Friday At Last

May 13, 2011: Friday has become one of my favorite days, especially after 9:00 AM. The weekend looms ahead, no matter how busy, with promises of not having to be on the radiation table for two whole glorious days. (I'm really not complaining about the treatments themselves, which are easy and quick - just the fact that they must be done at all.)

My weekday mornings are pretty much routine now. Drop Ness off at school (hopefully before 8:00, though some mornings are definitely better than others), drive a mere five more minutes to Aaron & Lindsey's house, help put little tiny girls in their car seats (Avery reminds me every morning that she knows how to climb up herself!), get into the passenger seat beside Linds (who is a terrific chauffeur and comfort to me) and take the freeway to 3900 South and 7th East in Salt Lake (about a 15 minute drive). Linds parks around the back of the building, where a convenient "back door" to the clinic is open. I walk in and sit in the treatment waiting room, usually with several other "lucky" people, where a camera in the corner alerts the technicians that I've arrived. I'm called back by one of the techs, who have me put my initials beside the date in my personal file and check to make sure that it's MY picture I see and MY neck x-rays on the monitor before going into the treatment room. They help me onto the table, give me the knotted dogbone to hang onto, put a strap around my feet, and get me pressed into my lovely mask. My eyes are closed, but I feel myself being raised and then moved forward into the radiation chamber. The techs talk to each other, calling out my personal coordinates back and forth, to which they always respond, "Perfect." Then, I hear them walk away and someone usually calls out, "Okay, we're ready to begin." I hear whirring and clicking of machinery, and then comes the first of the FIVE long beeps that signal the radiation "blasts". The first beep/blast is about 20 seconds long - I know, I've counted. It's definitely the longest, so I imagine it's the granddaddy of all, the first and biggest and most potent. That's just my guess, but I imagine the longer the blast, the bigger the gun. This first blast sounds like it's coming from the top of my head. The machine moves and clicks and then comes the second blast of about 12 seconds. Another adjustment brings the third blast of about 14 seconds. More moving and whirring and I hear the beep of the fourth blast, this time closer to my ear on the right side; it's about 12 seconds again. And finally, the fifth and last blast, which sounds like it's barely inches from my neck scar, comes for another 12 seconds. The End. Finis. "I'm all done, Mama!" The techs come back in the room and set me free from all the restraints, and I'm out of there with a smile and "see you tomorrow." Five minutes, maybe six, and then 15 more minutes driving back to my car at Lindsey's.

I used to count the number of blasts and the length of the blasts to feel that the end was in sight - or should I say, within hearing distance. I've noticed the past few days that my mind wanders now - I'm thinking of my day and what needs to be done, or my worries and how to solve them - or I'm simply listening to the "Enya" music that's usually playing in the room. Soothing. Comforting. I guess I don't need to count anymore. I know the end will come. Today and tomorrow and the next day - and then one day around June 6, it will truly be THE END.

Ah, the weekend. How nice it is to see you again...