Whew. It’s been an emotional first few days of radiation. I also hesitated in talking about this, in a way that I haven’t hesitated in a long time. The process has made me feel really vulnerable and I’m still figuring out how to talk about it. But I also learned a really important lesson and that’s definitely worth sharing.
So, the first day of radiation is a dry run. (Monday for me.) It’s exactly what it sounds like - a run-through of the actual radiation treatment. It takes a little longer because they double and triple check every measurement. As you can imagine, they’re incredibly precise. Of course.
I laid there in the correct position without moving because I’m nothing if not an overachiever when it comes to this stuff. I felt myself starting to retreat into my body. I became hyper aware of the movement around me. The three technicians were the model of efficiency. They buzzed around, with all three seeming to be clear and focused on their individual tasks. I started feeling less and less like a person and more like a series of body parts ancillary to their tasks.
There’s something about the assumed position that felt incredibly vulnerable as well. Arms stretched above my head, grabbing on to two bars to keep my hands still. And while I’ve come to accept a much higher degree of nudity with strangers in the medical profession than I ever thought possible, this somehow felt very different. I felt Exposed. In a way I haven’t felt yet, which is pretty remarkable, considering all that I’ve gone through this year.
Then the pens came out.
At least one was a black Sharpie. Another was one of those purple pens they use for surgery that take forever to get off. And they started marking. The buzz of activity continued around me and the kept drawing - the field where the radiation will go, where the sheet of gel goes, marks for reference to make sure I’m in the right position. And it was all too much. I felt a pig being readied for slaughter. It felt like every last bit of my humanity was gone. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and get home to wash it off.
No such luck. “Now, try to keep these markings on for tomorrow so we can double check everything!” one of the techs said to me cheerfully. Another tech said, “We also don’t want you to scrub because it might injure your skin.” I got very quiet on my way back to the room to change out of my gown. I could tell it was making Cheerful Tech uncomfortable. She kept nervous talking all the way back to the changing room. I just nodded. When I got out to my car, I burst into tears.
I talked to Sean. And I went for a walk with Sister down to the lake. And when I still couldn’t stop thinking about it the next day, I decided should probably say something. But I’ve never really done it before with my medical team. But that’s exactly the thing - they didn’t feel like my partners in treatment or in returning to health. And I certainly didn’t feel like I was in the drivers’ seat.
The first official radiation treatment the next day started in much the same way. I assumed the position and the hive of activity around me began. And then that damn Better Midler song came on the speakers. Oh yeah, that one. “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” I hate that damn song. Especially now. And by the way, it makes no damn sense at all. It’s just one of those songs written with the express purpose of making you cry. I resent the hell out of those songs.
Anyway, I cried. I was laying there feeling again like my humanity was being lost and I cried laying on the radiation table with my arms up while the machine swirled around me. No one noticed. I wasn’t even looking for them to notice and come console me. I don’t like that. But it was a sign to me that I definitely needed to say something and now was the time.
So when it was over, I sat up and stayed on the table for a moment.
I said to the team, “I just want to take a minute and tell you what this represents for me. Radiation has so far been really difficult for me. It represents another assault on my body in what has been a year of one after another. I feel incredibly vulnerable when I have to lay like this and I think it’s important for you to know that. Yesterday was incredibly challenging too. Getting all marked up like that made me feel like a piece of meat. I understand that that’s the process, but it feels incredibly dehumanizing. It just felt important for me to say that too.”
To their credit, they listened and told me that they want to hear that feedback. They also asked me to let them know if there was anything they could do to make me feel more comfortable. I told them I would. One of them said she wished she could give me a hug.
I’m glad I said what I did. It’s something before I might have thought about but probably never actually followed through with. I’ve learned that advocating for yourself isn’t always about treatment plans, though that can be a part of it. It can also be quieting that voice that says that says “You’re probably overreacting” and amplifying the voice that says, “It doesn’t matter. Your feelings matter and you deserve to have agency and your humanity acknowledged throughout this process.”
So, I’m off to radiation again. 32 more to go. Maybe by the end of the week, I’ll be able to get through one without crying. One can hope.