Radio City Here I Come

If you had to go to Safeway, or to the library every day, Monday through Friday for five weeks, I predict you would start to weary. But this is the treatment pattern for radiation therapy. Some people get less and some even more than I got. But because I had a lumpectomy, I was scheduled to get radiation therapy.

My radiation oncologist was quite a character. His English is impeccable but not quite idiomatic. He met with me and my posse in another one of those amazingly, teeny treatment rooms that line the hallways at the Cancer Institute…or at least the room seemed that way with me, the oncologist, Pepsi, F. and J. who took notes of course.

He examined my breasts and then asked me; “How old are you?” The posse snickered because his tone of voice was amazement. I didn’t have the courage to ask why. He then discussed treatment options as if I really had an option except not having radiation. Finally he reassured me in all earnestness that because I have such small breasts, here he emphasized that several times, I should avoid the toxicity that many women with bigger breasts experience from radiation treatment. That was good, I think.

So off I went in October/November to start the last leg of my treatment process. I thought I would have been done all treatment by September but I hadn’t even finished chemo until then. The Cancer Institute prefers that patients wait about a month until they start radiation.

There is a preliminary calibration process so that correct and same amount of radiation is directed to the breast and underarm at each treatment. The only indignity in that was I had three anchor spots tattooed, yes, I am now tattooed, just under each breast and the centre of the breast plate.

My daughters were fabulously entertained that I, too have a tattoo. J. and F. declared they would get the same three spots tattooed on their chests in solidarity with me. I know that J. got a spot for sure but F. got something more. Hard to guess, since she recently had the word “Yarr” tattooed on her bottom lip to show her true pirate nature.

I arrived in the waiting area where I would be arriving every day for five weeks. I got changed into a little shortie nightgown and a housecoat that was so wrinkled that I thought they should be ashamed. I put my clothes in the lockers provided, straightened my wig and sauntered into the waiting area. It is hard to be cool in a wrinkled hospital issued house coat. The men in the same waiting areas get on pajama bottoms to facilitate the radiation on their prostrates. We sat there pretending to read and cautiously peeking at each other. It felt very similar to being in a detention hall.

A technician came to get me, I got my attendance card marked and I went into the radiation therapy area which is completely lined in lead.

I took off my nightgown and housecoat and laid on the table. The technicians fiddle and fuss to ensure that the dose is the same each time. The three tattoos are anchor points for tracking this. Everyone leaves the room but me. Lights flash, buzzers sound, the machine rotated around me and it was over. The technicians are just splendid. They get me in and out in a very short time.

One day the radiation machine didn’t work. They sent me back to the waiting room. Everyone looked up at me and I announced, “I broke the machine.” Everyone laughed so hard at that I realized I had jibed at the common enemy over whom we had no power.

I continued to work throughout my radiation treatment. I tried to schedule the radiation in the afternoons so that I could work in the mornings. As the doctor predicted my small breast saved me from radiation burn and I had absolutely no toxicity. But I began to get tired. Finally, when I had about 8 treatments left, I got up for work, got dressed, and realized I couldn’t get out the chair. I tried hard but there was no way I could go to work. So I called in sick. I had the same experience the next day so I signed myself off sick for the rest of the treatments. And, then, the treatment was finished. Not done yet, but finished.