Radiation Routine

Hard to believe that 22 daily sessions of radiation could go by so fast. That 4.5 weeks could sprint right on past in the blink of an eye. But they have and I'm all done.

On Nov. 2nd Bag #2673 was proudly retired to the paper recycling bin, the navy hospital gown dropped into the changing room laundry hamper and my cute candy-cane hanger - disarmed and relieved of its current duties - left to hang once more on the Unit #6 coat rail. While I certainly felt a sense of freedom, an acute pang of empathy quickly followed, since I strongly suspect that little hanger won't be unemployed for too long.

Having been given the choice between morning or afternoon appointments for my radiation sessions, I'd opted for mornings figuring it would be good to get it out of the way first thing. Besides it got me up, dressed and out of the house. For the most part my appointments started somewhere between 8:15 and 9:00am and the brisk morning walk was a refreshing start to my day, especially since I love breathing in the smells and damp morning mists of Autumn.

When Vicky was going through her own radiation (early 2010) I remember being surprised that she seemed to be so at ease with it, simply taking it in her stride, no whining, no complaining, just getting on with it as if it were as routine as brushing her teeth. Going through it myself, I now understand first-hand how quickly it becomes something you just do every day, rain or shine. It's quick, painless (mostly) and it ain't chemo, for which I am eternally grateful.

(Ironically enough, BC Cancer Agency is just a half block down the street from where I worked at the Canadian Cancer Society, so my daily jaunt would take me right past the windows of my ex-boss and colleagues - twice. Without even looking across at that building, I simply walked right on by, head held high.)

The first 16 sessions saw me in and out of BCCA within 15 minutes (including getting undressed/dressed), however the 6 booster treatments took a little while longer in set-up, though still no more than 25mins in all - lots more measuring, extra marking and repeatedly moving the bed up, down, left and right, while fitting an extra piece of equipment to the machine to further narrow down its field of radiation.

Almost all of the 12 or so radiation technicians I've met in these past few weeks have been cheerful and quite entertaining by all accounts. Admittedly, when I'm in a strange situation or feeling awkward, I sometimes switch into comedian mode - an old class-clown defence mechanism from my self-conscious school days. Similarly I'm energized by people who have a dry sense of humour so some of the sessions quickly turned into 10-minute stand-up routines (well, horizontal for me obviously). We often found ourselves laughing so much that all the giggling created havoc while trying to mark out the correct lines and dots for the more serious task at hand.

Part way through my treatments I noticed a small Vancouver Canucks sticker on the machine, where it hovered just above my face at the start of each session. And on my 3rd-last treatment I discovered spiderman's face had appeared alongside it. 'Was that Spidey-sticker always there?', I wondered. 'From the beginning? I swear I didn't notice it before. And who stuck it there anyway? A patient? Technician? The cleaner?' Regardless who put it there, I liked it and found it oddly amusing.

In an effort to keep my energies up and hopefully fight off any of the fatigue that they warn you can be a side-effect of the treatments, I made a point, every other day, to head straight from the Cancer Agency down to the gym. It's been quite some time since I worked out this regularly and so efficiently at the gym. I certainly feel better for it - mentally as much as physically. I'm sure it's contributed to my general sense of well-being and has apparently counteracted the accumulative fatigue that, for some people, can begin as early as two weeks into treatment or as late as two weeks after it's finished. Other than 3 days or so during the final week of my radiation, I've hardly noticed any overwhelming tiredness. Mind you, maybe I should have milked that chronic fatigue thing all the same, as an excuse to lay around on the couch and have Lorne cook dinner, feed me grapes and generally wait on me hand and foot.  :-)

I have to say the radiation treatments were actually pretty straight forward - neither bothersome nor inconvenient - but even I can't deny that's probably because a) I live just a 10 minute walk away from the Cancer Agency, b) unemployment has spared me both the inconvenience and awkwardness of trying to discreetly squeeze in the sessions around a busy work schedule and c) I haven't had to juggle them amid the morning mayhem of herding kids to the breakfast table, throwing clothes on them and hurtling them off to school. (Luckily cats are self-sufficient in that regard.)

