No Miracle, No Dazzle

I had no clue what to expect from radiation, so going into it I was pretty unprepared. I had familiarized myself with all the side effects that may occur (skin burns, sore throat, and exhaustion are the lesser effects) and (lung cancer, breast cancer and heart disease are the biggies.) But the actual process of getting the radiation was a complete mystery. My doctor didn’t explain it to me, and I didn’t bother asking. So when it actually came down to it, I was prepared for anything.
I envisioned a dark room with a big machine that shot lasers at me which I would feel burning into my chest. It couldn’t have been further from that.

Here is how my day went. I checked in and sat in the waiting room for a very long time. The waiting room is a terribly depressing place. Oftentimes you are with families who just found out that someone they love has cancer. My first day was no exception and there was a family complete with grandkids that were just told their grandfather had cancer. They were all crying, including the patient’s son in his mid 40s who was sobbing uncontrollably. They kept saying, “He’s so young, he’s only 63.” I guess it’s all in the way you look at it.

Aside from families, there are also the patients who vary in age. I’m usually the youngest as kids who have cancer go to Children’s Hospital and young people like me who have cancer like Hodgkin’s rarely have to get radiation. I guess I was just one of the lucky ones! The patients are usually quite elderly and look like they’ve had the crap beat out of them. Lots of them are in wheel chairs and are usually accompanied by their 40 or 50 year old children who too look like they’ve been run through the wringer. All of us “patients” exchange sympathetic looks to each other and I think we may even be giving each other mental pats on the backs and hugs that say “you can do it!” or simply “I understand.”

I hate the waiting room, but thankfully I rarely have to be there long before I’m told to go change into my gown. After I get my gown on, I’m strapped (actually bolted) to the table by the form they made of my head and chest to hold me into place. Behind my neck, they place a hard plastic neck roll that thrusts my neck out and my head back. The first time they put the form on me I felt like someone was strangling me. I went into panic mode because I couldn’t breathe, swallow or talk. I started moaning and flapping my arms frantically and they quickly removed it. I gasped for air and told them the neck part cut off my ability to breath. They made a very minor adjustment and bolted me back in. It is still extremely painful to swallow and talk, but I just lay there and try my best to meditate and listen to my music. If you lay your hand on your neck and swallow, you can feel your neck pulse out a bit. Imagine lying down and having a weight placed on that spot applying constant pressure. That’s what it’s like for the duration of my therapy. Thankfully it only lasts about 5-6 minutes total, but I still hate it. The first day I was bolted in for an hour as they took x-rays. I will have to have the 45 minute to 1 hour sessions once a week to check on the tumors to make sure they’re shrinking.
After I’m bolted in and they’re sure I can’t move a millimeter, they start the radiation. I wasn’t sure if I should look or not. Years of watching my father weld taught me never to look at the nice bright sparks created by the torch. But, I quickly learned with radiation, there were no lights, nor laser beams, just nothing. In fact, I couldn’t even tell where it was coming from. The only way I know its happening is because of two long beeps that occur when it’s being administered. I guess I wanted more than that. Something along the lines of the sounds and colors the Star Wars lightsabers make as they whiz through the air. That would have at least been something worth getting excited about.

After it’s done, they quickly unbolt me from the table and I’m free to go. On the first day, they had me wait a few minutes while they took pictures of tape they laid over my form so they’d know how to do it the next time. I can sort of see out of my cast, but they really can’t see in to see my facial expressions or my eyes. After the resident took the last picture I mumbled, “Wait, you’ll have to do it again, I blinked on that last one.” It got a good chuckle.



So far I’ve had three sessions, only 25 more to go until I’m done. I’m waiting for the sunburn to start appearing and the sore throat. They say it starts around the beginning of the 2nd week in. We’ll see what happens.