A Tale of Radiation - Part III
So there I sat in the parking lot in front of the radiation center unable to hold back the tears that had been building not just for the last hour and a half, but probably for the past seven months. It wasn't one of those "why me?" or "poor me" moments. Rather it was a "this really sucks!" kind of breakdown, and it lasted about 15 minutes. Bo listened patiently and sympathetically as I explained what happened, words interupted with tears about every other sentence. Finally, I finished my story, managed to locate my temporarily misplaced composure, and declared myself fit to hit the road and resume my Christmas preparations. Nonetheless, the rest of the day, I was pretty much a basket case, and the slightest anything would summon more tears.
Why the waterworks? Well, I have my theories, but before I get to those, the most basic reason was that IT HURT LIKE #@$!%!!! I was sore the rest of the day. Pure physical pain aside, the rest is theory: The surgery had created a kind of euphoric condition since I was instantly and finally free of the dreaded cancer. I also had had a nice break from any form of medical intervention since the surgery (not that I was ever able to stray far from reality with my companion of six weeks, the drainage appendage). The events that unfolded in the radiation center were a painful reminder that the journey wasn't over yet. Additionally, I really had expected only a brief consultation with the doctor before being sent on my way to enjoy the holidays, so I wasn't psychologically prepared for the "sim". Then there were all the assurances that radiation would be a breeze compared to everything else. Who would have ever suspected that this would end up being the worst appointment since treatment began back in June? Certainly not me.
I am sure the doctor didn't know I was perceiving her as insensitive. I don't believe doctors understand the power they hold over their patients. The doctor/patient relationship by its very nature is out of balance from the get go as you are to a great degree at the mercy of these professionals who have the knowledge and who control the medical treatment plans. Besides, knowing you have a very serious illness tends to make you feel more vulnerable and also puts you in a weakened psychological and emotional state. Then, if you are able to overcome all that, the actual circumstances of the appointments can perpetuate the imbalance of personal power. I actually felt weak and diminished as I lay on the plank half naked while even this very petite doctor towered above me. Not to mention, it is virtually impossible to feel self-assured and project any amount of confidence when everyone else in the room is fully dressed and you're not!
Her adamance that I get my arm into position regardless of the obvious physical pain didn't help things. Even though she didn't ever say these words, what she did say (and didn't say) and her actions made me feel like we had already lost valuable time and that the consequences would be dire if we didn't get the treatment going immediately. I couldn't help it that my body had separation anxiety from the lymphatic fluid, and if time was of the essence, why was the appointment with her scheduled a full week after the drain was removed? My imagination starting getting the best of me. "Is she worried because I had two lymph nodes test positive and she's afraid that the cancer has spread?" I was especially concerned because this was the same doctor whom the plastic surgeon had consulted several months ago when I was considering implants, and at that time, she said it would be okay to delay radiation for a couple months while the expanders stretched my skin. Had something changed in my prognosis that I didn't know about?
In addition to the pain and the mind games and the vulnerability and the over-sensitivity, etc., I guess I just needed to have a good cry. It had been awhile, the pressure had probably reached a point where it needed to be released, and the whole experience in the radiation center was enough to blow off the top.
I had two more conversations with Noel that day. He called back to let me know he had spoken to the doctor and they had found a way to get the necessary calculations completed by next Wednesday. Consequently, I would need to come back for the remainder of the "sim" on Wednesday, and radiation would begin next Thursday, not the following week as we had originally discussed. (Typical conversation with myself ensues: "See? My condition is dire, afterall!" and "No, it's not, they are just anxious to complete your treatment. Relax.")
I asked about treatment times again, and Noel reitereated that he only had middle of the day appointments available, but that other times may open up as we progressed through the treatments. I wasn't very nice. For the first time since I was diagnosed, my frustration got the best of me. I said, "Well, unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of being retired. I have to work, and the middle of the day just isn't very convenient for me." Noel explained to me very calmly and patiently that most of the patients do work and that is why the early morning and late afternoon slots fill up. Not to be deterred from my momentary descent into ugliness, I said, "Well, whenever I am at your office, I only see old people." (Ouch. I regretted it almost as soon as I uttered it.) He agreed that most of their patients were older but many were still working. He also explained that some of the morning slots were taken up by patients who had radiation first followed by long chemo treatments next door at Dr. P's office. With that sobering piece of information, I relented. My dominant personality, the nice one, finally returned. He gave me several time slots, and we agreed that 2:45 p.m. would be my treatment time.
But is wasn't over. I thought about it and then called him back to see if we could do 2:30 p.m. In addition to working, I explained to him, I have three young children and also need to work around their school schedules. I apologized for being difficult. I know he was probably thinking, "This is her life we are talking about, and she's getting all particular about the time of day." That thought served to remind me that I shouldn't get hung up on inconsequential things, but it also became apparent to me by my behavior that day that maybe I was just starting to get worn down by it all...
