, lasts about 15 minutes. Then I get up off the table, go change back into my civvies, and cross the street to work. Except on Fridays, when I go and see the doctor first. As far as I can tell, she just wants to make sure my skin is not burning up too much.
I have received recipes and suggestions for several skin regimens through my various Twitter connections. The one I am using involves a clay poultice and some soothing creams. I think it’s working too. My skin is pink, but I am not suffering the way some people do. The skin can blister and even get first degree burns. I am lucky that I have been spared that fate.
My friend Phil has this great notion of a Weirdness Scale for treatment. Although there is something pleasant about how “normal” all of this is, the fact that this seems normal is unnerving. The weirdness factor, to me, is therefore an 8.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 1st, 2010 at 6:41 pm and is filed under Treatment. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
Loving you. It always amazes me how things turn routine and yet feels detached… and yet – what happens if your doctor says, “how are you doing?” And mean HOW ARE YOU DOING INSIDE YOUR HEAD – YOUR HEART? Because have they asked you that? Have they?
*hugs*
I adore you. Today when I was telling my therapist about yet another diagnosis she forced me to lie down and tell her — like freudian style… and I got OVERWHELMED WITH IT… bc the sudden vulnerability of LYING DOWN forced me to realize how much my body is taking on.
And I want to tell you CONGRATULATIONS. You’re doing it. You’re doing an amazing job. You’re doing such a good job. Your body and your mind and your entire spirit are doing SUCH HARD WORK. And you are sustaining.
And – I love you.
xx
snittles!
oh snittie-poo!! the techs do sometimes mean it when they ask me how i am doing. i find that they have much better social skills in general than a lot of the medical people i’ve encountered. i mean, i see them every day for almost 2 months. it behooves them to be kind.
i don’t even know what would happen to me if i went on the couch. probably just a heap of sobs.
love you too sweetie! peace be with you.
xoxo
Liebe Chemobabe
Ist doch ein nettes, asymmetrisches Outfit!?
Für die restlichen 2 Drittel Bestrahlungszeit unter dem Cyclops wünsche ich dir weiterhin alles Gute, Routine;—) und hoffentlich bleibt die Haut weiterhin so schön rosa wie bisher…
herzlich irene
Vielen Dank, mein Lieber!
Sweet Cuz,
How awful your news–and how grateful I am to be back in touch with you! It’s been, what? About six years? Your grace, your brilliance, your writing, your shoes!!! I feel proud to be related to you (doubly, isn’t it?)…and frightened of the chromosomes we might well share. Do you think I should have my DNA analyzed for the BRC-1 (I can’t remember what it’s called) gene?
We have much to catch up on, beyond illness. I’ll write to you from my personal email. For now, huge hugs and kisses from me and all our shared ancestors.
I’m so glad you’re getting my latest (watch out for the sad ending!). Fourteenth century Bologna, an ambitious girl who longs to understand the natural world and the mysteries of the body: I’m pretty sure it’ll speak to you. (I hope so.)
With love,
Barbara
the good news is that i tested negative for all known BC genes… i have what they colorfully refer to as “sporadic disease.”
can’t wait to read the book… and look forward to the email!
xoxo