Here's to April 25

Hooray, April 25. That's the first day of chemo and radiation.

I know I won't be cheering this date for long--I've been warned. But it's the date I begin to get some help fighting cancer in a way I couldn't myself, and for that, I'm going to practice gratitude.

I went today to be fitted for my radiation mask, and to have a CT Scan that will help the diametrist and Dr. Yom figure out where to direct the beams of radiation for best effect. Fitting the mask is one of those processes where, flat on your back and locked down, people tell you not to move like one thousand times. Flat is not comfortable for me, and flat on a table with no padding less so, and flat with some warm plastic mesh locked down over my face--far, far, less.

I managed to not move and get the mask done--then I had to wait a bit for the CT Scan. What I didn't realize until I made it in to be scanned was that the mask was going to be locked back down on me. Ugh. Then it's a few back and forths through the Stargate, and the click click click of the machine, and the uncomfortable and unexplained moments where you're in stasis, and the the move back or forth or finally the sweet release. This CT may only have taken 20 minutes but it felt like 2 hours. I suppose they all do--flat on my back again, an inexplicable table strut digging into what used to be my ass, my ability to breathe compromised by the fact that, frankly, I'd really just like to freak out.

Freaking out sometimes nets one results--often in a restaurant, a well-placed freak out can, a la Victor/Victoria net you something you really want--attention, a new entree, a comped dinner. In instances where precision pictures of your neck and jaw are at stake--no, not so much. The medical establishment, with whatever faults it possesses, does not reward the random freak out and less so when its need for accuracy is at stake.

Still, Norbert the Resident who works with Dr. Yom assured me: if you can make it through this, treatment is easy. It doesn't hurt a bit that Norbert is a nice guy and cute. Even in my reduced state, this small bit of eye candy is, I think, a cancer plus.

I was at the bigger cancer center of UCSF today, across the street from where I have my appointments for speech therapy and doctor visits. I was in the radiation unit, sitting in the men's waiting room (we change into gowns for various states of undress), so I was able to see a few other people who were obviously undergoing radiation and were mid-stride.

I must admit I'm jealous of people who have some form of cancer that doesn't obviously manifest externally--they talk normally, look normally, can probably chew if they're inclined. They could leave their treatment and perhaps walk into the Pho restaurant across the street that is right now haunting my imagination.  It's crowded all the time and smells incredible--and I do operate on scent right now. The scent of a pho crowded with beef and lemongrass and a healthy spike of chili, with sprouts and mushrooms....sigh. Big sigh.

But there was one fellow today who reminded me that I don't have it the worst of anyone in the world--much of his face was gone, and, 8 treatments away from the end of radiation, he showed every bit of self-valuation and bonhomie that I hope I can muster 8 treatments from the end of my radiation road.  It is good to remember: someone always has it worse, has a better attitude, and shows a greater spirit than you.

But that's ok--I'm not jealous of those virtues at all. I plan to learn something from them. When I smell pho, see cancer patients who look physically perfect, when I'm tired. The next time I'm flat on my back wondering if I can breathe, with a mask on, being asked to not move for my own sake.