I decided to get on the treadmill when I got home. That always makes me feel better, right? And it did until a particular song came on my IPOD, and then there I was sobbing on the treadmill. (Remember Rick Astley from the 80's? Cry for Help is an awesome song but can be quite emotional depending on one's state of mind.) Luckily, the sound of the treadmill covered up the sound of my boo hooing, so the boys and Bo were oblivious to it all.
That was the day my brother, John, and his gang arrived, so when we finally got all five boys in bed, and John and I had a chance to sit down and talk, I filled him in on the day's events. He told me that it was okay to cry. He said that I didn't have to be strong for everybody else and that I didn't have to be positive all of the time. It reminded me of something my friend, Betty, said when I was first diagnosed. She told me that I didn't have to be the perfect cancer patient. (She obviously knows me and my pursuit of perfection well.)
It isn't so much that I am trying to uphold an image or that I am trying to be the perfect cancer patient or that I am trying to be strong for the people around me. In fact, I have learned to let go of a lot of things, and I continue to work on this. (Obvious by the state of my house - total disarray!) I have also learned that I can't do it all by myself, that it is okay to receive help from others, and that people actually want to help. This doesn't make me weak; it makes me human. I know all that at one level, but old thought patterns are hard to break, and I am a work in progress. So in spite of all of this newfound, very rational information lurking in my brain, I still can't help how I feel. The main reason I don't want to cry or be sad in front of other people is that I don't want to make anyone else sad. As John and I were having this conversation, his eyes were welling up with tears for me, and this made me cry more. I just don't want to cause anyone else pain. (The other reason I avoid public displays of teariness, and it is a very strong second - I just don't like how I look or sound when I cry!)
But all that being said, the truth of the matter is that 99% of the time, I am not sad. I don't think I am putting on a front for others or for myself. I honestly would rather be laughing and smiling than crying. I would rather celebrate what I have than mourn what I have lost. When I start to feel sad about losing my breasts, I guess I could follow that path and see where it goes, but I think it would lead to sorrow. And that is perfectly okay. The healing process probably does require some time for grieving and the amount probably varies by individual. It's just that when I do start to feel a little sad, like when I see my scars and miss my breasts, my natural reaction is to automatically turn my thinking to how much I love my life, and how blessed I am. It is almost effortless, and for that I am grateful. I will continue to wake each morning with gratitude for a new day, but I'll try not to hide the tears when they need to flow either.
I'm off to radiation. Treatment #12 already. It took me so long to write about the initial experience day that I have since breezed through (really!) the first two weeks.
Why the waterworks? Well, I have my theories, but before I get to those, the most basic reason was that IT HURT LIKE #@$!%!!! I was sore the rest of the day. Pure physical pain aside, the rest is theory: The surgery had created a kind of euphoric condition since I was instantly and finally free of the dreaded cancer. I also had had a nice break from any form of medical intervention since the surgery (not that I was ever able to stray far from reality with my companion of six weeks, the drainage appendage). The events that unfolded in the radiation center were a painful reminder that the journey wasn't over yet. Additionally, I really had expected only a brief consultation with the doctor before being sent on my way to enjoy the holidays, so I wasn't psychologically prepared for the "sim". Then there were all the assurances that radiation would be a breeze compared to everything else. Who would have ever suspected that this would end up being the worst appointment since treatment began back in June? Certainly not me.
I am sure the doctor didn't know I was perceiving her as insensitive. I don't believe doctors understand the power they hold over their patients. The doctor/patient relationship by its very nature is out of balance from the get go as you are to a great degree at the mercy of these professionals who have the knowledge and who control the medical treatment plans. Besides, knowing you have a very serious illness tends to make you feel more vulnerable and also puts you in a weakened psychological and emotional state. Then, if you are able to overcome all that, the actual circumstances of the appointments can perpetuate the imbalance of personal power. I actually felt weak and diminished as I lay on the plank half naked while even this very petite doctor towered above me. Not to mention, it is virtually impossible to feel self-assured and project any amount of confidence when everyone else in the room is fully dressed and you're not!
Her adamance that I get my arm into position regardless of the obvious physical pain didn't help things. Even though she didn't ever say these words, what she did say (and didn't say) and her actions made me feel like we had already lost valuable time and that the consequences would be dire if we didn't get the treatment going immediately. I couldn't help it that my body had separation anxiety from the lymphatic fluid, and if time was of the essence, why was the appointment with her scheduled a full week after the drain was removed? My imagination starting getting the best of me. "Is she worried because I had two lymph nodes test positive and she's afraid that the cancer has spread?" I was especially concerned because this was the same doctor whom the plastic surgeon had consulted several months ago when I was considering implants, and at that time, she said it would be okay to delay radiation for a couple months while the expanders stretched my skin. Had something changed in my prognosis that I didn't know about?
