Another Cancer Anniversary Celebration

Today is the one year anniversary of the end of radiation treatment. I spent seven weeks, five days a week, lying on a big table in some kind of molded stuff that was supposed to keep me in exactly the same position every day. The molded stuff did not feel good and sometimes it was hard to get my body to fit back into that particular configuration. (When I left every day, they'd label my mold and hang it up, along with lots of other people's molds.)

Then everyone would leave the room and this huge machine would circle around me like a vulture. It would radiate for a while here, move, and radiate in another place. It usually went on for about half an hour. The machine made a lot of noise and, from my vantage point, I could see it internally repositioning itself (by technician-controlled computer) . Blades inside made a whirling sound as they moved. I started to have burns before many days passed. Big deal. I'd just finished up chemo. A few burns meant nothing to me.

As I lay there, I'd sometimes contemplate my radiation oncologist's explanations about the need for precision. If I moved during the radiation treatment (I love that word, "treatment"), it could radiate my lungs and/or heart because of the size of the area and its proximity to those organs. Sometimes I didn't think at all, drifting still in my poisonous haze. I just lay there and felt how much my body hurt. When it was over, I smiled and told the techs I'd see them tomorrow. I'd get dressed and go back to work. It makes me sad to think about that time.

I got unaccountably attached to my radiation techs, a young man and woman. We never talked much. I'd say hello and ask how they were. They'd answer and ask how I was. They knew how I was. I was dazed with pain, beaten down and generally felt like shit. I looked really good, too. It was nice that they asked, anyway.

Those techs were two more strangers I became comfortable with pulling and pushing my body around. At that point, it didn't really seem much like my body anyway. On my last day, the young woman tech rushed out and stood beside the door with a handful of confetti. As I walked out, she threw it up into the air. I actually hugged her. We hadn't had that kind of relationship, but I suppose all cancer treatment relationships become intense, if only for the patient. Actually, I think it's probably a little intense for the care providers, too. However, they need to protect themselves emotionally, of course, in order to survive the jobs they do. When I think about my own two radiation technicians, I'm still grateful and marvel at their gentleness. I would hug them both if I had a chance.

My own personal victory: I did what I could to liberate my fellow cancer patients by not wearing my wig. I was completely bald, of course, because I'd just finished chemo. By the time radiation was over, I was beginning to have a little baby bird fuzz. There was another young woman receiving radiation treatment for breast cancer whose appointment was always just after mine. After seeing me with my naked head for a couple of days, she started showing up without her wig. She told my mom one day, while I lay on that table in the radiation room, that she had never gone anywhere without her wig. Even her husband had never seen her without it. I gave her the courage.

I had begun to feel that, by wearing a wig, I was giving in to a sense of shame, almost. I was bald because I was trying to survive a terrible disease. Why would I hide that? I had lost all pretense to vanity a long time before my hair completely went away. Wearing a wig became more a gesture of protection for other people than for me. And, in fact, when I started coming to work without my wig, people were troubled. I told them that I'd gotten used to it and they would, too. I have no idea if they ever did, of course.

I decided that being bald was a profound symbol of exactly how difficult my life had become. It became a statement of pride. This is how much I can endure. This is how committed I am to staying alive. I not only have enough inner strength to keep going, I have enough strength to let you see how I've suffered. Furthermore, fuck you, cancer.

We all get through it how ever we can, though. I would never, ever judge another cancer patient for making a different decision about it. I think everyone should be as comfortable as they can be, in every possible way. If a scarf or a wig helps a little, then hallelujah. It's important to celebrate your Inner Cancer Survivor somehow, though, if you have enough energy. My way didn't take much of that.

I have my six-month check up with my radiation oncologist soon. We'll be having those little visits for the next five years. Sometimes it feels like all of it will never end, especially as I mark time until the next ultrasound.

Radiation ended, though. A year ago today. Here's to my own Inner Cancer Survivor.