It’s strange, surreal, like limbo and at the same time not at all like limbo.  I get up every morning.  The 4 of us get ourselves out the door, some how close to on time.  I head for radiation.  I’m greeted, I change, I’m shown to the table/bed with the cradle that fits my arms, shoulders and head perfectly. I lay gazing at the suspended ceiling stars above me, and this space age machine hummms and moves around my body.  A thin green laser like line helps to measure and align things.  Very pleasant people are all around me at once, and then gone.  I have my eyes closed most of the time to avoid the tendency to move my head to look at the next shiny object. I’m supposed to stay very still.  They come in again and ask something about who I am, getting to know me as something other than whatever coordinates are associated with my name and date of birth.  5 minutes later, I slather myself with either aloe or Ching Wan Hung. I’m dressed for work, heading out the door with a raspberry Nutrigrain bar, courtesy of the cancer center.  Today was acupuncture as well. 

I head to work, getting into step with my colleagues when I land at whichever office.  My schedule pushes my day forward from one meeting to another; supervision, client intakes, planning meetings, interviews with perspective clinicians.  Before I know it, it’s 1:00, 2:00, 3:00…later than I intended and I’m back on the road heading home.  Stop at the health food store for some nuts, the town office to register the car, and back home to make dinner before we leave for guitar lessons.  Then I answer emails and rewrite job descriptions when we get home.  One of the children may even crawl in for a quick snuggle before sleep takes us.

The only thing that makes this day something out of the ordinary is the first stop of the day.  A parent’s schedule these days would wear anyone out.  I’m not saying that my day is any more or less busy than any other parent.  What I am saying is that it’s easy to forget that first stop as I get into the flow.  At work I’m cheered on as my hair grows.  SO much support…I’m told that I’m a goddess, amazing, resilient, unbelievable, and it takes me a while to understand why they are suggesting this.  Going about my day I may get some other reminders: my hand may brush against my ribcage where a breast used to be, my ears may get cold as I run through the March rain and wind, I may have a hot blast and whip off my hat/scarf before I realize that I actually have hair now, I may look at my recovering hands and see fading reminders of chemotherapy. 

Truthfully, the first many days of this type of radiation to this area of my body have not affected me to any great degree, or at least I do not notice it yet. I rated my fatigue as mild today during the once-a-week nursing visit.  I rated my skin irritation as non existent so far, and was told that I’d likely start noticing more of both around 3 or 4 weeks into treatment.  My blood pressure was the normal low, oxygen level was 100% as usual.  So my point is that I don’t really feel like a cancer patient 98% of the time, and the in and out at radiation is almost forgettable by the end of the day.  Once my appointments are in the early afternoon next week, it may halt the momentum a bit.  I think that’s good. It will break my day, prevent me from scheduling at that very popular time of day, and I have blocked my schedule after those treatments with the full intention of heading home to rest and/or work.  The food fairies have started to flit about again, and I think the timing is really good.  It could be so easy to ignore fatigue.  I and we are reminded of the awestruck feeling when our support net swooped around us last summer and fall.  It’s still very much there, and so easy to take for granted.

I would imagine that it will be so easy, once this treatment marathon is over, to just slide back into life, but I have much to think about.  There is a lot of information about what to eat to help avoid a reoccurrence. I am told that my energy will return in 2-3 months, so there’s the idea of actually getting back into an exercise routine.  And there’s sleep, which fortunately has not been disrupted very much.  These three things are so important to me.  I think of the airline attendant who says something like “in the event of a decrease in cabin pressure, don your oxygen mask before assisting others”.  If I’m going to be a healthy partner, mom, friend, neighbor, supervisor, manager, aunt, daughter, sister, pal, human, I will have to address my time and the many ways I nourish myself with great intention.

If I asked my family what this phase of treatment has been like so far, I wouldn’t be surprised if they said that life feels pretty normal.  I think we all take pause when the reality of cancer in our family hits us at isolated moments.  I don’t think there’s too much walking on eggshells around me.  I could be such a G.O. that I don’t notice their caution, that’s true.  We all have gotten used to this cadence, are in our well worn saddles, my boots have started developing some character.   I wish I could protect my family from the ‘what if’s’, but I cannot.  I wish my children did not have to think about or ever say that there is a family history of cancer.  Wishing gets me nowhere.  Moving ahead with intention is the only way we have gotten this far on this particular horse on this particular trail.  Taking precaution when we can, attending to our health in whatever way makes sense to us, nourishing ourselves physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally, these are some of the things we can do instead of wishing.  Taking time to talk about fears when they arise, to be angry or sad when we feel it and to not miss the opportunity to laugh together, that’s how we can deal with this.  Being present for each other, yea, there’s something to that there.

I have not yet spoken with my family about how long this blog should go. It is not my intention to have it ramble on.  I have thought about this a bit lately.  I definitely want to take it through the effects of radiation, and perhaps to my visit with my surgeon after my annual mammogram.  I may visit the fitta to explore the idea of a prosthesis, and that may be interesting for someone.  But after that, it may be time.  I don’t know.   Thoughts on any of this are welcome.  Always.