I’m
now in my forth week of radiation. For anyone reading this blog facing
radiation or supporting a loved one who is undergoing radiation, I offer my
take on it.
The
center I frequent daily for radiation is far from my house but is really nice.
It seems brand new with all the best equipment (which was a tad concerning….need
to be sure this isn’t a “plan B” after losing medical privileges in another
state, or that this practice is truly brand new and I’m one of a “trial group”).
After researching the doctor and learning he has no pending or past malpractice
suits (that are findable through Google anyway), it seems that everything is
legit.
Meet
the staff:
Bubbly Betty—the Medical
Assistant, who is happy and far more chatty with me than I wish to be with her.
Ms. Casual—the radiation
technician who is funny and lighthearted but a bit too unprofessional at times.
Sure, if we met in a coffee shop or at a party, I’d think she was fun. Instead,
we’re brought together so she and her colleagues can shoot damaging rays
through my chest. So excuse me if I wish she was a tad more focused.
Mr. Serious—the lead
radiation technician who is all business. Even when Ms. Casual is going on
about tattoos or dancing, and he surely has something to add, he sticks to
discussing the somber things at hand, like “fields” and “images” and “alignment”.
He’s my favorite because his determined personality summons my trust.
Dr. Pushy—you met him in
my last blog. He’s a highly educated, smooth talker with an upright posture
that likely impresses many people. Meh.
One
of my biggest challenges with all this has been in getting Dr. Pushy to agree
to only radiating the areas I’m comfortable with. For the first 6 days, he not
only sent rays into my breast and my axilla lymph nodes (both places where
cancer cells have been found and
likely still remain), but also into my “supraclavicular” space to hit lymph
nodes there as a preventative measure. Since no cancer was found in those nodes,
and the radiation would damage ½ of my thyroid, possibly my larynx, my vocal
cords and my carotid artery in the process—I tried to opt out from the
beginning. Being heavy on the preventative reasons to treat that area and light
on the negative effects from it, Dr. Insistant McPressure didn’t seem to give
me all the info. He definitely seems to hold the attitude that as a physician,
he knows best and patients should comply. In the end we agreed to not treat
that area and only radiate my breast and axilla nodes. He finally said, “It’s your
body, your choice”—where have we heard that before?
The only thing that's missing here is the redness inside the dotted line (this was taken after my first week).
I'm thinking a new tattooed animal liberation scene might be the best way to
heal and cover the scars and discolored skin after this is done.
The
contraption bed I’m placed in for daily treatments seems somewhat of a medieval
punishment. I lay on my back with my hands above my head and head turned;
topless. Although they tattooed 5 dots on my torso for alignment, Mr. Serious
still must use a blue marker to draw dotted lines around my field. Surely this
is enough proof to get me out of a ticket should I get pulled over for speeding
to my treatments.
Here you see a picture which I assume someone sketched of me at my daily radiation treatment appointments.
Uncomfortable "bed", bare-chested and tended to by 4 wizards. Yeah, this must be
how it looks.
One
thing I had difficulty getting used to was the apparent “open door policy” the
radiation room has. As I lay in place with my left breast highlighted with an
x-ray light and surrounding dotted line, any or all of 4 people (both
technicians, the doctor, and the medical physicist—not sure why he needs to
check on things right then) will come
in and out while the door is open. They’re polite enough, but they could do a
better job announcing (or even, dare I say asking)
before they enter. I mean, it’s not like I’m undressed—wait, yes it is. This
plus my exams each week by the doctor with one of the two medical assistants
who work there—tips the scale in favor of staff in this clinic who HAVE seen my
breasts. I could have never predicted spending so much time topless with people
I don’t know. Surely, this should at least earn me a spot on their Christmas
card list.
