www.cancermonster.net

I was thinking about all the things I haven’t told you.

Like how truly relieved I am that someone has agreed to finally do the radiation.

Like how terrified I really was that, since I had no insurance, I wouldn’t get treatment.

Like what these Oncologists said to do with the bill.

Like how angry my husband is at those who did nothing.

I didn’t tell you all this because most of it I hadn’t even told myself. It’s like figuring out that you had been holding your breath only just before you’re about to pass out.

Let me tell you now more about my visit with the Radiation Oncologist. The first person I saw was the nurse. She was overly kind and perky. I have never done well with this personality type. As she took my vitals and began to get my history, I decided she was used to dealing with little old ladies using kid gloves. As my story played out, her perkiness faded. Her kid gloves were thrown aside with the reality of my situation. When you work for caring people, you tend to forget how the King’s men behave. By the time she was up to speed, her temperature was also up. When she left the room she had a different personality type all together. I have that effect on people. I liked her much better after that.

Next was the doctor. Dr G surprised me in many ways. One, he was younger than I expected. Two, he had an uncanny resemblance to Dan’s nephew Eric. And three, he said some sobering things about the probable outcome of my treatment and surgery.

Because of the current size of my tumor, even if I didn’t need surgery, I would need Physical Therapy after the radiation. They plan to shoot the radiation from the front down on an angle. In this manner, he believes that the beam will miss all vital organs. It will not hit my intestines, kidneys, stomach, and so on. This will keep me from being sick. But the skin and muscles of my obliques will be effected. These muscles control movement from side to side. They may tighten and lose flexibility. And because the tumor sits just under the skin, the burn may be extensive on my backside. It may crack and peel, but they will tell me what creams and lotions will provide comfort. Dr G explained that the definition of “High Grade” is fast growing and more than 10 centimeters. He brought out a ruler and showed me 10 centimeters. My tumor has not been a mere 10 centimeters for some time. My Monster is more like a foot square. There is a lot of skin to cover.

He told me that after the radiation, Dr H will have to remove quite a chunk of muscle. The gluteal muscle is very large and it is entirely engaged now. The pain I am having over my lower spine is due to the proximity of spinal nerves. The tumor is pressing on these nerves. (I remembered the day the Monster reached my spine - wondering if I could get out of bed without breaking my back.) I will need extensive Rehabilitation.

Dr G asked me if I had any questions. Even though I in fact had 46 million questions, not a one escaped my lips. He was kind and thorough. He had already said enough to think about for the moment. There will be time to think of everything else later.

Next to do was the simulation - the mock-up I have been talking about. I had time enough between my talk with the doctor and the walk down the yellow brick road to get some lunch and call my husband. He was as excited and relieved as I was that things were finally progressing. And as scared.

When I got back to the center, I was escorted to a different waiting room. I had a cup of tea and a pain pill and tried to read my book. Before long, I was offered another one of the dreaded gowns.

I am not sure what I expected and that I had no idea what was coming, was probably a good thing. But when I entered the room I eyed the tube. Another tube! This one was as long as an MRI but more like two inflated CT’s connected together. Three feet of tube, a foot of open space, and three more feet of tube. Instantly, my mind noted that this tube’s circumference was much larger than that of an MRI. Still, the claustrophobia bug was itching at my brain. I cocked my head sideways and peered inside.

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“I’m going in there?”

“Yup.”

“All the way in there?”

“Yup. Is there a problem?”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “I’m just a bit claustrophobic, but there’s no problem. I’m going in there.”

I had to. It wasn’t even a question of whether or not I was going in there. I had no choice in the matter. Cowboy-up.

My focus now moved away from the tube to the slab before it. I was told I would be lying on my belly. There was a horseshoe cushion for my head and a triangle one for my ankles. Between was hard table. As I climbed up into place, I bent my back in the wrong direction and a stabbing pain made me yelp. Not a good start. The yelp woke the FibroCreature who immediately came to fist-a-cuffs ready for a fight. Part of Fibromyalgia is a sub-creature called Myofacial Pain Disorder. This entity protects the territory by tightening the Myofacial tissue between the skin and the muscles creating a hard shield of armor against attack. So to say I was a little tense would be an understatement. “Ok, just relax.” ppfftt.

Now I don’t want to scare someone else that might be ready to start radiation treatment themselves. My situation is unique. The combination of Fibromyalgia and claustrophobia with the size and location of my tumor was the reason this procedure was so daunting. In fact, I found that if I squeezed my eyes shut tightly I could imagine I was on a massage table and the poking and prodding of the technicians actually the warm hands of a Swedish hunk.

Only it wasn’t.

But it could have been.

The techs would poke and prod and slide me in an out trying to get the exact picture of the tumor. Move me this way and that all the while asking me not to move myself. Mind you, this wasn’t a very dignified position to be in. The gown I so laboriously tied behind me was no longer covering my assets. Every poke was to my rear which was open to inspection and on full screen mode back in the control room. Why, oh why couldn’t I have had cancer of the big toe? It was a good thing that I gave birth to four children. It taught me to abandon all modesty when donning a gown.

And my embarrassment was compounded by the fact that the form they were trying to custom fit to my hiney wasn’t large enough to cover the needed area with an air tight fit. I reminded myself that it was the tumor itself that was too big. The running commentary was not about the size of my ass, per se. (I am sorry for using the word “ass“, but I have almost run out of “niceties” for the location in question.) The doctor’s voice was now a part of the discussion. I was not supposed to move, but I was halfway into the tube with my head in this pillow. I turned just enough to improve my hearing. Dr G must have noticed I was eaves dropping now. “Teresa, we are having difficulties covering the tumor. So I am bringing in so-and-so from the computer room to help us.”

