www.cancermonster.net

8:30a
I think we just made it mad yesterday. Without opening my eyes, or inspecting with my hands, I knew it was bigger. I no longer need pillows behind me to keep from rolling onto the tumor. It, itself, is my prop. I could no more lie directly on the Monster than I could lie on a boulder. And it somehow is harder. I didn’t think it could get harder, but it did.

I am waiting for Dan to call me back. It seems the drop off system we came up with for the kids is not going to work out after all. Dan is on the way to the daycare.

We both woke to frustration. Two towns and two problems. It never ends. And begins anew with each morning.

Cowboy-up. Shake it off. Take a shower.

10:00a
The shower was fantastic. I have lived in a motorhome since May. Showering in an RV takes some acquired skill. You get only six gallons of hot water. Turn on the water. Get wet. Turn off the water. Soap up. Turn on the water. Rinse off. Repeat. I’ve got it figured out.

This shower was glorious. One wouldn’t think a simple shower worthy of a blog entry, but this one is. The water was hot and the hot water plentiful. And there is a Shower Pick head for a fine massage. To stand there under a constant stream of steamy mist washed not only the black marker lines off my posterior, but washed my spirit back to shiny bravado. I wanted to see just how much hot water there was, but time prevented me from completing my experiment.

It’s time to go. I have already loaded my book into my purse so there can be no reason to run back out today. Radiation-day 2, here I come.

Afternoon

Today’s procedure took less time than yesterday’s. They had already planned a CT scan before the treatment, so the perimeter was adjusted without much time lost.

I read that radiation has been used to treat cancer for more than 100 years. As I lie there face down, listening to the strange language the techs where speaking to each other, I had to wonder what it would have been like back in the beginning. How did they get the size and position just so? Or did they? Did radiation 100 years ago mean you were pretty much fried all over? How desperate would a person have to be in 1907 to undergo radiation treatment?

“Teresa, today we are adding a layer of bolus.”

This is the material they were trying to custom fit during the simulation. It is a rubbery thick padding that feels like human tissue. I was told that the machine will consider it my skin and therefore they would be able to get the radiation beam closer to the surface. They will use this bolus every other day.

When the buzzing began, I heard the same tone, but soon the rhythm changed. It was as if someone was sending a message in Morse Code.

A message to the Monster: She may have you, but you don’t have her!

All finished. Getting off the table was much easier today. No fuzziness this time. I took a minute to check out what was making all that whirring and buzzing. The entire machine takes up most of the room. The table itself, looks like smoky plexi-glass. It rises and slides into the center of the circular machine base. At each quarter around the circle, some apparatus extends like a limb. Each arm has a different function and can make a complete circle around the table providing its specific service at any angle needed. The entire wall behind on both sides, is full of computer screens and input devices. It’s quite intimidating.

“What a fantastic gadget this is. I wonder how they did this 100 years ago without all this fancy equipment?

“Not just 100 years ago. All this stuff is brand new. When I first started in this field we didn’t have the digital imaging that these arms provide. I held x-ray glass under the beam coming through the patient to take a picture and then ran it to the developer. Films then were delivered to the doctor and he would hold them to light and analyze them in order to give directions to the control room.”

“Light boxes. What will they do with all the light boxes?”

“I do not know.”

The amazing thing about what the tech told me was that she didn’t look old enough to use a light box. Just for the heck of it, I searched eBay for light boxes. There were a few. $30 to $300. Not as many as I had expected. Wonder where the rest of them are?

On my way out of the center, my perky nurse, I’ll call BB, stopped me to ask how I was doing. How is the pain. How is the room. We had a nice conversation. I told her just before I left to come over, the lady from the Cancer Society called. She suggested I ask for a Medical Social Worker that could help find resources like daycare costs. BB said she would look into it for me herself. (They are in the process of interviewing for a Social Worker.) She, like all the staff at this center, has been nothing but exceptionally kind. After all I have been through to get to this point, the way I am being treated now blows my mind. I am now in good hands. Thank the Lord above.

I came back to my room across the street and made my bed. This tiny apartment doesn’t come with daily housekeeping. The room is comfortable. One day it might grow into a full size apartment, but today it’s just a baby. With its tiny little kitchen complete with the tiny little frig and tiny two burner stove. Even the tiny coffee pot. There is a bar with two stools and a bathroom (with a fantastic shower), a soft chair with an ottoman where I sit my laptop. The queen size bed seems huge compared to my RV twin at home. It’s quiet. It has been a very long time since I have been surrounded with only the sounds I create myself.

I did my laundry in the building next door. Just mine. Didn’t take much effort to complete and put away.

Suddenly, I am missing my family. I have talked with Dan several times today. The kids are at the Palace. I know they are fine. But taking care of the four of them is my job not someone else’s. Not even Dan’s. He has to move the motorhome tonight by himself. And tomorrow do the rest of the laundry. Knowing that he can manage somehow doesn’t change how I feel. I don’t want him to learn how to manage without me. I need him to need me. How selfish is that.

There’s that little thought again. That thought that I know he has too and hides from me. How would he manage without me?

He’s not going to have to manage without me. Cowboy-up.

Cowboy-up.

Dr H’s surgery scheduler just called to see when the last day of my treatment will be. She added the three weeks of rest and scheduled my surgery for October 8th. The doctor has estimated four days in the hospital- in this day, that’s a long time. She also had appointments both pre-op and post-op for me. It’s all set.

Thinking about the surgery made me want a walk outside while I still can. This hotel is nicely landscaped with trees and bushes and flowers, but no matter how many times I walk around and around, I can’t find my river! Funny thing about hotels . . . If you took all the same folks that walk around the RV park with their puppies on a leash, stopping to chat with the next camper about where they have been and where they are going, who caught what fish today and how to cook it. . . Take those same people and check them in to a hotel one next to the other in a line just like the line of rigs they came out of . . . And no one would say more than “how you doing?” to each other. And when they did say it, no one would really want or expect an answer. Something is missing.

Yet, I hope I can stay here for the duration of my treatment. It is a comfort to know that the center full of caring doctors, nurses, and technicians is just across the street if I need them. It was nice to leave just a few minutes early and come straight back to my room without crossing the path of an angry traffic pattern. My husband knows that I am safe and so do I. We’ll have to work out the cost somehow. It’s not my Park on the Siletz, but it’s peaceful here too.

In fact, I think I’ll go back to the room and take a nap. That’d be nice.