The next steps of my cancer treatments

Hurry up and wait, again.

Once the operation was over, I was foisted back onto the cancer waiting list.  This time it was for radiation treatments.

The Radiation Oncologist

When the cancer mill starting turning again for me, my first appointment was meeting the radiation oncologist, Dr. C.  She was going to determine how long and how much radiation my poor breast would receive.  I had read in the literature that additional treatments in the form of  supplements may also be required.  I had decided that I was not going to take any chemical substances, some of which had brutal side effects.  I was going to try a more natural approach.  I noted it on the forms I filled in for Dr. C.

Dr. C came in with an intern.  I was already prone on the exam table, breast at the ready.  After a very brief introduction, she poked at my breast and moved it about and then stepped aside so the intern could do the same.  She didn’t ask if I minded that a man I didn’t know was going to also poke and prod my breast.

Choose your poison

While the intern was prodding away, Dr. C began to discuss prescribing me Tamoxifin. “I will not be taking Tamoxifin,” I stated firmly.  Dr. C was shocked!  Why wasn’t I going to take the poison that could give me yet another type of cancer and throw me into menopause????  “Because it could give me uterine cancer.” I countered.  “Yes, well, your estrogen level needs to come down and uterine cancer is a remote possibility,” she stated.  “How would I know if I have uterine cancer then?  Just hope my doctor discovers it?” I said a little too sarcastically.  My colon cancer wasn’t detected by my then useless doctor even though the symptoms were there.  “Oh well, you will start bleeding.  That’s how you know,” she said nonchalantly.

She explained that the Tamoxifen would lower my estrogen levels and that would prevent any cancer from reforming.  “I understand,” I said, “But I should be heading into menopause soon.  I’m almost 50.”  “Well, I’d say menopause can’t come soon enough for my liking.” she stated.  For the record, Dr. C looked to be in her late 30’s.

Wiki page on Tamoxifen.

The discussion turned to the radiation treatments.  I  Asked about how nuking affects the flesh inside the breast.  “I was thinking about getting a breast lift and wondered if it would affect it?” I said.  Dr. C seemed irritated by the question.  Her terse reply was, “Plastic surgeons don’t like working on radiated material but they can do it.”

The more things change…..

What I found both irritating and fascinating about cancer treatments was that the treatments haven’t changed since the dawn of time.  Despite all the money thrown at cancer, the original 3 treatments are still in use:  cut, burn, poison.

I was lucky.  I only had to have the cut and burn.

The Tattoo

The next stop was to get a tattoo.  Not the colourful fancy kind, just an “X marks the spot” tattoo that would serve as positioning points for the radiation technicians.   So there I was, me and my breast, and a group of tattoo technicians all of whom looked 20, tops.  All four of them took turns poking and prodding my poor girl.  I asked if the tattoo was permanent.  Of course it was.  They were stunned when I got pissed that I was going to have a permanent reminder of this ordeal.  “Do you know anywhere that will remove the tattoos after?” I asked.  Nope, they didn’t have a clue.  Actually no one had ever asked that question of them before.  I was determined to find out.  I’d be damned if I was going to have this tattoo for life.

 

 

The Nuking

A week after my tattoo, I was scheduled for my first cooking session.

My cancer buddy told me that my skin would become sun burnt over the course of the treatments.  She suggested I get a hold of an aloe vera plant.  Luckily, I had a large plant.  She also said that as the treatment progressed, I would experience increasing fatigue. “Cut yourself some slack and don’t try to do too much.  Relax and take care of yourself,” she suggested.

Day one of my radiation treatments, I was introduced to a group of 4 very personable radiation technicians who would be my team for the duration.   I was issued a surgical gown, which I was to wear for my 16 sessions.  Gotta tell ya, with all that nervous sweat, by the 16^th time, it was quite ripe.

Bad Music

Once changed, I was ushered into a darkened room with a huge machine in the centre.  The first thing I noticed was the lousy music playing.  I said, “How is anyone ever going to get better if you’re playing Michael Bolton and Kenny G?”  “No one has ever mentioned it before.  But good point.”  The young technician said.  He showed me where the controls were and I adjusted the music to play Bach or Mozart or something uplifting.

Human Touch

Once again, strangers were poking, prodding and maneuvering my poor girl.  They had to maneuver my flesh into position to get radiated.  At least the radiation technicians were sympathetic and thoughtful people.  They apologized for having to manipulate my flesh, they even warmed their hands before touching me.

My team proved to be a very jocular bunch which added much needed colour to the overcooked salmon pink surroundings.  They were kind and seemed to genuinely care about me.

The Routine

Everyday I arrived at my appointed time, adjusted the music, changed into my gown and sat in the drab and depressing waiting area with the other inmates.  I had been assigned to a treatment ward that had 2 machines so there was an endless round of people coming and going.  Each one of my sessions lasted just under 15 minutes.  While I waited, I read notices on the board, looked for any information on sessions that could help me with my mental healing.  How was I going to carry on after the treatments were over?  How do you live with the constant fear that the cancer could come back?

My defense against the whole cancer thing was to laugh and make others laugh.  My technicians all turned out to have great senses of humour so the treatment was made bearable through laughter.

As the sessions progressed, my aloe vera got a severe trimming.  The fatigue increased and it became more and more difficult to perform the daily chores around the house.  I had to leave a lot undone.

On my 16^th and final session, I brought in cookies for my technicians.  I thanked them for making a thoroughly de-humanizing experience more human.  “And I don’t want to see any of you here again,” I said.  Always leave them laughing.

Parking

The cancer agency charges patients for parking.  It isn’t enough you’re going through mental and physical purgatory, but you have to pay for it.

There is no free parking available around the cancer treatment building.  The shopping mall across the street gives you one hour free parking if you buy something in the mall.  I tried that for the first week but I had to spend $10 minimum to get a stamp.  In the end, I just paid the price.  One session, I was in and out in under 30 minutes.  The parking attendant took pity on me and gave me a freebie.

The Gauntlet

Naturally, my treatment ward was on the far side of the building from the parkade.   It was like running the gauntlet through the entire building, through the rabbit warren of hallways and passages all of which seemed to be constantly under construction.  It was not a nice place to be.

Before I went in, I stood at the entrance and steeled myself, building a shield against all the anguish and negativity the building held so I wouldn’t get overwhelmed by fear and depression.  I must have looked like a lunatic barreling through the hallways.

Half way through my treatments, I discovered a lovely patient lounge with sofas and green plants tucked away in a quiet part of the building.  It’s colour and greenery were a stark contrast to all the faded 1970’s colours in the rest of the building.  No one ever seemed to be there.  Perhaps no one else had found it yet.

Next:  The Mental Healing begins.