I once met a Missourian whose prescription for healthy hygiene was “shit, shower and shave.” Mine now includes having my head secured to a table and irradiated.
Fortunately, Maine Medical Center has made it easy for radiation oncology patients to access treatment with a special parking lot behind the hospital, on the edge of the Western Promenade. The radiation oncology department is in the basement, a short walk from the parking lot. It is a surprisingly quiet and easy journey, devoid of bureaucratic barriers.
I have a special ID card, but I don’t need it. The receptionist knows me, the nurses know me, and the radiation technicians know me. And my treatment almost always starts on time. Sometimes I’m early and they’re waiting for me. Usually I’m in and out in 15 minutes.
On my way into the treatment room I pass through the control room, where the technicians ask my name and birthdate, and compare my face to a file photo. With all of the high technology involved in the treatment, the security regimen lends a “secret agent” feel to the proceeding. But the technicians are disarmingly jolly.
The treatment room is dominated by a gleaming car-sized machine called a linear accelerator. (In this case, it is a Varian Clinac iX 2100). The front of the accelerator looks vaguely like a faucet, with an extended neck ending in a broad cylinder turned inward.
I know the drill now. I lie down on a padded bench called a couch. They secure my head to the couch with a mesh mask in a plastic frame, bind my feet with a super-sized rubber band, and load my Erik Satie disc into the boombox. Then the couch moves into position beneath a green laser crosshair (projected from the ceiling) which is aligned to a mark on the forehead of my mask.
The technicians leave the room and close the radiation-proof door behind them. The first measures of Lent et Douloureux build a brooding solitude, until the B-minor chord in the ninth measure finally bursts in reverent grief. (Trust me, it’s comforting).
Suddenly there is a loud buzz and a faint whirring, warbling noise. Photons stream from the “faucet” (called a collimator) into and around the tumor cavity, where they’re supposed to render cancer cells incapable of reproduction by shredding their DNA.
I imagine myself in the shower, rinsing shampoo and grime out of my hair. I repeat to myself, “You are washed in healing light,” which is a summary of a meditation I wrote in May, when my fear of cognitive impairment was still acute:
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
You lie in the soft sand of a broad and quiet beach. The Earth holds you.
Ocean waves caress the shore, swelling softly, then settling. The wind breathes with you.
You are warmed by the healing light of the Sun. You are washed gently by waves of healing energy. In the bright healing light your selfishness and bitterness fade away. They fade until they are gone, and in their place love and compassion grow.
Your mind is safe. Your memories are safe. Your powers of thought are safe.
Emerge, washed and nourished by the light of love.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
The entire front face of the accelerator (the gantry) rotates, moving the collimator from one side of my head to the other. As it passes over my head I see the metal “leaves” of the collimator outline the shape of the tumor, and my reflection in the glass rotates as if I’m on a skewer. Bzzzzzzzz. The technicians return and rotate the couch 90 degrees for a final zap (called a field) to the top rear of my head. Bzzzzzzzz. Done.
Reverse direction, up and out. More smalltalk, see you tomorrow.
Every weekday for six weeks.
Bog,
I am so grateful to you for sharing yours thoughts. The boys and i will spend tomorrow, our last day here in CA, at the beach. We will soak up the sun and the love of our family here and BREATHE in the eucalyptus scented air….
And be back home to Kev on Sunday, Father’s Day! Enjoy your day and we’ll see you next week.
love to all,
Meg
Your technique of imagining the cancer being washed away like the grime from your hair seems like an excellent application of what Bernie Siegel discusses in his books. So much so that I hope somebody forwards this blog to Dr. Siegel; he might like to comment on it himself or use it as an example in a future book.
And thanks for the introduction to Satie’s Gymnopedies songs; they remind me of Yann Tiersen’s “Les Jours Tristes” from Amelie (instrumental version).
Lastly, thanks for sharing the prayer of sorts. It makes me think of “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, he lies me down in green pastures, he leads me to quiet waters, he restores my soul …” It’s something I’ve recited in my head many a times at the dentist. But I like yours. Your blog is really facing the cancer head-on, and with dignity. You sure are accomplishing a lot during your healing process.
What you visualize and believe is what you get. People who thought they were being radiated when the machine, due to repair error, had no radioactive material in it had side effects and shrinking tumors. So prepare your body for a healing experience with imagery. I have had patients with no side effects of treatment because they get out of the way and let it go to their tumor. Draw yourself receiving therapy and correct the negative stuff through imagery. In their drawings for some god is the source of radiation and for others they are a skeleton in a coffin lying there with the devil giving them poison.
🙂
Bogart,
I love the poem. I can feel it, and while I don’t know the music you are referring to, I love the sound of it, just in the titles.
Beautiful wife shared your amazing story with me the other day. Then the next day we drove by beautiful house on way to a baseball ceremony and saw a beautiful family enjoying an evening moment.
You are in my healing, sweet, easy wishes all the time now. Following the blog, and will link it up on mine.
Love from me and the boys, Mama C
PS–LOVE the jewelry piece.
Erik Satie’s Gymnopedies used to help me get to sleep when I was young and fearful. I am so glad they give you peace as well. I agree that the songs are soothing in a somber way and I love how there are moments of fluttering joy.
I am so looking forward to seeing you and your family this Thursday.
Love,
Virginia
i too have looked up into the tungsten colimnator of the varian clinac, and watched its metal fingers change to change – my shape. I wish you every success in beating the errant dna that wants to take over your body.
Cancer is a gift that we wouldnt offer our worst enemy – yet it is strangely empowering, if and when you survive this journey you will be a different person – stronger is just the start. thank you for sharing your story with the world my thoughts are with you.
Thanks for your comment, Frank. I feel that I have indeed been given a gift. Not that I would choose to have cancer, if given the choice. The gift is a sense of what’s important. For example, I find myself more relaxed in traffic. An aggressive instinct remains, but I remind myself that I’m not living among people, I’m living with people. (“Relax, we’ll all get there”).
Best of luck to you.