Not My Idea of Fun

Well, I have 10 zaps down, 7 to go. And while this isn't as bad as chemo, it certainly isn't what I would consider fun. My mouth is still dry and because of the lack of saliva, my tongue has swollen to the size of mango. While a swollen tongue may not seem like a big deal, it causes problems. Because of its vast size, it gets caught between my teeth at night and I now have terrible wounds that make eating a literal pain. Not to mention, the swollen tongue leads me to talk like a drunk three year old with a lisp. Also, my throat is extremely inflamed (which the doctor said would happen) and every time I swallow, it feels like I am taking down a huge marble. With the fat, wounded tongue and sore throat, eating is nearly impossible. Even the softest foods make it feel like I am attempting to swallow a baseball.

Last Friday I tried to explain all of this peril to a useless nurse practitioner. For some reason, my radiation doctor was gone, so I had to meet with a lady that tried to tell me my dry mouth could not possibly be from the radiation this early on in the game. She rationalized the dry mouth by saying, "Well, it is pretty dry in this hospital..." Lady! I spend at most 30 minutes a day in here, my mouth isn't a desert just because of the lack of moisture in here! She also pulled out her flu shot soap box and explained to me for 29 minutes why I needed to get one. After I pulled out my D.A.R.E. skills and kept repeating, "No. No. NO," she finally came down off of her soap box. Then she relayed to me how important it was that even though radiation isn't like chemo, it is still taking a toll on my body. She emphasized that I just need to take it easy and if I don't feel like going out and doing things, that maybe I just need to "prop my feet up and watch the birds at the bird feeder." I don't "watch the birds" because I have a job and friends and I sure don't own a bird feeder, Lady!

On Monday, I met with yet another useless individual, the dietician. She commented on my position as a health fitness specialist and yet, she still proceeded to tell me basic things that Joe Schmoe off the street could tell anyone. Item by item, she went down the list of good protein sources. Honestly, I don't know how some of these people are employed. I could do half the jobs in that cancer center without any training.

I met with my real radiation doctor on Wednesday and he didn't have many helpful things to tell me either. He said that he believed me that my mouth was dry, but he wasn't going to take the blame for it. Listen, Pal. You and everyone else around here need to get over yourselves and stop saying that it was "just a coincidence" that my mouth became void of moisture upon the start of radiation. I am telling you, my mouth is dry and you need to do something about it!! After telling me he wasn't sure how long my dry mouth would persist and giving me a prescription for throat numbing medicine, he sent me on my way.

All in all, these radiation people are not as nice as my chemo nurses. They don't believe me and they don't offer anything helpful. So I will keep plugging along, eating tiny bites of soft foods, happy that my cancer is gone.

Zip Zap

Yesterday, I experienced my first radiation treatment. I rushed from work to the cancer center and barely had a chance to sit in the waiting room before they called me back. I laid on the table for a few minutes while they got my markings all lined up. Since these people seem to be so secretive about what they are doing, I just watched the machines rotating around me and listened to the various beeps, clicks, and honks that sounded at different points. I was under the impression that they were just taking some x-rays to make sure everything was properly lined up. Ready to ask them what or if the radiation would feel like, I was surprised when they came in the room and unhooked the blue mask. "What? It's over?" I asked. "Yep, all done. See you tomorrow," and they ushered me out the door.

Today was not quite as fast. Somebody must have had a blue mask panic because I didn't get called back for my zapping until 30 minutes after my scheduled appointment time. This time I paid closer attention to the beeps and honks and deduced that when the long honk is sounding, I am receiving radiation. I get zapped from the front for 10 seconds and then the machine moves and zaps me from the back for another 10 seconds. Twenty seconds total seems like an awfully short amount of time for which to waste my break. I kind of want to opt out of the rest of radiation as it is such a hassle, but Shane won't let me.

My radiation oncologist said it would be awhile before I noticed side effects, but I noticed the first effect yesterday afternoon. I think the zapper killed one of my saliva glands (which the doctor said may be a possibility). Since yesterday afternoon I have had such a dry, cottony mouth. I keep drinking water, but that only makes me have a full bladder and still leaves my mouth dry. And after today's treatment, my jaw is very sore and tender to the touch. It even hurts to open my mouth very wide. Maybe my coworkers will appreciate the upcoming silence for the next three weeks. I, however, am already counting down the days until the zip zap process is over.

She Thinks She is Funny

Friday afternoon I went in for my "dry run" to prep for radiation tomorrow. The dry run is basically an assimilation of what daily radiation will be like without the actual delivery of radioactive particles to my body. The radiation therapists use the dry run to take some x-rays and get my body lined up with the images on the screen in order to cut down on prep time when it is time for the actual zapping.

