Radiation and humor

The radiation treatment I am undergoing involves special heat lamps trained on my chest which is alleged to lure any microscopic cancer cells to my chest then once they are there they will be attacked with short shots of radiation.

For 45 minutes I lie there, delightfully warm listening to the machine click off whenever my skin reaches 41°C and on again when it is drops below.

The doctor is in the room with me. I was so worried he would be a stuffy Swiss German who spoke n English, no French. He is fluent in both along with five other languages and two more where he is functional.

He's anything but stuffy. We chat off and on about the treatment, languages, books, art and music. He has a delightful giggle.

Last treatment he told me a joke after I asked him if he understood the expression "piece of cake" which is how I think of the treatments especially compared to chemo. We tested each other on different expressions...then he told me a joke.

A Brit, a Frenchman and a Czech went hunting in Canada during the winter even though the RCMP had warned them how dangerous it was.

The hunters didn't return and the Mounties started a hunt. They came across footprints in the snow leading to a cave where they saw a female bear with an extended stomach far too big to be just carrying baby bears. They killed the bear and cut her open and found the Brit and the Frenchman.

"Let's keep looking. There may be another bear that got the Czech," Mountie 1 said to the other.

"I'm not so sure," said Mountie 2.

They kept searching and found more footprints, another cave and another fat bear only this was a male. They killed that bear too.

When they cut him open they found the remains of the Czech.

"I told you the Czech was in the male," Mountie 1 said to Mountie 2.

Who says radiation can't be fun?

Radioactive dates

Throughout the entire treatment for cancer, I have tried to make the best of whatever.  Sometimes it is easier than other times.

Now at the end of the process, it is getting easier and easier.

I have had to go from Geneva to Bern six times: One consultation, five radiation treatments. It is about 1.5 hours away on the highway, but the train is far nicer because we can read, snooze, relax. We catch the 9:12.

The scenery is beautiful.

Rick calls them our radioactive dates because we get a chance to explore the city as if we were on a date before I'm nuked.

When we arrived on Tuesday a good band was playing Ave Maria and then the William Tell
Overture.

And we visited a museum, had a nice lunch before heading to the hospital.

As always we were on photo safari wherever we go.

Back at the train station we had only a few minutes to catch the train or wait an hour so we couldn't buy one of the great pretzels that are nothing like the kind the supermarkets sell. Next week hopefully on our next radioactive date.

Good bye Dr.M

I said good bye to my surgeon, the woman who operated on my

right breast twice.

She is a beautiful woman, not in the Hollywood glamour sense. Her blond hair, blue eyes and balanced features might make movie town status if she bothered with make up but even without it there is a still a beauty.

What makes her truly beautiful is when she walks into a room she brings with her a sense of calm. The same calm is shown whether bringing good or bad news.

This appointment is one of good news. All my signs, my scar are good.  I won't need to see her again even if I have one breast that still could be chopped off. Neither of us wants that. Better to greet in the street or over a cup of coffee.

I am also saying good bye, because she is leaving HUG and La Maternié where I have received such wonderful care, physically and emotionally and will still have follow up check ups.

She is going to start a new breast cancer clinic in a private hospital, a challenge and change is looking forward to after ten years with HUG.

She explains that she could only do that because of Swiss law. Now the obligatory insurance can be used at public or private hospitals rather than just the public. The public ones like HUG are world class teaching hospitals and many of the private hospitals are also good but before the legal change the required insurance was much more expensive.

"I didn't want to only treat the rich," she said. She wanted to be available to anyone who would need her. "Money isn't that important to me."

I thank her for her care, for her patience when I didn't like what she told me and for everything.

We hug at HUG.

Baldness

It has been six weeks since my last chemo and I had hoped to see more fuzz on my head. 

I do worry about hair regrowth and although people tell me it will be better than before, I do have one friend whose hair never regrew.

Now I have liked having a couple of wigs where I can change my hair length instantly, and it is ever so easy in the morning to towel dry my head instead of blow drying my hair but I STILL WANT HAIR.

Rick called attention to the photo above.

Hmmmm...

If my hair doesn't grow back would that be a solution?

"We could get Pauline to do it. Or Miloud." He was referring to two beloved Argelès artists.

"Or Marco."

Maybe not Marco. Lovely man when sober. Not sure what he would do when he wasn't sober.

Then I realised, although I love the henna design, I don't have to be limited. I could have scenics, portraits, geometric designs.

I did look at the internet for products but I still hope my real hair regrows. At least I have plan B.

http://ashemag.com/art-and-science-of-body-painting/
http://www.ehow.com/how_6817026_make-waterproof-body-paint.html
http://blog.bodyjewelleryshop.com/index.php/colourful-body-paints/

Haikus and radiation

Because of earlier radiation, the 25 nukings were not an option.  Instead they proposed the following.

Go to Bern, about two hours from Geneva. I was a bit worried. My German is bad and my Swiss German worse, but the charming doctor spoke seven languages with English and French being two of them. He was anything but stuffy.

He heats my skin with lamps for 45 mins. Then I get nuked for 28, 35 and 3 seconds. The concept is that if there is a microscopic cancer cell it will move to the heat and a lesser radiation will zap it. In place of the five times a week for five weeks it is one time a week for five weeks.

A piece of cake.

What do I do when I spend 45 mins with my eyes covered and heat lamps aimed at my chest warming my chest for the radiation?

