Part Fifty-Four: Easy-Peasy

            “Easy-peasy” popped into my mind last week.  I had to look it up to make sure it was a bona fide word.  Sure enough, it is the British equivalent to “easy as pie.”  What remains a mystery is why I’m familiar with it, so I’ll blame that on my mother, who had an incredible vocabulary even when she was in the throes of Alzheimer’s.

            Question: what does “easy-peasy” have to do with breast cancer?  Answer: the early days of radiation therapy before the side effects set in.  These are the easy-peasy days.

            Let me walk you through a radiation treatment.  A technician calls my name, and we walk back to a dressing room where I undress from the waist up and put on a hospital gown.  I lock my belongings in a handy cabinet that even has a special holder for my glasses.  The tech escorts me across the hall to the CT/radiation room and asks if I want a warmed blanket.  I never refuse.  I lie down on a narrow, hard table.  The technician drapes that lovely blanket over my legs, I hold my arms straight up, and she removes my gown.  I position my head in the bean bag mold that was created at my first appointment.  There is no squish to the mold now; it feels like a form-fitting stone pillow for my neck, head, and arms, which are draped over my head.

            Then follows my “bag of potatoes” time, in which I lie limp and still as the two technicians position my body.  They use the sheet underneath me to pull and turn and slide me here and there until my tattoos—located on sternum, stomach, and sides—line up just right.  They remind me to lie very still, and then they leave the room.  Pretty soon the machine hums to life, and I slide into its open circle.  After a good five minutes or so, it slides me back out where I wait a few more minutes, utterly still and my arms starting to cramp.  Then it slides me back in the circle for maybe ten minutes and zaps me with the invisible radiation beam.  As the machine pops me back out, a technician returns to help me off the table. 

            I walk back across the hall, get dressed, check out at the front desk, and am in my car ready to drive home within thirty minutes of my arrival time.

            So, yes, the treatment is easy-peasy.  The drive to and from is not, but I am brushing up on my city driving skills, including evening rush-hour traffic this week.  Starting on Tuesday, my regular treatment time will be 1:45 p.m.  Now that will be a piece of cake.

Part Fifty-Three: While I Was Waiting

            While I was waiting for the scheduling of my radiation treatments, Congress took the first step towards repealing the Affordable Care Act.

            While I was still waiting for the scheduling of my radiation treatments, President Donald Trump signed an executive order gutting the Affordable Care Act. 

            And then the phone rang and my radiation treatments were scheduled:  five days a week, starting January 23 and ending March 7.

            And then I read through my BlueCross BlueShield policy book, which came in the mail today, and I was reminded that the only reason I have such excellent health insurance is due to the Affordable Care Act.  Were it not for the ACA, my monthly premium would be 77% of my monthly income.         

Now I’m wondering how long it will be before I lose the tax subsidy that makes my health insurance affordable.  Because when that happens, I’ll be uninsured and perhaps uninsurable due to my pesky pre-existing medical conditions:  breast cancer, fibromyalgia, high blood pressure, and pre-diabetes.

While I’m waiting for the federal government to kill off the Affordable Care Act, I will gladly drive to Tulsa for my radiation therapy.  I will figure out which of my eight prescription medications I will be able to afford to take without health insurance.  Oops, there is going to be a ninth pill soon due to the radiation:  thyroid. 

Naturally, the whole time I am waiting, I will be praying.  Not just for myself but for all Americans who might lose their health insurance.

Part Fifty-Two: Beanbags and Ink

            “Attack of the beanbag” is what I told Dr. Nguyen I would write, but on further consideration, “attack” is not the right word.

            As Kristin, the technician, adjusted my head and arms Monday morning, I wondered about the scrunchy stuff around them.  It seemed to be a man-made material that could be squished and shaped.  She moved me and it around, finally ending up with my arms sort of draped over the top of my head, which was turned as far as it could go to the left.  As she got my various parts adjusted, she pressed a button (I assume) and the machine moved to hold the stuff tight against me.  If I remember correctly, that was the point where she put stickers on my chest and ran the brief CT scan.  Then she left to get Dr. Nguyen.

            A good ten minutes passed.  I couldn’t see much other than the ceiling, but I heard a door open on the left, and with my peripheral vision I saw two persons enter the room.  Dr. Nguyen introduced a third-year resident.   I couldn’t really see him, but I said, “Nice to meet you” anyway.  After she quickly drew lines on me with a permanent marker, she said, “That looks like an uncomfortable position.”  I had to agree.

            She went to work with the technician, who had returned from my right, creating a lump with the beanbag-like material to support my head, neck, and repositioned arms.  Once they finished, Dr. Nguyen asked how it felt.  “Like a vise gripping my head,” I answered, so she released the machine’s tension a little. 

            After Dr. Nguyen and the resident left, Kristin told me it was tattoo time.  Just five tiny burning stings—one on my left side and the other four on the right—and she was done. 

            Next week, after Dr. Nguyen analyzes the imaging and prepares my treatment plan, I’ll get the call to set up my radiation therapy appointments.  I’ll be precisely positioned according to my marks and the machine.  I’m not quite sure how they will do that.  I’ve only found four of the five tattoos, and some of the markings washed down the drain with my first shower. 

            But, fortunately, I’m not the professional here.  All I have to do is let the professionals check my dots and move me around until everything is lined up perfectly for the radiation beam and then lie perfectly still for ten minutes while I’m being zapped.  My lower back—exactly where my vertebrae are bone-on-bone at L3-4—bears the brunt of the pressure from lying flat on a hard slab.   Maybe the back pain will keep me from focusing on the pain from my arthritic shoulders beanbagged above my head.

Part Fifty-One: Another Beginning

            The call came Friday afternoon two blocks from home.  Stopped for a school bus, I answered my cellphone: “Hello, this is Janis.”

            “Hi, Janis; this is Sarah from Dr. Nguyen’s office.  We have a slot open Monday for your CT simulation.  Let me ask, just to be sure: you want your treatment in Tulsa, right?”

            “Yes,” I answered, sealing my fate.  But I’ve thought long and hard about this decision.  And prayed, too, of course.  What I come up with is that for six weeks of my life I can drive to Tulsa five days a week to have the doctor I really like, the one who explains everything so thoroughly and who knows her stuff so well.  I’ll only actually see her once a week, but the drive is still worth that to me.

            Thus, on Monday, January 9, I will be at OCSRI-Tulsa for my 11 a.m. CT simulation and tattoos (tiny dots for radiation reference points).  I will do my best to follow Dr. Nguyen’s previous advice to pretend I am a sack of potatoes.  In other words, I must completely relax while the technician is adjusting my position, which must be precisely the same for every treatment that follows. 

            I imagine that I will learn at least a couple things within the next two months:  getting comfortable with Tulsa traffic and finding the secret to complete relaxation lying half-naked on a hard surface with my right arm up over my head.  I also plan to get well acquainted with the drive home through Owasso, where I can eat at Panera’s and grocery shop at Sprouts.  I doubt I will buy any sacks of potatoes, though.