5 Down, 20 to Go

My first week in Rochester was pretty uneventful. The radiation is going fine, I guess, no real side effects yet, but the skin is a little bit darker in the area they're targeting, which we expect. All of the techs are really nice and seem refreshed to deal with a person who can have a normal, non-cancer related conversation.

A bunch of people have asked me what radiation is like, so here's my routine:

I leave Hope Lodge about 10 minutes before my appointment and walk a block east and 3/4 of a block south before getting to the Charleton Building. Depending on how cold it is, I either do, or do not obey traffic laws and the cute little countdown crosswalks that mark nearly every intersection of downtown Rochester. Yesterday my nose started to feel like cement, so I took the non-verbal advice of other pedestrians and crossed on the reds. There is a pedestrian subway I could use, but I'd still have to go outside to access it, so it's really not worth the time. There's also a shuttle, but at this stage in the game that seems ridiculous, though if I were wiped on chemo or something it would be more practical.

Anyway, after I trust my two little feet to get me to Charleton I go down a flight of stairs into the Desk R area. By the second day, the receptionist knew who I was, so now she exchanges morning pleasantries, gives me a pager and sends me on my way. I chill in the waiting room (actually, I thaw and read) for between 2 and 20 minutes (yesterday a machine was down, so I had a long wait) until my pager goes off. Gather my things, turn off the pager, return it to it's basket at the main desk, and hustle off down the hallway for Changing Room B. Top goes off, gown goes on (a gown clearly meant for some form of non-human GIGANTIC creature because I could usually wrap the thing around me two or three times). I hang in the dressing room area after locking my things in my individual changing room.

A tech comes to get me, and they walk me across the hall to Machine B. The room is huge, the size of a classroom, and there's buttons and monitors all over the place. Overhead is a large flat screen tv that shows video of various nature scenes -- flowers, oceans, mountains, hot air balloons. On a good day I get to see a new part of the video instead of something I've nearly fallen asleep to already. In the center of the room is "the machine," a long padded table backed by complicated looking machinery, a squarish type glass covered machine to one side, a circular one to the other. (The circular one casts the magical beams.) The gown I worked so hard to make fashionable is cast aside and replaced by a small cloth, small enough that if the gown actually fit me, the cloth would be far too tiny. I get on the table and put my head in the bean-bag like pillow that we formed to my upper body during my simulation. It ensures that I lay the same way each treatment. Arms over my head, right hand clasps back of left wrist, and my job is done.

Meanwhile, my flurry of techs (always at least two, sometimes three) strap my feet together and put a triangle pillow under my knees. Then the real fun starts! My tiny cloth is moved to reveal the non-cooperative side of my chest, and the techs are always super prim and proper about covering the right side. Because, you know, after all of this, I'm still exceptionally modest in front of medical personnel. Eye roll. They bring out the bollus, something I'm sure I've spelled wrong, which is a sheet of rubbery, lightly adhesive "stuff" that most closely resembles the material that gel insoles are made of. It's white, and about 12 by 18 inches. They put this on the side of my chest to be radiated and this becomes one tech's job. At the same time, the other tech alternates between staring at a green light on the ceiling and scootching my rear end millimeters to the left or right on the table. They check the photo of my arms to make sure I haven't forgotten how to hold my own hand They look at the lights from above and how they catch the four little tiny tattoos on my body to make sure that I'm lined up properly. I focus on this tech, because the other one, Bollus tech, is slamming the plasticy thing onto my chest and using masking tape to secure it, and me, to the table. This is the tech you don't want to tick off upon entering the room. I always smile nicest at her.

After I'm secured in case of any turbulence during my flight (ok, really its secured to make sure there's no air bubbles), the techs leave the room, and I'm left to enjoy video of flowers, raindrops, or whatever other natural majesty the video is cued to. A red light goes on near the doorway, a buzzing noise from the same monitor, and 20 seconds or so later (long enough to say the Our Father and half of the Hail Mary, I've timed it) Bollus tech re-emerges. She re tapes the thingy closer to the middle of my chest and leaves again. The red light/buzzer/time for prayer routine is repeated, and then the techs re-emerge, another person successfully radiated.

I've been in the room for less than five minutes and other than the cracked rib from Bollus tech (not really, I'm kidding), I've felt nothing. Tiny cloth thrown on the table, gown haphazardly put back on (because really, I know it's coming off again in about 30 seconds), one last longing look at the screen above and it's tropical flowers that I know I will not see on my walk back to my "house," and I'm off to change back into my clothes. Lotion applied as per my nurse's orders to prevent excess drying of my skin (uh huh), shirt and coat back on, smiles for the terrified-looking senior wearing an equally large gown standing in the hall, and I'm outta there.

Breakneck speed back down the hall towards reception, a mini-stop at the scheduler's window to get the next appointment set, and that's it. On a good day, elapsed time, 14 minutes. Now I only have 23 hours and 46 minutes to fill...

More on that next week!
Carpe diem (all 24 hours of it)!
Trela

Radiation Vacation

All set at the Hope Lodge in Rochester (where you can send me mail if you'd like -- 411 2nd Street NW Rochester, MN 55901). The place is HUGE and super friendly. They force the "community" a bit, potlucks every Tuesday, and no cable in the bedrooms to force you out into the lounges, of which there are many! There's a library, computer room, exercise room, pool table, and more! I think I'll be cool there for a while!

My two radiation treatments so far have gone fine. In fact, I didn't even realize they'd radiated the first time because they told me they'd be doing x-rays. I waited for the three of those, and then when they held out my gown I was momentarily confused. Apparently they did the "zapping" in between x-rays. I have to wear a piece of plastic-y stuff on my chest during the radiation -- it feels a little like a sticky gel insole for your shoes, and that's been the staff's biggest frustration. Today they literally taped it down around me on the table so there wasn't as much air in between it and the skin. It's target is to focus the beams more on the skin, which my doctor today reminded me would probably be the worst part of the experience. She doesn't expect the tiredness to really hit me until my 3rd week, so that's a good thing.

I've spent the day checking into Hope Lodge, having lunch with Dad (who leaves tomorrow), grocery shopping (I get a shelf on the fridge in the Lodge), and organizing the papers I need to grade. Not actually grading them, but I have to start somewhere. Now they're all in neat little piles on the unused twin bed in my room. Maybe tomorrow...

So far so good!
: )
Carpe diem. - Trela