Strange Routine (July 6, 2011)

My days of radiation therapy are becoming a strange routine. We go to the Royal University parking lot, deposit our monthly pass and the arm lifts, bidding us entrance. My Mom hands it back to me, I put it back into the protective sleeve and grab our 'cancer clinic parking permit' to place on the dash. I walk into the cancer clinic with my Mom (and sometimes Bu). I use hand sanitizer, smile at the lovely women at the reception desk and head downstairs. My Mom takes my photo by the door marked, 'Radiation Department' every day, and we head down to the RT reception desk. I dig around in my purse for the mandatory appointment card, where the next day's time is written down for me. We wait for a few minutes, I usually decide I should quickly pee before I'm called, and then an RT staff member comes to get me.

My Mom watches my sunhat and purse while I wind down the hallway to the 'Meadow' RT room. I enter the tiny change room and select the most worn, softest gown from the stack, take my bra off, pull my strapless dress down to my waist, and tie the gown at the side (I am unable to tie it at my neck, as my left arm is not very mobile). I glance at myself in the full-length mirror and exit. I deposit my bra (and typically, a scarf) in one of four lockers available. I often am called right away, but sometimes I sit and wait. There is a really beautiful kaleidoscope sitting there, and I occupy my time by slowly turning the bottom to change the lovely images only a slight frame at a time. When I am called, I use hand sanitizer again and walk around a corner, down a hallway and round another corner to the now-familiar area. If I am wearing glasses, I set them down on a chair. I recently found out I am able to wear my contact lenses, which I favor, but I ordered 12 pairs of glasses on-line and am sure I will be flaunting them soon.

I keep my sandals on and walk over to the plank that I am to lay on. Polite conversation is typically exchanged. I am becoming a bit of an expert at where to position myself on said plank, so that when I lay down, my shoulders, head and neck are where they need to be. Then I tilt my head back and forth until I find the perfect position for it. I take my arms out of the sleeves of my gown, typically exposing my breasts (I haven't quite mastered the maneuver, and quite frankly, don't care too much). There is music softly playing in the background. One of the techs puts a contoured cushion beneath my thighs and I am always comforted by the feel of it. Another tech goes to grab my mask off a shelf where there are approximately 15-20 similar ones. I am always a bit startled when it appears over my face and comes down over me. I rarely have my nose in the right spot, and have to wiggle around to find the true place for it. For the first 6 treatments, I kept my eyes closed the entire time, as I felt pressure on my eyelids and was honestly too afraid to open them. Now, I keep them open for the first while and close them when I start to meditate and drift within.

After my mask snaps into place, the plank is raised and the few lights that are on are dimmed even more. Red X's are present to line me up. I was given 3 tattoos when I went for my mask fitting. One in the middle of my chest where my cleavages starts, and 2 on my sides, parellel with my belly button. A black pen is used to redefine the areas (a scope signal, like an aiming tool) The techs manipulate my shoulders, use the sheet beneath me to slightly rotate me the slightest fraction and use terms like, 'A little ant' or 'I'm slightly post' and they raise the plank more or less, move it side to side and calculate very precisely where my entire body should be. At this point, I tuck my hands below my hips, careful not to adjust even a little. I was cautioned that I wouldn't be strapped down completely with restraints, but only if I can manage not to move on my own. I only get one chance, and I am determined to keep even the slightest bit of freedom.

Sometimes the music is turned up as the techs announce I am ready and they leave the room. I have never been disappointed by the selection of songs- I feel as though each day, there is a new playlist tailor made just for me. I've even joked with a couple of the girls that they must have really done their research, as they appear to know my musical tastes so well! The best part of it is that I narrowly escape a Taylor Swift song or Sweet Home Alabama, as they start to play when I am exiting the room.

I am slightly adjusted by remote control once the girls are at their desk and have to line me up on their monitors too. Then the buzzing noise starts, and the equipment begins to rotate around me. There is a square window that starts out inches above my face. There are 'leaves' in it that move around and adjust just the right amount of radiation in just the right areas, protecting things like my sense of smell, my hearing and eyesight. Good stuff. I try to keep my eyes open, but eventually lose interest in watching the machine move around me. I close my eyes and focus on being healthy. And I pretend that the radiation is reiki love, coming into my body and healing me. This causes me to relax and focus inward.

I used to get a half-way point heads up, but asked to not have it any longer, as it tended to startle me when a voice on a microphone comes through speakers and says, 'Krsh... Half way done, Megan'. Typically before I know it, 20 minutes have passed and someone is at my side reaching over my face saying, 'All done, Megan', and I slowly become aware of my surroundings. I put my arms back into the sleeves of my gown and wait for the plank to be lowered, the cushion removed from under my legs, the mask taken off. I sit up slowly, put my legs over to the side and tie my gown. I grab my glasses if needed and walk out, get dressed and say good bye to the several staff members. When I meet my Mom in the waiting room, she is sometimes chatting with someone and she tells me their story once we leave the building. We sometimes have to see a nurse to change an appointment upstairs, or chat with my social worker, or grab a copy of some paperwork.
It is a strange routine, a strange existence right now.  I have found a surprising amount of comfort in the routine, as it means that time is moving forward and I'm not stuck.  With grace, patience and support, I will be on the other side of this experience.