Twenty One Down; Two to Go

THE RADIATION THERAPY TABLE AND "TRILOGY" ZAPPER; IT LOOKS FIERCE BUT THE ACTUAL ZAP IS PAINLESS

Every weekday since April 7th I've walked to Georgetown University Hospital to get my radiation therapy. I head out of the house at 7:30 am, cross from village from east to west, walk through the sleeping campus of Georgetown University, then into the hospital, down a long white corridor, down some steps and into the Radiation Oncology department where I sign in, take a seat and wait my turn with my fellow cancer patients. We're a small quiet group in the mornings, but we're convivial with each other and the staff.

For the patients it is a club, sort of, one none of us wanted to join. But we're there, working on getting repaired, and so be it. There's a table in the waiting room. On it is a puzzle. We each take turns trying to put the pieces together. That's us, in every way. 

At first I was scared of radiation. The big Trilogy machine, me on a cold table beneath it, the awful buzz it makes when I'm getting hit with the painless zap, the overwhelming feeling of being a piece of meat. But then I began to focus on the patient who goes before me, a girl not even two years old, who has cancer in her eye, who has to be sedated each morning in order to remain absolutely still on the treatment table, who cries a little when she comes out of the room and into the loving arms of her young mother and father, who hug her as she shakes off the anesthesia. She's so sweet and brave (as are her parents), and I think if she can take it then so can I. 

I chose to do the Canadian regimen of radiation therapy, which has been quietly introduced in the U.S. It's an option for those who qualify and qualifying has something to do with the size of the breast and the area that needs to be treated. The standard U.S. regimen is 33 zaps. The Canadian is 17, at a higher intensity, and five boosts, which are of a lesser intensity and focused solely on the spot of the surgery. The doctors say that they've found the Canadian and U.S. regimens bring the same results. My actual zap lasts no longer than 30 seconds. I was warned of possible fatigue and reddening of the skin, but these side effects have not happened (so far). 

Each day I focus on that little girl rather than myself. And I focus, too, on the man who follows me, who arrives wearing his I.V. We smile at each other, say "hello," coming and going, coming and going. With different players, this goes on all day, every week day, at GUH and so many hundreds of other hospitals. 

The little girl has her last treatment tomorrow. She will be done and the prognosis is good. I've done twenty one zaps and I have two to go. My prognosis is good. I will finish my treatment Thursday morning, just hours before interviewing Eric Ripert at The Q&A Cafe. Coincidentally, my first treatment was the morning of my interview with David Rubenstein. Go figure. 

I don't know what the future holds for my overall health, which is generally quite good, or anything else for that matter. No one does. But I know this: I was a lucky one with this bout of breast cancer. Due to a routine annual mammogram it was caught as early as is possible, stage zero, and it was small and contained. I don't have to do chemo, only the radiation and, if I choose, Tamoxifen. So, we go forward. 

Comments

[Mary Toth]

I had a similar experience while waiting for my first radiation treatment several months ago. A young father talked with his young son--maybe a five-year-old. The boy told his dad that he was afraid. The dad said that he was scared too. Soon the boy wiggled out of hos dad's arms and sat quietly. A few minutes the mother walked in and reported that the treatment had gone well and the follow-up x-rays showed that the tumor was reduced. Then this perfect little girl bounced in; gathered up her sweater and swatted her little brother. She tied a scarf around her bald head, taking care to expose her earrings. I was frankly in awe of these people--sensitive enough to include the little brother and cool enough to talk about the treatment as if it were any routine event.