Today marked treatment #23 for me, and I'm not very comfortable right now. My right underarm and the bottom side of my right upper arm are tight and a bit swollen--probably a bit of fluid and for sure some affected muscles. Having two days of freedom ahead of me from the laser beam is a wonderful prospect.
I noticed at the end of last week and over the weekend that the right side of my neck was becoming very red, and since I've been one to break out in hives occasionally, I didn't think that much of it. When I noticed a definite line just to the right of center on my body where the redness started, I felt as if it had to do with the radiation treatments. On Monday, I asked the radiation tech why my neck was so red, and she explained to me that my treatment field went all the way up over the lymph glands in my neck. I knew the lymph glands at the top of my breast were being radiated, but I didn't know about the ones in my upper clavicular and neck areas. I asked the tech if my lymph glands would be damaged from the radiation, and of course she said I would need to speak to the doctor about it.
Learning of this radiated area threw me considerably, and I got very quiet. She half-jokingly asked if I was upset with her, and I told her, no, and that it wasn't her fault I was having to get treatment such as this. She then explained the protocols that they were following to give me a longer life and to hopefully keep down any recurrence of my breast cancer.
The next day when I saw the doctor, I asked him about the treatment field all the way up my neck and shoulder, and he said, "We talked about this."
No, we did not.
You can ask just about anyone who knows me well, and there are certain things (unfortunately both good and bad) that I do not forget--Barry calls me an elephant. As a singer, I believe I would have remembered that the edge of my voice box and vocal cords were being radiated. I would have come home and talked about it, and I would have written about it here. I believe I would have remembered being told that the corner of my thyroid was being radiated as well. So it must have been someone else in that discussion with the doctor.
I asked if my lymph nodes would be damaged and if they would be able to drain infection from my body, and the doctor said they would be damaged temporarily but they should recover eventually. How fun is that? Eventually. He said I might be a little hoarse for a while, but my vocal cords would also recover. He also said that the amount of radiation hitting my thyroid was "therapeutic" and that it shouldn't cause thyroid cancer that comes from radiation exposure. Hmmm. This was a lot for me to contemplate, and it made me overwhelmed to think of the whole process. The doctor explained to me, again, as the tech had, that the treatment they were giving me was protocol to add to my life expectancy.
Maybe so, but how do they come up with the magic number of 33 treatments? Did people have a greater recurrence with only 25 treatments? I want to understand more of why this has had to be done to my body. I've never been one to buy into the old saying that something is done because that's the way it's always been done or because that's what everyone is doing now. And yes, I'm hardheaded and difficult at times, but I'm doing everything they are asking me to do. I had all eight chemos with the three drugs they said I needed. I've endured 23 days of radiation and will have ten more radiation treatments with the amounts they say I need--for protocol sake and hopefully and ultimately for my sake.
Don't get me wrong, I am very thankful that I have health insurance and a cancer policy and that there is a treatment center nearby with nice people who will listen to my concerns and answer my questions. I don't have to like any of it, though. I think I would rather be told about "protocol" from someone who has been through treatment because they honestly know what it's like. I asked the oncologist one day if he had ever had chemo before, and I think it startled him. He said, "No." And I told him that he could visually see what happens with a patient getting Adriamycin, but he would never know what it felt like unless he ever had to take the drug.
As I read back over my words, I know I sound harsh, but I want to be honest here. Once again, cancer absolutely sucks. Treatment has placed on hold much of my life for the past ten months, and I am thankful there is light at the end of the tunnel for me. That being said, the trade off for good health and being alive is the ultimate goal, and I am truly thankful that I am cancer-free.
As to where I find myself right now, I haven't worn a bra for more than two weeks because the elastic is just too much for my tender underarm. I bought a radiation camisole from the American Cancer Society website, and although the shoulder straps show under my clothing, it has definitely helped me as I go to work or if I want to be out and around people. It DOES insulate the heat, however, and by the end of the day, my breast and underarm are very red. My skin is still in decent condition, so I'm hopeful there will be no blisters or breakdown of the tissue.
I have a good rapport now with my radiation buddy who has throat cancer, and when I came out of treatment on Thursday, I didn't realize he was seated right beside the door where I stopped for a moment to speak to my chemo buddy, Robbie. He nudged me and sort of grinned, and asked me how I was. I told him I was good, and I asked how his throat was, and he said it was better. I cocked my head to the side and asked if he was telling the truth about his throat, and the whole room laughed. One lady said, "Honey, that's what we tell people when they ask how we are." And she's right.
I looked around the room at the group of unlikely friends, and I realized we all had a commonality. Cancer. Some of us are going to win the battle, but others are not, unfortunately. Every single one of us, though, are fighting like hell to make it to next week, next month and next year.
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