Tag Archives: radiation

‘Snot Good

For reasons that escape me, there is a statue of Florence Nightingale in the lobby of Tokyo Medical Center, where I get my daily dose of radiation.

Nightengale at the hospital

I asked her what she’s doing there, but she’s mute on the subject.
Nyar, nyar, nyar.

I still haven’t made my peace with having a disease that doesn’t make me nearly as sick as the treatment to get rid of it, but if I don’t do the treatment, the disease will kill me for sure. Cancer contradictions are varied and frustrating. Death Star tends to overstate his case, but after all he is focused solely on boobs, all day every day. The radiologist at the hospital shrugged and said, “It’s just breast cancer. It’s perfectly manageable.” I guess from his perspective, it is. He must have seen things I can not, don’t want to, imagine.

All the same, it’s still cancer, and the treatment is no picnic. After a year of  it, I’m pretty worn down. On top of that, or maybe because of it, I have a cold. It takes two weeks to get over a cold, says my mother, or with medication, it takes 14 days. (She is very wise.) I read somewhere that despite enormous progress in modern medicine, nothing can be done about viruses except control the symptoms and let Mother Nature steer the ship.

But now I am wondering how long it takes to get over a cold after two major surgeries, six months of chemotherapy, twelve rounds of radiation (with more to come), endless pain killers, steroids, radioactive isotopes, some really doubtful hospital cuisine and way too many doughnuts. I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, here’s a piece of wisdom I discovered this morning: Do not attempt a yoga headstand when you’ve got a cold. Gravity and phlegm do not get along. You will find yourself in the fast lane bound for Dizzytown.

On a lighter note, Mt. Fuji put in a rare appearance today. I find it very important to find something, at least one thing, to be grateful for each and every day. Yesterday it was the 1/16th of an inch of hair that has appeared on my head. Today is is Mt. Fuji, which is much more significant in the grander scope of things, but relatively insignificant from where I’m sitting. You can have the mountain; I’ll take the hair.

Carrot Tower Fuji

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One Toke Over the Line

Way back in 1970, Mike Brewer and Tom Shipley recorded “One Toke Over the Line”. Spiro Agnew called the two subversives because of the song’s drug references, but it was a really good song. Come on, Spiro, a little perspective. They were only singing about pot. Alcohol and refined sugar do a lot more damage, and they’re both legal, as is selling guns to deranged people. But I digress.

Brewer and Shipley 1970

“One Toke” is still a good song, and they’re still singing it. They look a little different, although I think Tom looks pretty hot.

Brewer and Shipley 2016

It was such a good song that Gail and Dale covered it on the Lawrence Welk Show.

One Toke Cream Cheese

Those two are so wholesome I could sprinkle them on my morning oatmeal. Where can I get myself a butterfly apron like that?

Maestro Welk referred to the song as “a modern spiritual.” He and the producers must have heard “sweet Jesus” and “sweet Mary” and assumed it was a gospel song. Too bad they were too lazy to ask someone what “toke” means. I’ll bet any of the musicians in the band could have told them. Maybe Gail and Dale knew, too, and that’s why they’re smiling. But those smiles strike me more as “Honk if you love Jesus” than “Pass me the bong.”

Wholesome, healthy family entertainment. Remember “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom”? Or “The Wonderful World of Disney”? Those programs made Sunday evenings the holy Mecca of the week. I remember being young enough that I was allowed to watch Disney but had to go straight to bed after it ended. I don’t remember watching Lawrence Welk, but I doubt champagne music would have appealed to me as a kid. As an adult, I can’t stand it and have always hated accordions, Welk’s chosen instrument of torture. Honestly, I’d rather listen to off-key bagpipes.

These days, the clock ticks past 8:30 and I am ready for bed. The word “weary” has taken on new meaning. From tomorrow, I have to push myself through three more weeks of radiation and then my poor body will finally be allowed to rest. I’ve been pumping it full of drugs and poison and nuclear fallout for ten months. Enough, already. It feels like I’m several dozen tokes over the line.

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Little known fact: Lawrence Welk talked funny because English was his second language. He grew up in the German speaking community of Strasburg, North Dakota. I had always assumed he was Italian, “A-one and a-two…”

Yoga!

yoga calendars

I finished chemotherapy almost five weeks ago. As of Monday, it was time to start radiation therapy. To do that, I first had to have another CT scan to make sure my organs are where they’re supposed to be, I guess. At this point, I don’t ask. I just do what I’m told with a soft “baa” under my breath. (“Baa” is the sound a unicorn makes when it’s pretending to be a sheep.)

Next, I had to have my chest marked so the technicians would know exactly where to aim their ray gun. That seemed like a sensible plan. From the extensive knowledge I had gleaned from TV hospital dramas, I thought they would put a couple of inconspicuous dots on my chest. They used to tattoo them, but now they use indelible marker, the kind you use to write your name in your underpants when you go to summer camp.

After they had finished with a bunch of poking and prodding and measuring and picture taking of various sorts, three technicians came at me armed with markers. I couldn’t see what they were doing since my arms were above my head in banzai pose and I wasn’t supposed to move anyway, but they went at it for quite a while. When they were done and I looked in a mirror, I did not discover a tasteful dot or two that could be mistaken for Mae West style beauty marks. Instead, I found what looked like a map of Arizona. My surgery scar pretty much follows the Grand Canyon and the the Hopi and Navajo nations are nestled in my armpit, where they are welcome. Despite daily stretching and yoga, I still can’t feel anything there anyway.

