Week 1: Hieroglyphics and Heartburn

Mood

I entered the first week of treatment with a lot of anxiety that mostly centered on how would I react to the chemo and radiation. Would the acne rash they warned me about be as horrible as it sounded? Would I get really sick? Would I turn into an annoying, friendless blob of cancer mush?

When I stepped into the bathroom of the infusion center that first day, I saw that someone had gifted the hospital with a wooden cut-out that read “Cancer Sucks.” I immediately felt better. Considering the cancer center’s most popular demographic (of the older, crotchety persuassion), I assumed the facilities would would be equally humorless.

I was wrong about that. But more importantly, I was also wrong to assume that old = crotchety/humorless.

An older woman wearing a turqoise turban to hide her chemo fuzz sat in the chair on the opposite side of the room from me on my first morning of chemo. She talked to everyone on staff like they were old friends and cheerily announced that she had brought cupcakes to share with everyone – she was celebrating her last day of treatment. I ate one of those cupcakes, and it was delicious.

An older gent made his way to the chair next to mine around mid-day. As the nurse was prepping his port (a tube thing they leave inside some people so they don’t have to re-stick them each day with the IV needle), he caught me staring (probably with a horrified look on my face) and jumped at the chance to chat. He grinned and asked “what I was in for.” Unfortunately, we suffered a major communication breakdown: he didn’t seem familiar with the term “cervix,” and neither my mom nor I could understand his thick West Virginia accent.

Treatment

With infusion prepped and ready to go, I headed down to Radiation where I got to share space with a convict and his two prison guards. Just another not-so-subtle reminder of what a communist bastard cancer is – even the prisioners can’t escape it!

Let me explain something about radiation: it is weird. If they didn’t have evidence to prove its efficacy, I would go so far as to call it an unholy ritual devised by sexually repressed mad scientists…white lab coats and crazy hair included! Don’t get me wrong, the staff at the hospital is great. Everyone is professional, and no one has hair that is crazy enough to mention. It’s just the routine of radiation that creeps me out.

This is how it goes: you sign in and sit in a dimly-lit waiting room that’s always a little too cold to be comfortable. The telecom by the door crackles and you hear a voice: “Ms. Strunk, you can come back now.” Now, you walk down an empty hallway to a dressing room where you pick a hospital gown from the neatly-stacked pile and pull it on over your clothes. Then you go to the waiting area outside of the actual radiation room, where you are forced to stare at a wall-sized map of the world and wish you were anywhere but where you are at that moment. I’ve pinpointed a few island chains in the South Pacific to focus on this week.

Then the radiatortechnotrons call you into the dungeon, and there is no turning back. Now you will be forced to lie on a large piece of styrofoam with the stomach cut out. The lights are out. Put your hands over your head and lift your feet so they can tie your ankles together and set them on a wedge. Now the nameless radiatortechnotrons will pull down your pants and draw lines and symbols all over your butt with sharpies. And then they’ll put tape on those lines. “Don’t get those wet!” And now they’ll just take a few x-rays. “Try not to move your head!”

But I have Tourrette’s!

“Almost done!” The machine is huge and revolves around the table with two large arms. There are a lot of noises…things that sound like lasers…like they are zapping mosquitoes. “Ok, now on to the treatment.”

And then you are done. They pull the table away from the monster machine and the lights come on. They untape your ankles. “Be careful getting down. That’s the hardest part!” And it is the hardest part. Your brain has turned to radioactive mush, and it’s hard to keep steady. But you are done and free, and now you can take off the hospital gown and rejoin the land of the living (or go back up to the infusion center, depending on the day).

Aftermath

The first chemo/radiation combo day was long. My mom and I were at Chateau UVA from about 9am to 5pm. Fully medicated and somewhat incoherent, I walked the 1/2 mile (I’ll track the actual mileage soon) back to the parking garage and sat in the car while my mom ran a few errands on the way home.

I didn’t get sick. I didn’t turn into a blob of cancer mush. I did feel tired and cranky, and there were times when the thought of food turned my stomach, but overall, it was manageable. Week one gone and conquered. Only five (or so) more to go!

Tags: cancer, cervical cancer, cervix, chemo, humor, infusion, old people, radiation