April 25, 2011: Today, Lindsey drives me to my "dry run" radiation treatment at the Utah Cancer Specialists Center. I have to be there at 12:30 - I'm at the front desk at 12:25. Linds is GOOD. We go back to the treatment waiting room, where a camera shows the doctors who has arrived. "Mark" takes me back to the treatment desk, where my chart has been pulled. He flips through my scans and X-rays and shows me a number of different angles they've worked out to get the best radiation results. It's rather a blur to me. He shows me a diagram of the dosage levels and the places those dosages will be directed...again, it's all I can do just to nod and say, "okay, yes, I see." He also shows me where I'll "sign in" each day with my initials, after I've checked to be sure the charts really belong to me. I see my name and I see "Right neck" as a directive for the radiation "gun". They don't really expect me to understand and be fully aware and engaged, do they? Because I'm not. This is alien - foreign as another language - and it belongs to someone else with my name, I think.
Mark leads me back to the treatment room. Yes, there is the stark, narrow table with the little neck rest, and there's where they'll put a Velcro strap across my feet to keep them still. There's the table against the wall where I can set my purse, which looks totally out of place in this treatment-defined room. It's cold in the room, like someone has left the air-conditioning on accidentally overnight. But, it's not accidental. It's on purpose. I still get to have a "dogbone" (knotted handkerchief) to wrap my hands around, but I don't get a warm blanket this time.
Mark and a nurse bring over my "mask" and begin to place it over my head and shoulders. I close my eyes, and wonder again why I bothered to put on makeup or do my hair today. I wonder if there will come a point when I'll just come, unshowered, undone, and not care. My mask is tight across my nose and lips, and I wiggle just a bit to find a hole in the "net" where my nostrils aren't as constricted. I'm told to lift my chin, just like before, and when I do, I feel the contours of the mask fit more perfectly to my head and neck. Then, as before, I'm being screwed into the table, the click of the plastic clips loud in my ears. I feel the net close against my esophagus. It's uncomfortable and a little scary. I'm worried again about choking - or needing to cough - or not being able to swallow. I try it, regardless of the warnings to keep absolutely still. Okay. I can swallow without too much effort. But, there's a pressure on my throat, like someone has his hands on me. I've watched too many episodes of CSI and NCIS.
With my eyes closed, my other senses go into overdrive. I'm sensitive to the beeping and buzzing of the machines. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. When the machine switches positions, I can feel the air moving across my skin. I can smell the clean, soap scent of the nurse as she comes back into the room to check the "pinpoints of light" against my mask. Through my eyelids, I can see flashes of light of the X-rays and I can hear the click as the image is taken. If I wasn't so tense about my throat, this could actually be somewhat soothing.
I'm prepared to be here for an hour. Didn't someone somewhere say that's what I should expect from today's visit? But, just as an answer to prayer comes to calm and assure me that I will not choke and I'll be fine, the nurse returns and begins to loosen the "bolts" of my mask from the table. The relief is instantaneous. My throat is free. As she lifts my mask completely away and helps me to sit up, I ask, "Is that all for today?" Yes, she says. That's it. You're done. Twenty minutes, tops. I can handle that. I DID handle it.
Tomorrow, I will talk to Dr. Avizonis. I will tell her that I'm concerned about my throat. I'm sure there's nothing she can do at this point, but maybe she'll have a tip or two about how to manage that initial discomfort and fear of choking. I'll also ask if we can move my treatment times to something more reasonable for two moms who need to get their kids to school and who would choose not to be in the middle of morning rush hour. We'll work it out.
And, so it begins. 30 treatments at 15 minutes a day, five days a week. I'm actually relieved to be at this point. The sooner we begin, the sooner we end. I should get a big, black Sharpie and make huge Xs on the calendar at my desk as each day passes. Maybe that will make me feel better to see that criss-cross of progress march across the page. I know it will be progress. I know it will be successful. Those Xs will be the "stones" I throw at that mean ol' Goliath, each one hitting their target and bringing the Big C down, never to rise up again. God will be beside me, loading my slingshot, helping me take aim, whispering in my ear to never give up. And I won't...not ever.
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