Halfway Through Radiation

Seidman Cancer Center
Beachwood, Ohio

Yesterday—August 29—I underwent the fifth of my ten radiation sessions up at Seidman Cancer Center (University Hospitals) in Beachwood. As I’ve written here before, this is not my first experience with radiation. Back in January 2009, I enjoyed thirty sessions down at Taussig Cancer Center (Cleveland Clinic); they were zapping the area where my cancerous prostate gland had been (removed in June 2005). It seems some cancer cells had escaped the surgeon's knife and were merrily reproducing somewhere in me. They’re not visible, of course, so the radiation oncologist makes an educated guess.

Which, in my case, apparently was a tad wrong. The cancer—restrained for a bit—came back.

Now, it seems, it has settled in one of my vertebrae—#T-9—at least, that’s what the scans seem to indicate.

And so the zapping sessions commenced late last week.

There is no pain involved in the sessions—it’s a bit like getting a dental X-ray, somewhat more elaborate but ultimately very similar. But, of course, Fear and Worry are in the room with me, unlike the technicians, who conceal themselves behind a barrier to prevent their own exposure. By the way, I really like the three technicians who work with me each day—friendly, competent, encouraging, warm. You can’t beat that!

Fear and Worry. Worry and Fear. A dire duo indeed. They are in the room with every person enduring medical procedures and illness. Fear that Death is close, Worry that he is figuring that this might as well be the day.

One of the things I learned from my 2009 sessions: Weariness and exhaustion increase as time advances. Yesterday, I began to feel it for the first time with this procedure. As the day wore down, so did I—and quickly so. I am sleeping very hard at night, finding it difficult to get up in the morning—not just because I’m tired but because I know what is coming ... another drive to Seidman, another session on that slab with a machine zapping my spine.

I think I’d like to end with this. One of the wonders at Seidman is watching other people help one another. Providing an arm. A kind word. Offering help. Gender, race, age—none of it matters.

Oh, if we only treated one another with such compassion and empathy outside our cancer waiting rooms! Oh, if we only realized that no matter how healthy we appear to be—or feel—we are all fragile passengers on the same train, heading to the same terminal.