People have been asking me lately how radiation is different from chemotherapy, and my eyes always involuntarily roll with exasperation before I remember the very miniscule amount of knowledge about cancer treatment I possessed before being diagnosed. Reading about celebrities' treatment and even hearing extended family and friends' stories does not deliver the details you get when you're actually helping care for someone undergoing treatment, or going through it yourself. And because I was lucky in that no one in my immediate family or small circle of friends had to go through treatment before I was diagnosed, I can't knock people for being ignorant as to how chemo and radiation are different.
Most of my usual knee-jerk reaction comes from the fact that radiation is so much easier to tolerate than chemo that it seems preposterous to compare them. I wake up with a normal-ish amount of energy, I go to the gym, I eat normally. The one side effect I've felt is a sensation that there is a pill in the back of my throat that I didn't have enough water to swallow fully, which previously (besides scraping together rent) would've been the bane of my existence. Now, it's obviously a minor (and I mean minor) annoyance. I've also had a few bouts of itchiness where they're shootin' lasers into my back, but that's it. Like I've said previously, I think in my very first post, Hodgkin's is the cancer to get if you're going to get cancer. (As if I'm recommending a type of Jeep to buy. "You should tooootally get this one.") But once I got past the "Holy...SHIT I have cancer" factor, I realized how lucky I was in how treatable the Hodge is compared to other patients' types.
Physical side effects aside, one of the biggest differences in chemo vs. radiation for me has been my lack of understanding of how radiation works. With chemo, I was literally tethered via an IV to my medicine for three to four hours, while the oncology nurses fluttered around like very smart butterflies who had the answers to every question I threw at them. I was never afraid to ask a question, which is a testament to my doctor and his staff. Radiation's not really the same.
For one, it's a quick process--you're in, you're out in max 15 minutes. After my first few sessions, I wrote about how the technicians were very brusque, and I felt like I was just a task to check off during their work day. So when people would ask me, "How's radiation going?" I would just be like, shrug, "Good," because that's how it appeared to be going. Secondly, which you will know if you've ever seen Broken Arrow (which is incidentally my favorite action film despite being forced to watch it more than twice a month by my older brother when we were little) radiation is not something you can see or feel the immediate effects of. And when things are invisible, they're harder to understand. (Just like...ghosts...and...love.)
After my first week, I switched appointment times and got a new pair of techs who are worlds friendlier and actually take the time to talk to me. As a result, I've been more vocally curious about how everything works, and now actually feel like elaborating on the actual process.
A typical session:
I drive to Stonybrook Hospital's radiation and oncology unit, park, then pass by the extremely unfriendly valet parking attendant, who despite my attempts at pleasant hellos and lots of "thank you's" responds with a face that would be blank if there wasn't just a teeny bit of a sneer on it. I go into the check-in area and spell my last name (usually twice cause it's ridiculous) and then head into the sitting room, where if I'm lucky, the Food Network is on and I watch the Neeley's being so overly affectionate that I wonder if they're faking it for the camera. My name is usually called within a few minutes, and I head back into this room:
It makes me happy to know there was some (probably persistent) kind....radiation room designer (?) at Stony Brook that knew giving patients pretty pictures of nature to look at would actually ease their nerves a bit. Cause that, along with Bob Marley on the stereo, really does serve to relax me.
So after some chit chat with one or both of the techs, I lay down on the metal platform and tuck my legs into this foam mold they made to ensure my body will always be in the same position. Then I flash my techs for a few seconds before they drape a sheet over my boobs and raise the metal platform about ten feet off the floor (which I didn't know was raised until I went to sit up before it was lowered it one day, and Kelsey, one of the techs, was like, "Wait wait wait wait. I've had people fall off before and sue the hell out of me.") Once I'm up there, they line my tattooed dots up with a green laser that comes out of the round part of the machine. On the bottom of that part, there is a screen that kind of looks like an etch-a-sketch, where these metal pins slide into place and create a slide that was custom-made for my treatment. The image that's created in the negative space on the slide is the shape of the part of my chest that they're treating (which I guess is actually the shape of the tumors.) Once I'm all lined up, they turn off the lights and go into another room. A couple of seconds later a buzzing starts and lasts for about ten seconds, during which I notice a sensation that's almost like smelling blood if blood smelled as metallic as it tastes...and was also on fire. At first I thought that was in my head, but after asking Kelsey about it, I learned it's actually common, though he's not sure why it happens. After the lasers zap my chest, the machine rotates around and hits me from the back as well, which is done in order to keep burning of the skin to a minimum. Then I'm done. It's all very exciting.
If you want more science behind the process, this site shows you what is actually happening to the cells. As far as I can understand, it's similar to chemo in that radiation kills rapidly-dividing cells (which cancer cells are) but that it's also killing healthy cells. Quite the delicate dance.
This week is my last full week, with two more sessions on Tuesday, then I'm....finished with treatment. I haven't spoken at length with my oncologist about what comes next as far as another PET scan or blood tests or WHAT that shows that I actually am really done, so I should probably figure that out. I need to ask when I can call myself cured, or if I can I ever really say that. I want to be able to, but I have a hunch the correct phrase is "in remission."
I also just spoke with the doctor who put my port in, and he recommended I wait until radiation's been done for a few weeks before I get the port removed so the healing process isn't slowed. My radiologist had previously told me it would be fine to get the port out during radiation, but something about zapping a fresh wound makes me wary and brings to mind zombies (which...ew.)
I'm meeting with a head hunter this Friday to try and jump start my life, and even though it's not a guarantee she'll be able to find me the job of my dreams, it feels good to be taking physical steps forward in terms of living the life I want to live when I'm done with all this. Baby steps y'all, baby steps.
(Incidentally, that was my exact haircut a few weeks ago.)
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