I have followed a very unfocused but dedicated yoga practice for about a year and a half, even more dedicatedly since I started chemo, partly to structure my days and partly because there wasn’t much else I could do. But instead of Vinyasa or Ashtanga, both of which I love but take a fair amount of power, I’ve had to keep to Hatha, Yin and restorative, which are slow and gentle and keep me centered and sane even if they don’t help much with muscle strength.lacquer box

 

I have a lovely lacquered box filled with colored pens and pencils and a variety of stickers and a pair of granny glasses which I use when I write my activities on my yoga calendars. If anybody were to ask me, “Where were you on October 4th?” I could honestly say, “I did a 38 minute Hatha yoga class followed by a ten minute anxiety relief meditation and then went to my final chemo session.” And if asked, “Do you remember any of that?” I could honestly say, “No, not really.” Chemo brain fog has its benefits.

Despite what my regular doctor said about metastasis and pneumonia, and I have since nicknamed him Death Star, the radiologist said that my lungs are now clear and any shortness of breath I’ve still got is because I haven’t been able to exercise properly for so long. He was very supportive of yoga. I had told dozens of doctors and nurses that I do yoga and really believe in its benefits, but I mostly got blank stares, sometimes even condescending sneers. Death Star scoffed at me, saying, “Yoga is easy.” I just raised an eyebrow and said, gently, “There are lots of different kinds of yoga.”

For the first time in a long time, I’m starting to feel better. The evil chemo monster, kicking and screaming, is finally being dragged off center stage. Fears of some sort of horrid mutiny inside my lungs appear to have been unfounded. Radiation, so far at least, is quick and easy and unlikely to make me grow horns or start speaking in tongues. And I have permission to get back, gently at least, to doing some real muscle work. And that pretty much brings us full circle. I first noticed the lump about a year ago, just when I had started working on doing a yoga headstand. And now I’m back to working on the headstand. If you don’t believe me, proof is in the peacock.peacock butt

 

Do I feel vindicated? You betcha. Does it matter? Not a whit. The fact that I am starting to feel better matters more than anything else.

Poison

When we are faced with the unknowable, we search for solace and reassurance wherever we can find it. Some people turn to religion, others to denial. Although I’m a big fan of denial, I have tried as much as possible to turn to understanding. Early on, I read that my hair falling out was good because it meant the chemotherapy was working. But then yesterday I read that, in fact, all it means is that the chemo is having an effect, not necessarily a good one.

arsenic

Chemo is, in fact, toxic and my hair fell out because the chemo damaged the cells in my hair follicles. It is, in fact, damaging cells in my entire body, as one would expect of poison. This is only logical. If the wife discovered her husband was cheating and started mixing arsenic into his lemonade, then he suddenly started growing taller and more handsome, we would know either she can’t read product labels or we are reading a fairy tale. There is some logic to the workings of the universe.

For chemo, the reality is that while the toxic concoction is damaging healthy cells, which have the capacity to recover, it is also damaging cancer cells, which do not recover, at least in theory. The problem here is that every cancer is different, every person’s reaction is different, and unless another tumor makes its uninvited appearance, there’s no way to know if any of this is working. Everyone has cancer cells in them; most of the time our immune systems can murder the little buggers. Perhaps my extensive surgery and clean removal of the tumor was enough and my natural immunity could have killed off whatever cancer cells remained. Perhaps not. There’s no way to know. And radiation, which is supposed to have the same damage/repair effect, can also cause further damage to my already compromised lymph system and/or ignite some new type of cancer and then we start the whole inexplicable, unreliable, horrible process all over again.

It pained me to discover that the only proof there is that any of this treatment works is statistics. Women who undergo chemotherapy and radiation have a better chance, just a chance mind you, of outliving those who don’t. I can’t help thinking of going to the floating duck game at the county fair and expecting to pick the duck that wins you the giant teddy bear instead of the cheap plastic key holder. Statistically, it is possible to win that bear, but I wouldn’t stake my allowance on it. There are to many variables, too many ducks.

big bear

Yesterday, with all those contradictions gurgling through my chemical befogged brain, we went out for my birthday lunch, and not far from home I managed to trip over a pothole and tumble to the ground, not in that adorable way a toddler falls-down-goes-boom, but arms and legs flailing, ending up on my butt in the middle of the street. At least, much like a toddler, I started sobbing. And it only got worse as concerned strangers stopped to ask if I was all right. One woman even offered to drive us wherever we might want to go and when we said I was all right, she fetched a towel-wrapped ice pack, handed it to me, and drove away. Perhaps my bleeding palm touched her heart. Perhaps the bandana on my head told her all she needed to know. Either way, that simple act of kindness made me cry even harder, not jut from pain but also from frustration and helplessness.

I keep expecting to wake up from this nightmare and discover that it was all a fairy tale after all, that I chose the right duck and won the giant teddy bear. But the fact is that I didn’t choose any of this. Who would? The thing I have to remember is it’s not about choices, or at least not about liking any of the choices. When offered a choice of Japanese sweets, which generally look pretty and taste awful, I can always say I’m on a diet. But what’s the correct answer to, “Are you ready for your chemo now?” And how do I say yes to radiation when I know it may do more harm than good? But at the same time, how do I say no?