When I entered the radiation section of the cancer center, I was immediately greeted by a radiation therapist that took me back to the waiting area. I changed into a hospital gown-like top and headed to the radiation room. As we turned the corner I was greeted by not one, but two more radiation therapists. With a total of three radiation therapists, I began to wonder if someone had warned them of the PET scan incident, or maybe they just caught wind of my mischievous ways. Either way, I was slightly surprised at the number of people that this operation would require so I exclaimed, "Wow, a whole entourage!" Expecting at least a smile or small chuckle, I looked back only to find three stoic faces staring back at me. Their only response was a dry, "You will always have at least two radiation therapists for your treatments."

As we entered the room, my eyes took in the futuristic machine that will deliver the radiation. They had me lay down on the table and instructed me that I would need to expose the top part of my chest. Since I barely knew these people, and two of them were males, I simply pulled the straps of my sports bra down over my shoulders. The female therapist looked at me and said I would need to just pull the bra all the way down. Holding up a tiny cloth, she said she would keep me covered. Okay, but that doesn't help shield me from the guy behind me that is practically breathing down my neck. So I began the awkward maneuvering to get my chest completely bare while still doing my best to maintain modesty in front of these humorless strangers. Once I was sufficiently naked from the waist up, they put the blue mask on me. I am becoming more and more aware that many medical practices should be considered hazing. After securing the blue mask to the table, they were very worried at how loose it was fitting; I was enjoying the roomy comfort. After calling in another person, they got it tightened down and said, "There we go, much better." Barely able to move my lips, I jokingly muttered, "Much.Worse." They didn't find that funny and just left the room without responding.

I lied on the table for a few minutes, then the female therapist came in and moved my elbow by half an inch. I lied there for a few more minutes, then she came back and pushed my shoulders down on the table. Then I lied there for a few more minutes and she came back and pulled the sheet that was underneath me, so by that point I was practically hanging off the table. Once I was finally adjusted correctly, they took some pictures with an x-ray and some other fancy machine. At least I think that is what they were doing. The whole time they were all very silent and secretive about what they were doing.

After about 20 minutes of laying there by myself, I began to think they had either forgotten about me, or gotten tired of my attempts at humor. Just as I was about to go into the early stages of panic, they came in wielding permanent markers. Without my permission, they began drawing on my chest and mask as if I was some sort of children's coloring book. They also put several stickers on my chest and stomach. Once they were finally done and I was unhooked, I looked down at their handy work. "Whoa! What did you guys do to me? Draw a map of Africa on my chest?!" The therapist, Eric, once again did not find me amusing. He just told me I had some marker on my chin that I might want to take care of. Excuse me, you put it there, how about you take care of it, Eric! He brought me a tiny alcohol swab and after I wiped around aimlessly, I asked for a mirror. What does he bring me? A tiny, 1"x1" dental mirror! Now who isn't amusing, Eric?

Wrapping up the appointment, Eric told me to leave the stickers on and try not to wash off the permanent marker. With a smug grin I responded, "Well, I will do my best, but I can't make any promises. I am going to shower." Once again not finding me amusing, he repeated his directions with a much firmer tone of voice. Then he handed me my schedule for the next three weeks. Quickly scanning the times, I noticed that they weren't going to line up with my work schedule very well. As I followed Eric back to the computer to reschedule my times he warned me that they were pretty booked and there wouldn't be much flexibility. After getting only two days changed, Eric suggested that I check back every week as some spots would open up. Knowing what that was code for, I looked at him, nudged his elbow and said, "Some people will die off?" Not finding me humous, Eric shot me a stern look and said, "Rarely. Usually people choose to discontinue treatment or go to hospice." I could still crack his code, and did the whole wink-wink, nudge-nudge bit as I repeated, "...to die." Ignoring me, Eric simply led me to the waiting room, thankful to be getting rid of me and my sense of humor, and handed me off to Shane. Shane gave him an apologetic glance that seemed to imply, "Sorry, she thinks she is funny..." and took me back to work for the afternoon.

Results are in...

And I am cancer free!!! I met with my oncologist today and in his words the PET scan was an A++. No cancer detected. The exact wording from the scan report - "There is no obvious abnormal tracer accumulation currently and this suggests that it is in remission or has resolved." It feels good to say I no longer have cancer. However, it is a bit strange because it isn't over yet. I still have to go through radiation treatment. I guess that will really zip zap any tiny traces of bad cells. Since the PET scan was negative, I will only have 17 treatments. I have a "dry run" tomorrow where they will get everything set up for radiation and then I actually start the zapping on Monday. According to my calculations, my last day of radiation should be November 8th. My next appointment with my oncologist isn't until March - how crazy! After months of seeing the doctor at least every two weeks, it will be a nice break. But first I have to get through 17 daily trips to the cancer center. It is like the sprint to the finish line, the exclamation mark at the end of the sentence.

