I got the fire down below...

I am in week three of radiation therapy, and I'm really tired. I have three more weeks to go and should be finished with the treatment, but possibly not the side effects, by the day before Thanksgiving. Dr. BigHands, aka Dr. Funkinated, says I'm tired from the mitomycin chemo I received three weeks ago. I wonder if my chemo doctor would say it's from the radiation. Regardless of what it's from, I'm so tired that it's hard staying upright at times. I take a nap every day and get at least 8 hours of sleep, but nothing helps me feel rested and energized. So, I'll just wait it out. The bad news is I have another round of chemo starting 11/11, which probably won't help. I'm hoping it doesn't destroy the tiny hair growth that's been happening on my bald head. 

Radiation exacerbates whatever issues you already have in the part of the body that gets radiated. Since my pelvic area is being blasted, I am now dealing with Pretty Boy Rhoid (again!), diarrhea, herpes, and vaginal itching that rivals any yeast infection I've ever had. Luckily, I have so many issues, that it's hard to concentrate on any single form of misery. It's kind of overwhelming. I take medication for some of the problems, but as soon as the problem appears to be cured, it crops up again. Dr. Funkinated told me to try Benadryl cream or Aquaphor for the vaginal itching, but the Benadryl burned and the Aquaphor only stained my underwear. Neither helped the itch. I resisted the urge to try a brillo pad. Today, he suggested hydrocortisone, which seems to be doing better than the other two. 

Radiation itself is very easy to endure. Each day, I go to the cancer center, sign in, and wait for the radiation therapist to come get me. She walks me back to a big, cold room. There's a stretcher in the corner that looks like something they take skiers off the mountain on after they've had an accident. I want to stay off of that thing and since I don't ski, I think I'm safe. Once inside the room, I lie on my back on a hard, narrow table that has an apparatus with grooves for my legs to rest in, in order to stabilize them, so I can lie still. The two therapists then stand on either side of me and line me up so that the marks on my pelvic area are aligned perfectly with some grid they can see. One of them places a warm blanket on my chest and arms and hands me a rubber "doughnut" to hold on to, to stabilize my arms and hands. Every day, I forget to pull my pants down, and they have to remind me. Every day, I comment on how I keep forgetting to pull my pants down. I'm not the girl I used to be. 

The therapists then leave the room and a big metal door shuts after them. They go to a safe place where they can watch without being zapped by the rays from the machine. Somehow, this is not comforting. I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the machines and the oldies channel on the sound system. First they take an image or images of me which they compare to a prior image. To compensate for any differences in the two, there's a quick jerk of the table I'm lying on; this perfects the alignment based on the xray comparisons. After that, the radiation begins, signaled by a beep. I keep my eyes closed and don't think about what is happening; although yesterday, I told the machine to kill the cancer but leave my good parts alone and undamaged, assuming I still have some good parts.

After a few minutes, there's a beep, which signals the treatment is over. Then the therapists come back in and help me up. I'm pretty good about remembering to pull my pants back up, although they don't seem as concerned about that as I am. Then, I leave. One day a week, I see Dr. BigHands (unless I have issues that need to be addressed before the designated appointment day). At each visit, he asks if I have any questions or issues, and at some point, I have to drop my pants, and he examines the front and rear to see how my skin is holding up from the radiation - I have to bend over for the rear exam. I find myself wondering if little old ladies in their 80's are asked to do the same. Anyone who is modest or shy should never get cancer in the pelvic area unless they are prepared to make some personality changes.

And now, a few words about Dr. BigHands' nurse. I think it bodes well that Dr. BigHands' nurse is a kind and compassionate person who thinks and speaks highly of him. He and I enjoy great bantering at each visit, and we are competitive in our one upmanship, but we do agree on his nurse. I liked her immediately, and I met her before I met him. She's not afraid to be honest and kind and is free with her hugs and compliments. She is also a cancer survivor. I plan to join her club.