The End in View ...

Seidman Cancer Center
University Hospitals
Beachwood, Ohio

September 5, 2018; 8 a.m.

In a couple of hours we will drive up to Seidman Cancer Center in Beachwood where I will enjoy my penultimate radiation treatment: number 9 of 10.

Pause a moment.

I loved it when I learned the word penultimate. As your life goes along, you know, you discover that there really is a word for just about any damn thing! So ... imagine my boundless joy when—not all that long ago, I confess—I learned the word antepenultimate (the one before the next-to-last). I now find every occasion I can find to use that word!

Unpause.

Initially, I didn’t seem to be having many side-effects from the treatments. I went in; I lay down; they zapped me (takes a matter of minutes); I went home.

But—as my oncologist had warned me—the nature of my treatment—the path of the radiation—would eventually cause some problems. And problems have indeed emerged.

As you may recall, the treatments are focused on three of my vertebrae, #s T-8, T-9, T-10. T-9 is the one that, based on scans, the cancer now inhabits visibly. (Or so it seems—educated guessing.) But they are zapping the two adjacent ones, as well—just to make sure.

Anyway, to zap the vertebrae from the front, the Magic Ray must pass through my esophagus. Although it will soon enough repair itself (a couple of weeks, the oncologist told me), the radiation will soon enough cause some ... discomfort (Doctor Speak for HURT). But ... at first ... I didn’t really feel much. But as the sessions have advanced, I have felt an increased burning in the old food tube—so much so at times that merely eating is unpleasant. My appetite has diminished considerably as a result—which is probably a good thing: I have no energy to exercise, and my Dyer Body loves little more than adding weight, willy-nilly.

Pause.

Had to go look up willy-nilly. Goes back to 1608 (the Bard was alive and writing!) and is a variation of will-I-nill-I (or will-he-nill-he) (will he or won’t he).

Unpause.

Another side-effect: stomach gas. Which requires, of course, some judicious (and, we hope) silent evacuation of the gas through my mouth. (I’m getting to be quite good at it, actually. Sadly, though, I’m acquiring a skill I don’t really want to have—swallowing cubic feet of air in an unobtrusive way.)

And, as I’ve sort of mentioned, declining energy. I remember back in 2009 (when I underwent 30 radiation sessions down at Cleveland Clinic's Taussig Cancer Center) that I was exhausted by the end of it and could do little but sleep and feel sorry for myself. I’ve really been sleeping very well since these new treatments commenced (a few exceptions), but it’s not a remedy I would recommend to insomniacs.

They don’t zap me just through the front. They rotate the machine and zap me again from below. Spinal cord is there, of course, but the oncologist told me I shouldn't notice anything. And I haven’t—so far.

So—today—soon, soon—we will head again to Seidman (navigating the joys of I-271), and I, shirtless (my chest marked with X's and O's for the techs to aim the machine), will lie on the table, hear some buzzing, watch the machine rotate until it is beneath me, buzz some more .... then head home with that glorious knowledge that there will be just one more session!

My inflamed esophagus and gassy stomach will celebrate with me ...