Eight years ago, I underwent radiation. This is the start of that tale.
…(Before you undergo radiation, you will need stuff).
Radiation Get List:
A large tote bag, as there will be no Sherpa to help you lug your stuff around.
Any device which streams Netflix, Hulu, YouTube, etcetera, for all your waiting and distraction needs. (“Hubby” bought a Kindle Fire for me and it has been a sanity saver. I’ve watched a lot of bad television, cute animal videos and documentaries on it).
Aquaphor and Aloe Vera Gel, to keep your skin from bursting into flames.
Miaderm-especially when your skin starts tightening and cracking. (This product is a
Godsend).
Ice packs (again, for when your skin feels like it’s on fire).
Large soft cotton button- down shirts, because you will have difficulty putting things on and taking them off over your head.
Large, disposable T-shirts (because the Aquaphor and Aloe Vera goop will make your clothes greasy). Don’t wear anything silk when you’re this slimy!
Leggings and comfy clothes for radiation- comfort. (If you want to wear ballgowns and tiaras, that’s your business. But soft, lounge attire, verging on pajamas, is what is needed).
Alright, let’s get irradiated.
To me, this treatment was the lesser of some of the other evils from which to choose.
Nope, there weren’t a lot of great options out there.
Nevertheless, I embarked upon this experience and hoped I wouldn’t regret doing so.
First radiation business to tackle? Getting precisely measured. Elecktra, a British medical company that manufactures these machines, would do the honors.
I arrived at the clinic on a November day, and was greeted by Joani,* a petite nurse with light brown hair, soon approaching her maternity leave. She walked me back to the Cancer Care inner sanctum. I was in a dimly lit room with a slab-looking table and a giant machine hovering over it.
“That’s not what they’ll use for your radiation; this is an MRI. It just mimics the machine, getting the measurements we need.”
She then informed me, “We’re going to need to make three black dot tattoos, so we can accurately align you for each treatment. Or we can place these clear stickers on you. We just ask you don’t disturb them; they need to stay on. Please don’t scrub when you’re in the shower.”
Trying not to freak out, I opted to try the stickers because I hated needles.
She briefly left the room so I could disrobe and put on that clinic gown again. Because this was earlier in the morning, I had nice fresh Neosporin stain on my button-down shirt. Terrific. It’s a challenge to be stylish when you ooze on and stain things.
When she popped back into the room, she carefully placed the stickers in a weird triangle pattern. One was right above my right chest area, about four inches below my collarbone. The other two were just under the bra line, on both my right and left sides.
“I need to take some pictures, to make things easier to measure.” She grabbed her camera and clicked a headshot of me, against the wall. I then was told to get on the slab, (I’m sorry, that’s just what it reminds me of).
I told her about my concerns with the right side of my scar. It still looked like things hadn’t fully closed and I had to apply Neosporin and a lone bandage daily to it.
And then, she slowly peeled my bandage, “Wow, these are great. They come off easily.
Where’d you get them?”
“Oh, just at Walgreens, CVS, any place where you get bandages.”
Scintillating conversation.
From there, she had me raise my arms over my head. I was trying to make mobility progress with my breast surgery exercises and hoped I could endure being in this position.
Everything was tightly stretched, but I managed.
I grabbed the bars within my reach. Joani took more photos of me. As she and another tech kept circling me, I’d hear them saying, “Don’t move” and “I’m sorry” as they prodded and contorted my body into their ideal shape. This went on for about ten minutes. Already, I started experiencing a needles and pins sensation in my right arm and hand.
“Can I shake my hand?”
(In unison), “No.”
I tried to loosen my grip on those bars, but it didn’t help.
It was like Disney’s “Bambi.” You know, the scene with the birds being hunted and they freak out hiding in the brush. One poor bird, who, made the fatal mistake of panicking and flying into the hunters’ range, declared, “I can’t take it anymore!”
Yeah, I was feeling like that.
So, everyone in the room spent time and effort positioning and measuring me. I’d hear the occasional camera click. I stared at the waterfall image on the ceiling tile above me. As Joani hovered, attempting to line up my plastic-covered dots, I sensed her frustration.
Finally, Dr. B. entered the room, telling me, “We’d rather go with the tattoos; the stickers are just not staying on well and they’re not giving us an accurate reading. If you continued to go with them, it’d take much longer every radiation session.”
“Fine, tattoo me.”
I was pricked in two spots under my bra line. Joani then tried for the right-sided area, below my collarbone. That whole area was still too sensitive and, after a couple of attempts at the spot, and a couple of my ouch responses, she gave up. The plastic sticker went back on.
So, freshly tattooed, I stared at the waterfall ceiling tile as they connected the dots. The machine whirred and I glided into the tunnel. I heard clangs, the motor humming, and, in general, unfamiliar noise. I glided out of the tunnel.
Ta-dah.
Finally finished, I could get dressed, handing me my bandage to reapply. I was then given my own Elecktra card to scan into the clinic’s system when I arrived each day. It’d let the radiation crew know, yep, I’m a-ready for zapping.
