I'm done. Radiation ended Saturday (they were able to move my Monday appointment to Saturday). I have an appointment with my oncologist on Thursday, and eventually have to get my port removed, but that's it. School ended last Friday. We leave for our trip this Friday. A couple endings and some new beginnings.
I would never have gotten to this point without Stein. Sure, I would've muddled through and found my way here eventually, but not without a lot of pain, tears, and exhaustion. These past eight months have been some of the most difficult, tiring, challenging, and emotionally-charged months of our lives. Yet, he has stepped up to the plate and beyond to try to make the best of it and ease the pain for me along the way.
When I first met Stein, I knew immediately that he was a kind person. Behind the sarcastic, gruff personality, was the most helpful, friendly, and big-hearted man. He talked about his friends and family often, and he loved to tell me stories about his siblings and niece (later to be nieces) and nephews. He was ready to jump in and help anyone who asked, and many times didn't need to be asked in order to help. He loved going to visit people spontaneously, just to say hi or bring some food or a gift he knew they would love.
He hasn't changed throughout the following years we dated and then got married. He will still drop everything the minute he hears someone needs help. He still drops by people's houses to bring something over that he knows they will love. He loves to get friends and family together whenever possible to share a restaurant he loves or a new place he's discovered. He asks people how they're doing, and listens intently when they answer him. Just before we were getting married, I had a conversation with his mom and she said, "David is one of the nicest people I know, and I'm not just saying that because he's my son and he's marrying you." I agreed with her and added, "He really makes me want to be a better person. He is a great example."
It comes as no surprise, then, that during this roller coaster we rode for the past eight months, that he was front and center waiting and willing to help out whenever and wherever necessary. He was master of the calendar when I had appointments scheduled. He has never missed one appointment that I have had, whether it be a blood draw, a chemo treatment, a CT, PET, or MRI scan, a doctor's visit, or a radiation treatment. For most of these appointments, he has sat in waiting rooms, sometimes for hours upon hours, waiting. For most of the appointments, especially the 6:40 a.m. radiation treatments, I told him that he didn't have to go, that I would be alright. Yet, he insisted on going. "It will make me feel better if I'm there," he would say.
While I was going through chemo and just recently when I was going through radiation, he would let me sleep when I felt tired, made dinner when I couldn't muster the energy or didn't know what I wanted to eat, and slept on the couch to make sure I had a good night's sleep. Every morning, he asks me how I'm feeling. When we talk on the phone during the day, the first thing he asks, even if I can tell he's had a bad day, is how I'm feeling.
Caregivers are truly the unsung heroes. Stein has sacrificed so much in these past months and hasn't shown that he is tired or frustrated or too busy. In the midst of trying to help me, he has also been dealing with the loss of his dad and brother, while simultaneously working to keep the office and business running as usual.
A lot of people don't realize what the caregivers go through when they are faced with the challenge of taking care of a sick loved one. Most people only pay attention to the patient and offer help for the patient. But it's the caregivers who deserve the credit. Stein absolutely deserves the credit here. I wouldn't have been able to get through this adventure smoothly and successfully without him by my side. I'm so lucky in so many ways. Being married to him is the biggest one.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
The Radiation Factory
Is there anyone out there who has watched the TV show Lost? Well, if you ever saw the show, you would understand when I say that some days in the Radiation Factory I feel like I'm part of the Dharma Initiative.
It is like a factory, though. Every morning, around 6:40 a.m., Stein and I go to the radiation clinic. (Yes, Stein has continued his relentless care-giving with this endeavor. Either that, or he's got something for clinic waiting rooms...) We enter through the automatic doors, Stein turns left to go into the waiting room, and I turn right and hit the button on the wall. Two automatic doors swing open, and I get on the computer inside the doors and punch in the last 4 digits of my social security number. The next screen pops up and tells me what machine I will be on. From that I can determine which of the 2 waiting rooms I will have to go to. From the computer, I go to the locker room, change into a gown from the waist up, and go sit down in one of the waiting rooms.
They usually call me within 5-10 minutes of waiting. I rarely get through an article in any magazine (if I even pick up one), and sometimes I'll see others waiting. A lot of the same people I see everyday. We all nod or mumble a "Good Morning". The atmosphere is a little tense, a little somber. Oftentimes for me it's sad. I try not to think about the terrible things that cancer has done to people, but it's hard when you can see the physical damage on some of the bodies I see. These visuals always serve as reminders to me that I'm going to be okay, that I'm the lucky one. They also knock me down a few notches when I think that my pity party is the worst in town.
Yesterday, a young man in his twenties wearing a surgical mask was wheeled down the hall and parked outside the waiting room. I noticed that next to him was an IV pole or a chemo machine that had about 5 bags of different medicines on it. I wondered if he was receiving his chemo infusion as he waited to go into radiation? He seemed to take it all in stride, like this was his job. A few minutes later, an older man came into the waiting room. I mumbled a "Good Morning", and he couldn't even mumble it back. He grunted, and when I looked over, I noticed something on his neck that prevented him from speaking.
