From late November, I can't take a new picture until my wrist is out of the cast.
The "artwork" from my tumor-area-only treatments
I finished my radiation treatments the week after Thanksgiving, something like December 2. I had a bit of a sunburn, and I got a little tired. It would hit me about three in the afternoon; suddenly I wanted to nap. In the evenings I fell asleep on the sofa around 8 or 9 PM.
For the most part, I forgot about the treatments. My reminder went off at 11:30 and at 11:45 I was on my way, coat on, rushing over to the hospital. By 11:55 I’d be out of my clothes and into the gown. They called me in, I got zapped a few times, grabbed lunch on the return trip and usually made it back to my desk by 12:30, prepping for my next meeting.
The last eight treatments zeroed in on the location where the tumor had been. By then I was a bit red and glad I was almost done. For these sessions, the Linnac (a.k.a. espresso-machine-on-steroids) was fitted with a plate shaped like the tumor area. The radiation tech explained that the machine sent a different type of particle for these treatments and the little buggers liked to go off in all directions. The plate forced them to “straighten up and fly right.”
My “all-inclusive package” offered more body art — albeit temporary this time. To make sure they pointed the machine at the correct spot, the techs created a template from which they drew the shape of my tumor area on my chest each day. I had to chuckle the first time I saw the plastic guide. To center it correctly, one of the techs drew in the scar from my lumpectomy. His rendition of my scar brought to mind visions of Frankenstein.
The day after my last radiation treatment, I started tamoxifen. The first couple of weeks I was a little nervous because the drug can, in rare cases, cause blood clots to form. Every little ache or pain in my legs gave me pause and a voice in my head screamed “There she blows!” But so far so good.
The “features” of the tamoxifen that impact me most are increased night sweats and an occasional hot flash. Normally I spend my winters shivering under electric blankets, extra socks and flannel everything. It’s a bit jarring to wake up with hot feet, a soggy scalp and a back that feels like a furnace — too bad I can’t control these new-found powers for the good of mankind. Instead, five minutes later I’m clammy and cold.
My rheumatoid arthritis damaged my right wrist, so I finally underwent joint replacement surgery in late December. For the last three weeks my right arm has been encased in a cast-like brace. Getting through the day has been interesting, to say the least. Bedtime is a real adventure — wearing flannel pajamas and trying to turn between flannel sheets with one arm in a cast.
I mention this because, for the first time, I’m thankful I don’t have hair! I can’t imagine the struggle of washing, drying and styling a full head of hair with my right hand out of commission — Don King and Phyllis Diller would be envious. For the next few weeks I’m content with my Susan-Powter-gone-pewter look.
I didn’t have the meltdown the counselors warned me about, but cancer changed me. As I wrote in my Christmas letter, I’ve had to confront my own mortality. I take notice when I hear of a cancer death — especially when the situation is like Elizabeth Edwards, a woman who was diagnosed with stage II in 2002 and died from it in 2010. But life goes on for the survivors and we move forward.
In February I have my six-month follow-ups — a mammogram and an MRI. I’m sure hoping everything looks good and I won’t have to undergo any ultrasounds or biopsies.
From my lips to God’s ear.
View from my backyard 