End of the Tunnel.

Well, today was the last day of my radiation therapy.  I missed a day last week and didn't realize they add it onto the end.   So, that's it.   Done.  Now, it's recover.  

Getting radiation therapy is not so bad.  But, no matter how good it's supposed to be for me, I haven't liked the idea of it.  It's the kind of it's bad for me, but good for me, but yea, it's bad for you kind of good for you.  There's strings attached.  So, while I really embraced chemotherapy, I've been more ambivalent about radiation, despite my belief in it's necessity.
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I do get to know my partners a slight bit better while I wait my turn.  For one, we're fully conscious.  That helps immensely.  Mostly, there are the same two men whose appointments bracket mine.  One is a very elderly gentleman, very thin, with a cane.  Very polite, slightly stooped, his hair is very cross cropped.  His skin, papery, but of good color. He is friendly and although seemingly frail, he emanates good will.  He acknowledges my greetings with a faint European accent and reads the magazines while we wait.  My other partner is a heavier set gentleman.  Stout, with a full face and mustache, he's talkative and has the hint of a curmudgeonly view on medical bills.   He's knowledgeable about herbs and we talk about this and that.  This is the men's side.  Mirrored to the left is the woman's area. It's divided by a low partition and a mobile of cranes.  On our side, it's just us men.  A night of cards in 20 minutes.  The cranes kibitz.

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Conversations end mid-sentence, "...well, see you later.  Good luck." Each of us has been called first, second or third, seemingly irrespective of when we arrive or our appointment times.  I haven't figured it out yet and it remains a mystery.

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The sign says "Please state your name out loud when you reach this point."  Dutifully, I informatively state, "I'm John Dowling."   They say thank you.  

It's not really Helen waiting for me.
It's really my treatment technician. ;)

A few minutes positioning, lock in, and my technicians leave. The table dials itself into my program. Things move and position themselves.

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No movie moment for me.  I'm fully present.
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Bumps, clicks and light bangs herald the humming start of my treatment.   I have two persistent sensations: I get an unpleasant metallic taste in my mouth and, on really dry days, the hair on my arms feels like it stands on end and.




Treatment takes One Long Slow Deep Breath, which also takes care of the taste.  They said some people see a blue light.   I didn't like to think about what you had to have and what you were having radiated to see the blue light, so I don't have a shred of envy.   


Change and on my way.  Forty minutes.  Easy as pie. 

But, you know, too much of a good thing, etc.  I'm happy to be done.

Last Chemotherapy.

Denise, who does the scheduling said, "What are you going to do now, with all this time on your hands?"   

As I looked for an open chair, I thought it was unusually chatty today.  I've found that chemotherapy is a distinctly friendly, generally upbeat, social and communal experience.  But it's not what you would call noisy with conversation. Everyone's talking today it seems.

This suite is more open, there is one to the left which, being closed in, is more intimate. You don't want the chair second from the left. That foot rest is awkward.

Some time after I took this photo, a thousand paper crane mobile with a story card arrived.  The card explained the story of Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes.   It's now behind the chair on the far left.  

It's very pretty.  

Back in the 60's, before Sadako's story was known, my father made a paper birds, similar to those cranes for my brother Brian and I. We called them "paper birds."  They weren't cranes, though they look almost alike, because the wings were folded differently.  I was in love with them because when I pulled the tail, the wings flapped. This amazed me.  And my dad could take just a plain, flat piece of paper and fold it to create this magic paper toy.  When I was in second or third grade he taught me the magic, and I showed a friend. And for a while the school became a rookery of paper birds. Who could make the smallest? The biggest?  Pencilled decorations on blue striped yellow paper.  Easily hundreds just between a few friends any myself. I still like making them.  I wonder how many kept this little magic going?   How many birds have we all made?  Does the pigeon count?

I recognize faces.  I've had a hard time with names.  There's a dose of IV benadryl first thing, and pretty soon it's lights out for an hour or two.  When I'm awake, I'm surrounded by peaceful sleeping people. So, though we've introduced ourselves and re-introduced ourselves, I often don't have a name for their face.  Thank God the nurses wear name tags.

It's also a lot of fluid. There's a constant stream of us, forgive the pun, rolling our IV's with us to the bathroom.  A piece of laminated orange paper with black lettering hangs on the door by a loop of yarn.  One side says "Available",  "Occupied" on the other.  We flip it back and forth. 

So, between me falling asleep, them falling asleep, I'm going to the bathroom, they're going to the bathroom. Or, busy getting a snack from the basket.  A cookie, piece of candy or cracker.  Chips, juice or coffee.  A family member or friend is there, maybe.  Conversation tends to be sporadic and, on any given topic, brief.
Today, Chemo started about eleven.  When I woke up,  Sarah was in the chair next to me and it was one o'clock.  "Hi." And there is no nicer sound to my ears. "Hi."  "I just got here." "Oh. I just woke up." "I know."  Laugh.  Having entered the hospital a different way, she shares her adventure in getting the suite.  Helen arrives and that's it. We're all here. I'm glad.

Questions. We chat. Sarah asks about the medications.  I go to the bathroom. A few people we know stop by.  It's amazing the people we meet: friends of friends, parents of friends, friends.  There's a lot of cancer out there.  Then, Sarah is off to do school related things.  Helen, back to the office.  Half an hour later, my IV pump beeps and Karen says, "That's it, you're all done."  "Deep breath." She removes the 90 degree Huber point needle from my Power port.

I'm eager to leave, but ambivalent about departing.   It's been kind of a home for a while. There's a friend from before she or I had cancer here for treatment today.  Small world. I go over to the sister suite to say good bye to her.

General goodbye to my seat mates and good bye to the nurses.

It's three o'clock, and with Grace, my last chemotherapy is finished.  On to radiation.

Up for Air

I've been out of touch.   It's been a "no news" is good news situation, health wise: things keep going well.  And experience wise, it's been a little difficult to process.

They warn you that the effects of chemotherapy over time are culmulative.  I nodded that I understood.  Of course, I didn't.  Even with all the great news test wise, the physical effects add up.

Last chemotherapy is this Thursday.   Helen and Sarah are going to come, which I'm happy about.