Today I witnessed a touching moment. An older man who I see most days, makes his way around the halls holding the back of his gown closed. (Stein unfortunately caught a glimpse of the man when he wasn't holding his gown closed and the automatic doors swung open.) Today I saw him come up to another patient in a wheel chair (a teenager?) and said, "I'm done today, but I want you to know that I'm praying for you, and everyone at my church is praying for you." I thought it was just my typical Hallmark-card-commercial-emotional side coming out when I teared up, but when I looked around the waiting room, I caught glimpses of eyes welling up. Too much for 6:40 in the morning!
The actual radiation session doesn't take long at all, and has become a routine. They position me on the bed, put my mask on, clamp it down. and then leave the room to take x-rays. Sometimes, they'll come in the room to make adjustments, but for the most part, the machine does its work. The beam rotates around me and stops on me at about 7 different angles, with the actual radiation lasting about 20 seconds at each angle. A lot of times they'll have music playing which helps to distract me. Yesterday's music didn't help, though. It was Thriller by Michael Jackson. Although I like the song, it was the part when Vincent Price is talking and then lets out a maniacal laugh. I little too much while I was strapped down to the table.
I'm done with 9 sessions, so I have 8 more to go. I've been trying to keep the sore throats at bay with a daily regime of the Aloe Vera juice, honey, and tea. Keep your fingers crossed. In the meantime, school is winding down and I'm counting down for that, too. 6 1/2 more days. And then our trip is a week later. A lot of endings. But a whole lot of beginnings.
It is like a factory, though. Every morning, around 6:40 a.m., Stein and I go to the radiation clinic. (Yes, Stein has continued his relentless care-giving with this endeavor. Either that, or he's got something for clinic waiting rooms...) We enter through the automatic doors, Stein turns left to go into the waiting room, and I turn right and hit the button on the wall. Two automatic doors swing open, and I get on the computer inside the doors and punch in the last 4 digits of my social security number. The next screen pops up and tells me what machine I will be on. From that I can determine which of the 2 waiting rooms I will have to go to. From the computer, I go to the locker room, change into a gown from the waist up, and go sit down in one of the waiting rooms.
They usually call me within 5-10 minutes of waiting. I rarely get through an article in any magazine (if I even pick up one), and sometimes I'll see others waiting. A lot of the same people I see everyday. We all nod or mumble a "Good Morning". The atmosphere is a little tense, a little somber. Oftentimes for me it's sad. I try not to think about the terrible things that cancer has done to people, but it's hard when you can see the physical damage on some of the bodies I see. These visuals always serve as reminders to me that I'm going to be okay, that I'm the lucky one. They also knock me down a few notches when I think that my pity party is the worst in town.
Yesterday, a young man in his twenties wearing a surgical mask was wheeled down the hall and parked outside the waiting room. I noticed that next to him was an IV pole or a chemo machine that had about 5 bags of different medicines on it. I wondered if he was receiving his chemo infusion as he waited to go into radiation? He seemed to take it all in stride, like this was his job. A few minutes later, an older man came into the waiting room. I mumbled a "Good Morning", and he couldn't even mumble it back. He grunted, and when I looked over, I noticed something on his neck that prevented him from speaking.
Today I witnessed a touching moment. An older man who I see most days, makes his way around the halls holding the back of his gown closed. (Stein unfortunately caught a glimpse of the man when he wasn't holding his gown closed and the automatic doors swung open.) Today I saw him come up to another patient in a wheel chair (a teenager?) and said, "I'm done today, but I want you to know that I'm praying for you, and everyone at my church is praying for you." I thought it was just my typical Hallmark-card-commercial-emotional side coming out when I teared up, but when I looked around the waiting room, I caught glimpses of eyes welling up. Too much for 6:40 in the morning!
The actual radiation session doesn't take long at all, and has become a routine. They position me on the bed, put my mask on, clamp it down. and then leave the room to take x-rays. Sometimes, they'll come in the room to make adjustments, but for the most part, the machine does its work. The beam rotates around me and stops on me at about 7 different angles, with the actual radiation lasting about 20 seconds at each angle. A lot of times they'll have music playing which helps to distract me. Yesterday's music didn't help, though. It was Thriller by Michael Jackson. Although I like the song, it was the part when Vincent Price is talking and then lets out a maniacal laugh. I little too much while I was strapped down to the table.
I'm done with 9 sessions, so I have 8 more to go. I've been trying to keep the sore throats at bay with a daily regime of the Aloe Vera juice, honey, and tea. Keep your fingers crossed. In the meantime, school is winding down and I'm counting down for that, too. 6 1/2 more days. And then our trip is a week later. A lot of endings. But a whole lot of beginnings.
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