I write haikus in my head. I don't claim they are poetic but they fit the form.

Rain batters the roof
Creating a melody
During my treatment

he machine clicks on
The machine clicks off
Warming my bare chest

The doctor and I
Talk of typewriters and more
It passes the time

Crayon colors my chest
In swirls and other designs
Target radio.

Miro and Calder
That is how my chest looks now
Radiation marks

So much for stereotypes

I had two concerns about radiation in Bern, which is about 2.5 hours from Geneva. Distance wasn't one of them.

1. I have done most of my medical stuff in French. My German, once quite good has descended into shopping German. Sometimes I can get the gist of a conversation, but not enough to deal with treatment details. I have even less understanding of the dialects of Swiss German. My daughter, when she was going to university in Germany would cross the Swiss-German border and often not understand what she was hearing nor would she be understood.

2. I had an image of a stuffy doctor. 

Entering reception, the smiley receptionist with short blond hair said, "Frau Nelson?" before I could say a word and we spoke French until she wanted to practice her  English. Forms were completed quickly.

I waited for the doctor to call me. He appeared: I am not sure of his age, somewhere maybe in his late 40s. He wore jeans under his white coat. "Madame Nelson?" 

Not Frau.

He spoke in French until he heard my accent and switched to English. I don't think he knows the meaning of the word stuffy in any of his three languages (four if you consider Swiss German a separate language). I quickly replaced the idea of stuffy with warm, competent, understanding.

He managed to add two appointments for that afternoon so the first of five weekly treatments could start on the 23rd. Realizing the distance he will schedule the appointments early afternoon. I may just set the alarm for 3 a.m. so I can appreciate not having to get up on treatment days.

He, too, is a history buff which I discovered when he explained that breast cancer had been treated with hot clay in ancient Egypt. That is known because of the hieroglyphics on tombs.

So what will they be doing?

My skin will be warmed to 42° for 45 minutes. Then the areas where the cancers were will be nuked for a few seconds. The heat causes any microscopic cells that might be lingering to come closer to the radiation. In other words they take on a kamikaze trait, which is fine with me. The radiation will be milder and do less damage to me. Instead of 25 nukings.

During the other two appointments, the attendants said they preferred English to French. They decorated me with pretty red designs as markers. I was photographed inside and outside my body.

I am ready for this last step soooo ready. So ready to get back to a normal life.

 

 

Life after chemo

Four weeks ago today I had my last chemo treatment, a killer dose 4x normal strength for many reasons which made sense as the good doctor, Nathalie B, explained it to us.

However, the side effects were a challenge. Exhaustion like I've never experienced sometimes made walking across the room a challenge. 

I never felt sick. If I were in bed, I felt fine, would get up to do all the things running thru my head and have to go back immediately.
The simplest thing was too much.

"This too will pass," became my mantra. I kept repeating other things, over and over in my head. The problem is from the chemo. It could be worse. No wonder I feel tired. I've been poisoned. If the chemicals are making me this useless and if there are any cancer cells hiding anywhere in my body, the poison better find them. I'm a wuss.  
  
The exhaustion mimicked the tides. There would be hours that I felt just normal tired.  

I worry that the feeling won't come back to my hands and feet and remind myself my mouth is no longer numb and my taste buds are no longer on holiday.

I worry that my hair won't grow back. That the first hair reappeared on my chin is little comfort. That my wig blew off solicited little embarrassment. The expression on the faces of the two teenagers standing nearby was worth it. I let Rick photograph my bald head. He wants to do it weekly to track growth.

I did make it to my landlord's for dinner and passed out. Missed dessert. I slept thru the night in the hospital: poor Rick did not.

There would be surges of feeling almost good. We made it to Argelès, which was medicine for my soul. A day didn't go by that some friend didn't drop in. I was able to free-write with my writing mate sitting on my bed.  Sorta like a literary pajama party.

On better hours we made La Noisette for an English breakfast and coffee with friends.

My husband was always there to help me thru the rough parts like walking up stairs and taking a shower.

He made wonderful meals, beautifully presented. Some days he was a short order cook and he brought back my favorite veggies from our local green grocers .  

For me the biggest frustration was being dependent and not doing most of the things I wanted to do. Making my own breakfast or emptying some dishes out of the dishwasher were major victories. 

The meals I would love to cook will have to wait until April when we return as will checking out the gardens as will organizing the things we moved from Geneva. 

I totally lost it over a garbage can and even as I was doing it, the words "idiot, it isn't important," were in my mind. 

Thru out this entire process we've carpe diemed all over the place.

Snuggling while watching Doc Martin or British mystery, making a snow rabbit (use your imagination, we are writers not sculptors) on the stairs outside our door, reading to each other from whatever book or article we think the other would like...these things were/are a reminder of what is good. 

My radiation treatment has been changed from 25 times for five weeks in Geneva to five times once for five weeks in Bern, a bit more than two hours away. Bern is a beautiful city. I want to share it with Rick. 

We have booked into a hotel Monday night before my first appointment on Tuesday. It promises a Frühstück with homemade jam. The rest of the appointments we will go up and back on the same day but we thought the first time should be special in a healthy way.

For the first time since June 2015 we are beginning to plan trips: Normandy to join my college friends leading a tour, Paris to see my Syrian friend and her husband, back to Argelès. Rick is heading for the States, my daughter is coming from Boston. These are things that normal people do. 

I want normal...I sooooooooooo want normal.