Last Dance

The reason I haven’t written about radiation is pretty simple. It’s just too real and has been too hard to write about. Radiation has blindsided me with emotions and forced me to look at mortality more than any other part of this journey. Why you ask? I have repeatedly sat next to and talked with women that are basically watching the time on their clocks run out… to be short, they are walking dead. And it freaks the crap out of me.

The Radiation Macine
This thing is pretty amazing. It takes x-rays,
zaps, zips and does a host of other sciency things.

The process of going to radiation really is not too involved. I walk into the clinic and change in to a hospital robe. Usually within 5 minutes they call me into the radiation room and then I lay on my personalized pillow (a bean bag sort of mold where the air has been sucked out to shape to my body). I remove one arm from the gown to expose my breast; they line up the two tiny tattoos and sticker markers on my chest with the guidance laser beams. The techs leave the room and the machine works its magic. The huge arm of the machine slowly moves around my body, sizzling and reminding me of the sound of my dad’s welding argon tank. Within two minutes, the procedure is over. The techs re-enter the room and lower the table that I was laying on and we smile at each other and say “see you tomorrow.” In all, this entire process takes about 15 minutes. It takes me twice as long to drop my kids off at friends to watch them and drive to the cancer center… making the entire daily process about an hour and a half of my day.

I have 7 more (of the 30) treatments to go. They have done 23 on the effected cancerous area of my breast and the next 7 will focus on my lumpectomy scar and the tissue leading to where the tumor was removed. Side effects have kicked in on cue. My chest is burnt (like a bad sunburn), as expected. It itches like crazy. The doctor prescribed me a special cream and steroid cream that should help with the burning. Also, I am incredibly tired – kinda like chemo tired, without the sickness part. Thankfully, Leah still naps so when she goes down so do I. Nathan, as the manly 5 year old he is, watches TV and knows to wake me if he needs anything. I am so glad he knows how to work the remote and is easily entertained by unending episodes of Dino Dan.

The kindest women seem to sit with me in the waiting room. This has been a blessing… and a hard part of the process. We share the stories of our journeys and talk about side effects with each other. Two of the women have left a deep impact on me. The first is a gal perhaps 50 years of age. Kind, classy and her outfits look like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. She had gone through breast cancer twice about 10 years ago. With each occurrence, she went through chemo, but I believe only the second time she had radiation treatment. Now she has brain cancer. She said the radiation wasn’t too bad, but the medicine they give her to relieve the stress of the tumor on her brain makes her sick and feel awful. She finished her radiation last week, however will continue chemo indefinitely.

The second woman is also in her early 50’s. She has two sons that both just finished college and when she was re-diagnosed they both moved home to help. She said that she had breast cancer last year and actually finished her 6 months of chemo and 30-treatment radiation last June. She and her husband went on a trip to celebrate “finishing” last November and when she got home, she felt pain in her back. She saw the doctor, he said it was nothing and two weeks later, she went back because the pain had not gone away. A PET scan showed that she had full-blown bone cancer. She asked me the question that those of us deep in the fight use to judge each other, “What KIND of breast cancer do you have?” I answered “Triple Negative.” Her head spun toward me as she replied, “me too.” We looked at each other differently than ten seconds before. My eyes watered up and we had a quick and honest conversation. Of the three women with TNBC that I have met, two of them had re-occurrences with a year of finishing treatment. I had read that TNBC could come back in other body parts but when I asked my oncologist about it, he just said not to worry about that. She shared that the radiation treatments were to ease the awful pain in her bones and that she would go to chemo as long as her blood cells would let her. Her cancer is incurable.

Both women shared that their faith was their strength, which brings a comfort in their eternal security, and both appeared to be covered with peace. I have heard from friends who are nurses that oncology patients are their favorites. That we tend to complain less, laugh more and encourage them in their work. I hope I left that kind of impression on the angel nurses that have crossed my path, I am certain that both of these women have.

Please pray for the two otherwise strangers who are gracefully dancing their last dances. I admit that when I think of them I turn to instant tears… it just doesn’t seem right. 

Eric calls this the depressing post. I think it's just honest... and unfortunately sometimes honesty is depressing. So here's some hope to chew on...

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, 

so that you may overflow with hope 

by the power of the Holy Spirit.”

Romans 15:13