A Radiation Ramble
Afternoon sunlight and a spring breeze streams through our screen door that opens to the backyard. I can hear a few birds chirping on this blue-sky day as my dog Hercules, laying on a giant pillow on the floor me, randomly wags his tail while dreaming. My other dog, Katniss, stares at me from another giant pillow on the floor, her breathing a bit labored as she snores while awake. Stella, my cat, rests on the third giant pillow in the family room floor, her nose pointed toward the screen door as she sniffs fresh, Albuquerque air. I am on our couch in an L-shape, back rested on a couch arm and pillow with legs stretched out and holding my laptop and a yellow patchwork quilt my friends made some years go. My feet, underneath the blanket, are snuggled in flamingo slippers that arrived yesterday; they were a present from a friend who wished me congratulations for nearing the end of my radiation journey. When I slipped them on, the dogs took delight in sniffing them thoroughly.
I am here typing because I feel the urgent nature of time. I only have three of 21 treatments left and if I wait much longer to write, it will happen after-the-fact. I know there is something special about putting words on paper or electronic documents - however imperfectly - right in the middle of life events. Having this post will mean a lot to me later, and I think it may mean a lot to some of you, too. I am here to write a Radiation Ramble about some things I’ve witnessed and experienced the last few weeks. Here goes:
After the first week of treatments, I wrote that radiation makes me feel like a cancer patient more than ever. This is, in part, because I have been in a space with other cancer patients. No matter the complicated feelings I have about this, radiation treatments seemed like the official initiation into the Cancer Club. All other procedures and medical appointments took place in small rooms with few people present, and I never looked like I was sick. This entire breast cancer experience almost could have been secret if I wanted it to be. For the last four weeks though, I’ve entered the cancer center daily where a woman at the front desk waves and knows me by name. Then I change into a blue hospital gown and wait with other patients who appear much older than me. Some of the patients lost their hair recently and it’s growing back short, beautiful, and white. Some of the patients quickly became my friends because our lives have overlapped in a unique way for a short time. This has been the best part of the cancer center experience.
Yesterday, I talked with a patient who just started her treatments this week. She was an absolute delight. With bright red hair and a cane, she said, “You’ve got to have a sense of humor about all of this or you’d lose your mind. Which I did five years ago when this happened the first time.” We only had a few minutes before radiation therapists called me back for my treatment, but in that short time, we asked each other where we are from, we talked about how she has kids and I don’t, and she called me smart for that. Not because she doesn’t love her three kids, she said, but because it’s a perfectly fine decision not to have them. She said she’s tired from a hip surgery she had in November and the mastectomy she had more recently, but that she’s fine with napping like a toddler as she gets better, and she’ll still go out with her girlfriends nearly every week for Cheeseburger Wednesday. Cheeseburger Wednesday?!?! How fun! After my treatment, I had to ask her, as my blue hospital gown was falling off my shoulder as it always does: “Where do you go for Cheeseburger Wednesday?!” This seems like something I need to adopt in my own life. “Well, we’re a bunch of blue hairs,” she said. “So, we like going to Chilis where they have three for $10.”
A view of the cancer center waiting room and me in a blue hospital gown.
Speaking of Wednesday things - I DID commit to Cookie Wednesday this year. I believe it was the third or fourth week of January when it felt to me like the world was going to shit … again … as it seems to every week. I decided that making cookies once a week was something small I could do for others. WHO DOESN’T LOVE COOKIES?! I chose Wednesdays because that’s the day I am on campus for my grad school course this semester, so I’d have the most consistent opportunity to share them that day. I typically make the cookies Tuesday evening and then drop some off in the front office of the sociology building the next day. The rest go with me to class where the other students and professors seem to genuinely enjoy them. I’ve made hot cocoa cookies, brown butter chocolate chip, strawberry cheesecake cookies, lemon sugar cookies, Rolo cookies, and Cadbury egg cookies. If I cannot fix the world or escape radiation treatments, I can at least make cookies.
Cadbury egg cookies are the prettiest I’ve made so far.
I’ve been writing a postcard every day except for yesterday because the day went too fast and I was tired by the end. This has been a way for me to journal glimpses of radiation treatments without the burden of long, detailed journal entries. I take pictures of the postcards each day after I write them so I can keep those “journal entries” as well. I highly recommend this practice. Dropping off a postcard at the post office has become a daily ritual that follows my radiation treatments. It’s helped me think outwardly about other people I love. It’s a tough thing when it feels like all your loved ones are essentially looking at you. I hope that the postcards have been fun to receive and provide a little bit of information about my experience, in additional to gratitude for my friends and family members.
I have also written a poem every day except for yesterday (so I’m going to write two today). They are written quickly, and they’re imperfect, but I believe in creating art - no matter how unfinished - during challenging times. They all live in the poetry section of this website so you can read them, too. I got behind on sharing them, but I’m caught up as of today. I’ll keep writing more until the end of treatment.