We are heading home to Iowa tomorrow night for a short visit. It will be beyond great to see family and celebrate the good news.

Panic at the PET Scan

Last Thursday as my alarm went off obscenely early, I was prepared to tackle the PET scan with ease as it was my second one and I was practically a seasoned veteran. Knowing of my lengthy waiting period in a lead, radioactive-proof room, I packed several items to entertain myself. As we entered the cancer center, we took a seat in the waiting lobby and my attention was quickly drawn to the lady at the desk. I noticed she kept asking questions, but I didn't hear anyone answering even though I saw a man sitting in front of her. After observing, I realized the man could not speak. The lady at the desk must have realized this fact as well and raised her voice as if her shouting would help the man speak. For the next 10 minutes I got to observe a hilarious interaction between the shouting lady and the wheezing man. Finally, after it was my turn to register for my appointment, I was taken back to my tiny room to be injected with radioactive sugar. I was prepared to wait a full 90 minutes for the sugar to circulate, but after only 60 minutes, a very kind lady poked her head in and told me we had some prep work to do before my scan. I was so elated at getting out of that tiny room early. Little did I know what was in store.

The lady, we will call her Nicole because that is her name, explained to me that she needed to mold a mask to fit my face. The mask keeps my head and neck motionless. Motionless is essential when scanning and zapping because they need an accurate picture to zap me in the correct places. Nicole dunked a 12"x12" piece of blue, plastic, mesh into warm water and then pulled it over my face. Three sides of the square were secured to the table as she stretched the warm, wet, pliable plastic over my face. Once the mesh had hardened, ta-da! A contoured mold of my face and neck! How cool, right? Or at least I thought so at that brief moment before it turned into the blue mask of panic.

After a few more minutes of waiting, Nicole and the radiation technician retrieved me from my tiny room and took me to the scanning area. I laid down on a hard board as they strapped my arms in and positioned my head/neck on a very hard, uncomfortable neck support that tilted my chin back. The first 20 minutes of the 28 minute scan were bearable. The neck support was very uncomfortable, but I kept telling myself it was almost over. As Nicole and the radiation tech came in the room, I was thankful to be almost done. Nicole explained that now she needed to put the mask over my face and we had about 15 minutes left. 15 minutes!? At this point, the back of my head was going numb and my neck had a literal pain in it.

Now, I would like to preface this next section with the fact that I do not even in the least little bit consider myself claustrophobic. It was a terrible combination of factors that led me to react as anyone would have.

As she put the mask on my face and buckled it to the table, totally disabling me from movement, she exited the room and began the scan. As the table began to move into the scanner tube, I asked if we could take a break for just a second. My neck was hurting so badly, I just needed a minute before we started the next 15 minutes. As I waited for Nicole to come unhook my mask, I began to panic. I was hungry, I was in pain, I was unable to move, and I was alone. Trapped and alone. The tears started to stream. Nicole noticed my panic, unhooked my mask, and let me sit up for a minute. After regaining my composure, we tried again. Not even two minutes had passed before the panic overwhelmed me once again. I tried to tough it out, tell myself that I could do this. But all I could think about was how alone and trapped I was. All I could feel was the blue mask hugging the contours of my face, holding my head down. The tears began to roll and as Nicole and the radiation tech heard me crying they aborted the test once again. I felt like such a failure. I apologized and asked to see Shane. I just needed someone to be there with me. I needed to know that I wasn't alone.

Nicole led me to a small room with a bed and instructed me to rest for about 20 minutes. She also asked if I wanted the doctor to get me anything. I think she was implying that I needed calming medication. After responding that I was okay, she asked, "Are you sure?" I don't think she wanted another panic at the PET scan incident. But I stood my ground and told her I was fine. Twenty minutes of waiting turned into an hour and twenty minutes as they had other people with scheduled scans. I just rested, talked to Shane, and calmed down. I realized that if I could somehow distract myself, I would be fine during the scan. I just needed something to think about other than the fact that I was immobilized, trapped, and alone. Luckily, I had my iPad! Once it was time for me to try again, I played some Colbie Caillat, closed my eyes and imagined I was at the beach and the pressure I felt on my face was simply a towel to shade my eyes from the sun. Music will be my saving grace as I get to encounter the blue mask every day for the next three to four weeks.

Results from the PET scan come in Thursday and radiation starts at the end of this week, probably Thursday as well.

Protect Your Noggin

For months now, I have been riding my bike to work...without a helmet. Not because I was too cool for school, but because I simply didn't own one. I always made sure to take a route that didn't include cars but still I was berated with the "importance of helmets" comments when I would arrive at work. This weekend I was finally near a bike store and am now equipped to ride the streets.

I figured I should probably do my best to protect my life and be thankful for each day considering my circumstances.