In addition to the pain and the mind games and the vulnerability and the over-sensitivity, etc., I guess I just needed to have a good cry. It had been awhile, the pressure had probably reached a point where it needed to be released, and the whole experience in the radiation center was enough to blow off the top.
I had two more conversations with Noel that day. He called back to let me know he had spoken to the doctor and they had found a way to get the necessary calculations completed by next Wednesday. Consequently, I would need to come back for the remainder of the "sim" on Wednesday, and radiation would begin next Thursday, not the following week as we had originally discussed. (Typical conversation with myself ensues: "See? My condition is dire, afterall!" and "No, it's not, they are just anxious to complete your treatment. Relax.")
I asked about treatment times again, and Noel reitereated that he only had middle of the day appointments available, but that other times may open up as we progressed through the treatments. I wasn't very nice. For the first time since I was diagnosed, my frustration got the best of me. I said, "Well, unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of being retired. I have to work, and the middle of the day just isn't very convenient for me." Noel explained to me very calmly and patiently that most of the patients do work and that is why the early morning and late afternoon slots fill up. Not to be deterred from my momentary descent into ugliness, I said, "Well, whenever I am at your office, I only see old people." (Ouch. I regretted it almost as soon as I uttered it.) He agreed that most of their patients were older but many were still working. He also explained that some of the morning slots were taken up by patients who had radiation first followed by long chemo treatments next door at Dr. P's office. With that sobering piece of information, I relented. My dominant personality, the nice one, finally returned. He gave me several time slots, and we agreed that 2:45 p.m. would be my treatment time.
But is wasn't over. I thought about it and then called him back to see if we could do 2:30 p.m. In addition to working, I explained to him, I have three young children and also need to work around their school schedules. I apologized for being difficult. I know he was probably thinking, "This is her life we are talking about, and she's getting all particular about the time of day." That thought served to remind me that I shouldn't get hung up on inconsequential things, but it also became apparent to me by my behavior that day that maybe I was just starting to get worn down by it all...
I decided to get on the treadmill when I got home. That always makes me feel better, right? And it did until a particular song came on my IPOD, and then there I was sobbing on the treadmill. (Remember Rick Astley from the 80's? Cry for Help is an awesome song but can be quite emotional depending on one's state of mind.) Luckily, the sound of the treadmill covered up the sound of my boo hooing, so the boys and Bo were oblivious to it all.
That was the day my brother, John, and his gang arrived, so when we finally got all five boys in bed, and John and I had a chance to sit down and talk, I filled him in on the day's events. He told me that it was okay to cry. He said that I didn't have to be strong for everybody else and that I didn't have to be positive all of the time. It reminded me of something my friend, Betty, said when I was first diagnosed. She told me that I didn't have to be the perfect cancer patient. (She obviously knows me and my pursuit of perfection well.)
It isn't so much that I am trying to uphold an image or that I am trying to be the perfect cancer patient or that I am trying to be strong for the people around me. In fact, I have learned to let go of a lot of things, and I continue to work on this. (Obvious by the state of my house - total disarray!) I have also learned that I can't do it all by myself, that it is okay to receive help from others, and that people actually want to help. This doesn't make me weak; it makes me human. I know all that at one level, but old thought patterns are hard to break, and I am a work in progress. So in spite of all of this newfound, very rational information lurking in my brain, I still can't help how I feel. The main reason I don't want to cry or be sad in front of other people is that I don't want to make anyone else sad. As John and I were having this conversation, his eyes were welling up with tears for me, and this made me cry more. I just don't want to cause anyone else pain. (The other reason I avoid public displays of teariness, and it is a very strong second - I just don't like how I look or sound when I cry!)
But all that being said, the truth of the matter is that 99% of the time, I am not sad. I don't think I am putting on a front for others or for myself. I honestly would rather be laughing and smiling than crying. I would rather celebrate what I have than mourn what I have lost. When I start to feel sad about losing my breasts, I guess I could follow that path and see where it goes, but I think it would lead to sorrow. And that is perfectly okay. The healing process probably does require some time for grieving and the amount probably varies by individual. It's just that when I do start to feel a little sad, like when I see my scars and miss my breasts, my natural reaction is to automatically turn my thinking to how much I love my life, and how blessed I am. It is almost effortless, and for that I am grateful. I will continue to wake each morning with gratitude for a new day, but I'll try not to hide the tears when they need to flow either.
I'm off to radiation. Treatment #12 already. It took me so long to write about the initial experience day that I have since breezed through (really!) the first two weeks.
posted by Mary @ 7:54 PM
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