In terms of the other radiation rituals I made for myself and shared, I have completed most of them most days. Because I am a chronic procrastinator, some of them often aren’t completed until right before I’m ready for bed. Two nights ago, Travis caught me dancing in our living room to Miranda Lambert’s “Kerosene.” It was an embarrassing jumping dance that no one was supposed to see. But hey! At least someone knows I’m crossing off these daily goals that keep me moving and make me happy.
One of my Radiation Rituals is to find a heart every day. I found one most days. This heart rock is from a recent walk with Katniss.
My toenails have been pink throughout the entirely of treatments. I got a gel pedicure in February before my radiation appointments began and its held up nicely. I want to be clear though that even though my toes are Barbie pink, they were meant to be flamingo pink, and absolutely NOT breast cancer pink. I wanted flamingo pink because about a week after my surgery, my mom came to visit and we went to the zoo to get out of the house. At the Albuquerque Zoo, visitors are greeted with a flamingo habitat upon entry and the flamingoes looked soooo pretty that day! I was immediately awed and happy, and that moment has stayed with me since. A poet I love, Andrea Gibson, wrote: “Awe is the most powerful medicine in the world.” Flamingoes with my mom provided that medicine for me in January. Later, I read the following quote in a book called “Refuge” by Terry Tempest Williams. “Refuge” is a beautiful memoir about Williams’ experience as her mother navigated breast cancer, and I loved this bit about statistics, flamingoes, and hope. Apparently, some decades ago, a flamingo ended up in the middle of Utah and no one knew why or how.
I’ve had a lot of anxiety about driving the last many months. The brain does weird things to you when you’re going through weird things. While I *mostly never believed breast cancer would kill me, it’s like my brain decided something else would - and that something would be a car accident. Over the last few weeks though, I’ve been practicing some techniques to help me with this. I don’t care if this sounds silly - I’m going to tell you anyway! As I drive, I now often imagine my heart like a star with infinite beams, and as I drive, those beams go out and touch every single driver around me. YOU GET A BEAM! YOU GET A BEAM! YOU GET A BEAM! This reminds me to love everyone around me, rather than worry that one of those drivers is going to slam into me and bring my early death. I believe I started thinking about this approach on my very first day of treatment. While driving to the cancer center, I followed a vehicle that had bumper stickers on it that made me think we vote differently. It seems everything feels political these days and I’m concerned about the constant polarization as it creeps in even when driving … even among strangers in separate vehicles. As I continued following, that vehicle ended up turning in the direction of the hospital and I wondered what that person grieves, how they are forced to be brave, and what they worry about. It’s quite possible they were visiting the hospital for their own ailment, or a loved one’s, and it made us the same in that way. Every day since then, I’ve tried to imagine other drivers as people who experience all challenging things that people experience, and it makes it so I focus less on myself. I even wrote some song lyrics about this as one of my radiation reflection poems that you can read if interested.
While driving presented a lot of anxiety, it also provided a lot of spring-time beauty. I’ve been watching wisteria crawl over cinderblock walls around Albuquerque for weeks now, like thousand-legged tarantulas.
I say that I *mostly never believed breast cancer would kill me because even though the prognosis of my diagnosis is excellent, I’ve worried about the potential next time I get cancer. In addition, I remember clearly that one evening last fall, around the time of my diagnosis, that I followed Hercules into our backyard at night and I wondered whether our dogs would outlive me. This thought made suddenly sad as I looked up toward the night sky and noticed the beautiful stars, moon, and cool air on my body. Whenever I think my life might be short, I notice all of the details more.
I still show up in person and online to almost everything I’m scheduled for. I am, perhaps, most proud of that over the last four weeks. It reminds me of my MRI in November when the technologist told me not to worry, and to just keep showing up. I haven’t necessarily done well at the anti-anxiety part of that advice, but I’ve done well at keeping most commitments. I am waist deep in fatigue now that swirls around me like fog so I don’t feel great at everything. But showing up in person or online to scheduled meet-ups? I can mostly do that, and I try not to cancel. This has included class every week, a Hunting for Hearts Music and Writing Night, some grad school meetings, some interviews I’m doing for my thesis project, shopping with a friend, meeting up to study on campus, every damn radiation appointment every damn weekday, and a celebration of life event for a friend who passed away from cancer much too early at the age of 46.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this friend who passed away. I went to visit her the day I received my diagnosis last November. I didn’t tell her about my diagnosis, and almost no one knew for a few more weeks after that. But the moment she found out, even as she was facing her own mortality, she offered support. She texted to follow up and we had a final phone call at the end of December where she offered advice and love. I think she knew at that point that her time was extremely limited, yet she used some of it for me. We weren’t best friends, but this is exactly what a best friend would do and I will always be grateful. She passed away just days after my lumpectomy, and as mentioned, her celebration of life took place in the middle of my radiation treatments. I haven’t been able to make sense of all of this. I don’t know if it even does make sense. But there is something there about limited time, and friendship, and love, and I’m trying to learn it all.
I’m going to end this Radiation Ramble now and hope, if you read all of this, it provided a glimpse of what one person has been thinking about and experiencing during her cancer journey. Something I’ve learned over the last six months is that everyone’s cancer journey is different. This is a peek into mine.