“Is he Swedish?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

Being face down on the slab, I couldn’t tell you the exact number of people now examining the dimensions of the afore mentioned region. But it was a full house. Every now and then throughout the ordeal, I would get poked in just the right (or wrong depending on whether you are a glass half empty or glass half full person) spot and a fibro trigger point would send my derrière (had to look that one up) flopping up for even closer inspection. “Don’t move!”

“You’re hitting fibro spots! I have no control over the reaction!” It was like having them hit my knee with that little hammer and chastising me for kicking them in the shin. If you want me to stop jumping, put the blasted hammer away!

After a bit, they decided to fore-go making a custom form and go au naturale. “We are going to remove the material now.” Yank. Ggeezz.

“We are going to mark the coordinates permanently on your skin. You will feel a needle stick now.”

Uggh. Yee-aya! Understatement.

How do people get tattoos electively? I mean, I love my mom and butterflies, but not enough to ever do this on my own accord! And of course, each and every trigger point in the vicinity was needed as a reference point.

“Please don’t do that jumping this time.”

“Please don’t do that stabbing this time! And is it possible to move it over a tad?”

Evidently, it wasn’t.

I spent the next some-odd minutes inside the tube while it now did whatever the tube was designed to do. A photo session I presume. It was much more relaxing than the time spent inside the MRI. Instead of the loud clicking and clacking there was a soft whooshing sound. Compared to the poking and prodding and pricking, this part was great, claustrophobia not withstanding. I started this day at 5:00a, drove two and a half hours, had a hissy fit, had a cry of relief and had the poking of a lifetime. I was tired! I think I might have dozed off. I hope I didn’t snore. But too soon, I was sliding back out of the tube.

Nap over. Now get off the table. Easier said than done, buddy. I slid and twisted and crawled to the floor and asked for my glasses back so that I could look into the faces of my tormentors. I had to remind myself that they knew not what they had done to me. “Father, help me forgive those who trespass…” Kindly, one of them rewrapped the gown around my exposure. Like it mattered if someone saw my vertical smile while standing but not while sunny side up. I guess there might have been someone on the path back to the dressing room that hadn’t had a ticket to the show. Maybe someone with a weak constitution. It wouldn’t be fair to subject them to this display. So I held tightly to the proffered flap and shuffled back the way I had come. Inside the cubicle I ventured a peek in the mirror.

What’s black and blue and red all over?

“We’ll see you back on Monday, 1:00. The first session will take about an hour.”

“I’ll be here.”

And then I was gone. I stood outside the old work van for a few minutes before I got up the courage to sit in the drivers seat. I sat there for sometime before calling Dan to tell him I was done. It was a long day. I still had a two and a half hour drive ahead. I went across the street to the hotel to book the room and wished I was checking in and not just checking it out. I drove from there to my favorite bookstore “Powel’s” to decompress. I didn’t stay long since I was not yet interested in sitting and walking wasn’t cutting it either. I went across the parking lot to the health food store where they make fresh hot wok bowls and had dinner.

By the time I made it back to the van it was rush hour. No sense taking off for home just yet. I called my beautiful sister-in-law, Leenie, and gave her an advance copy of the day’s events. When I got to the part about the room at the Inn, Leenie once again offered her home.

I suppose I should try to explain as I tried to do for Leenie. There are several reasons that I need to stay by myself. One, five weeks is a long time. Company and fish start to stink after a couple days no matter how well you clean them. Two, I have been all about everyone else for a long time. Now I need to be about myself for a bit. And two-b, I need some time to let down my mask. I have been keeping my posture. Holding my tongue. Playing the part of a strong, funny character unafraid of shadows and creeping creatures. I have been hiding the pain from my kids and my friends here in the park and to some extent, my own husband too. I need a hiatus from all of this play-acting. A shape shifter can only hold an alien form for so long before they need to melt into a bucket. (Like Odo on StarTrek DS9. Lol) Denny and Leenie are dear to my heart and I deeply appreciate their offer. But they also have three kids that I love. I would not be able to stop protecting them anymore than I could stop protecting my own kids. I would not be able to stop protecting the grown ups either. Call it a character flaw. In front of the world, I can only present my best side and my tumor isn‘t on it. For seven years, I have lived with the pain of Fibromyalgia. Very few people saw me on a bad day. I just didn’t let them no matter how much they would have understood. What I am going through now makes that time in my life just a training period. The CancerMonster will kick the butt of the FibroCreature any day of the week. I’m tired. I need all my strength now to fight this thing. All non-life-support systems must be de-activated. That includes the holodeck functions for fairy tale lives. (Kel hates it when I make StarTrek references! Haha) I need to do these next five weeks on my own. When October comes, and I have my surgery, that will be a different story. I will need all the help I can gather. I am saving all my markers for then. It will been tough.

Oh, and three, “Leenie you don’t have air conditioning!” lol. We must keep the really important things on the list! (Don’t worry, I am shaking my own head on that one. Two out of three aren’t bad, I hear.)

So, tomorrow I start my radiation treatment and my double life. I have to gather my supplies and pack my bags. I had planned to have the motorhome ready to move to the new spot while I am gone, but the writing of this tale has taken most of the day. I guess I should trust that Dan can do it fine without my supervision. He’s a big boy now. He’s grown up fast. God love the man, he has a lot on his plate. I thank Heaven for him everyday.

Tomorrow’s the next first day of the rest of my life.