I count myself lucky that any adverse side-effects have really been pretty minimal, with only the swelling, tenderness and blotchy redness of my pink-blancmange-boob being the most noticeable. It's certainly no fun when you can't tolerate wearing a bra or t-shirt because it sets your nipple off itching like crazy but your skin's too tender to even have a good scratch (ideally in private, hehe.) But even that was largely kept under control by regularly applying betamethasone cream, a prescription steroid cream to combat the itching and soreness.

And so another stage of this journey is done and out of the way. The staff wished me well as I left Unit #6 for the last time. "Thanks for everything," I replied, cheerily. "And please don't take it personally if I hope never to see you again." ;-)

Now that we've zapped the sh*t out of any remaining cancer cells, all I'm left with is a bizarre-shaped tan across my right boob and into my armpit. The skin's still sensitive and has started to peel slightly where the redness and blotching was previously more prominent so I'll continue applying the cream for a couple more weeks, but overall I have to say I've been feeling pretty good.

Moreover, I am profoundly thankful for an early diagnosis and the amazing medical care and hi-tech equipment that are readily available to me - suddenly my bitching about paying through the nose to live in Vancouver seems unreasonably skewed.

Bag #2673

And so this is me, Bag #2673, for the next 4.5 weeks. Or rather 22 radiation sessions, daily Mon - Fri, from now until Nov. 2nd.

As luck would have it, Lorne didn't have to start work until 10am today so he came down to the BC Cancer Agency with me for today's initial radiation session.

I'm not sure where in the building Vicky did her radiation, but it seems to me that it's a bit nicer where I go - Unit 6. From the time I went with Vicky to one of her treatments, I recollect the area was sparse and in need of a paint job. But then I also don't really trust my memory on much theses days, so I could just be totally making it up in my mind. (And this is even before any effects of menopause.)

The staff were really friendly and Kerry, who walked us through the plan and general routine for the next few weeks, had a really dry sense of humour, which helped. She gave me my personal, marked up brown paper bag (as above), complete with a navy hospital gown that I will use for the duration and a rather cheery, Christmas candy-cane coat hanger so that, after each treatment, I can leave it hanging in the change area until the next session. It wasn't until I went to actually change, that I realized just how many bags are hanging in that area - and there are more areas just like that - a mix of paper bags and some fabric ones, marked up with number, unit and treatment end date, much the same as mine - reiterating just how many of us are on this same journey. Too many, it would seem.

We went over the radiation treatment plan that Dr N. had talked about a couple of weeks ago; 16 treatments to the whole area plus a further 6 'booster' treatments that would specifically target the area where just few cancer cells remained post-surgery.

Once I had undressed my top half and changed into my gown, Kerry led me into a room with a monster of a machine that immediately reminded me of an oversized food mixer (per the example on the left) where - as you can see from my photo (below) - I am positioned in the spot where the mixing bowl would ordinarily be.

Thankfully, having seen Vicky go through one of her sessions a couple of years ago, I wasn't too shocked by the size of the thing, although it's nevertheless quite daunting to be under there as it buzzes away and then swings overhead after zapping one side of my boob, ready to start again from the other side. I remain convinced it could quite easily eat me whole.

Me, ready to get zapped

Lorne stayed outside the room with the technicians (due to the obvious dangers of the radiation) and watched on the monitors while the radiologists used lines, beams, illuminated rulers, magic markers and my two new tattoos to line up everything ready for administering my first treatment. So precisely measured down to the exact half-millimetre that even the teeny-tiniest movement, sneeze, cough or otherwise would throw everything right off and the technicians would have to start measuring all over again.

With everything all set and ready to go, they checked I was still doing okay, then left the room. Seconds later a loud click heralded the start of my first treatment - noticeable only by the resonating "NNNRRRRRRRR" sound it emits for the duration. It's an odd thing to be laying there, getting zapped by invisible, refined beams of radiation, while everyone else has to vacate the premises and stand well clear of the 8" thick door that separates us.

In just a matter of minutes (or less) it was all done. Kerry and her team-mate came back in, helped me get down from the bed and cheerily wished me a good day and 'see you tomorrow' as they handed me my pink appointment card wherein they write the times for that week's appointments. I took my brown bag and stripey hanger back to the changing room, got dressed and dutifully hung up Bag #2673 on the rail - along with all the others.