"It just means you've got blue eyes and you've been in the sun." Dr. B told me.
I was back in the dermatologist's office to have the little spot on my arm treated with liquid nitrogen. She had done a biopsy a few weeks ago and it was diagnosed as actinic keratosis, a precancerous lesion, which can develop into squamous cell cancer -- the type of cancer I had in my breast. So taking no chances sounded like a good idea to me. A little freeze and in 3 minutes I was out the door.
Quite a contrast with the other appointment I had last week. Mapping for radiation. And just like that the celebration of being "finished with chemo" came to a very abrupt halt.
Like everything since my diagnosis, nothing went the way I imagined. "You'll lie on a table," they said. Lying down? That sounds comfortable, I thought. "We'll make a mold of your body for precise positioning," they told me. I imagined being cradled in memory foam. "We'll give you some tiny tattoos," they said. Tattoos are fun, I thought. Sometimes I really live up to my name: Polly Anna.
I laid on the table with both arms over my head. exposed from the waist up with two techs hovering over me and Dr. M measuring and drawing on me with a purple marker. (Not permanent marker, though... later it bled onto my very expensive mastectomy bra.) The techs were chatting away, presumably to make me feel more comfortable. Instead it reminded me of being on a topless beach -- avoiding eye contact at all costs. (Oh, come on, I was young and on vacation with a girlfriend who was a much less self-conscious than me. And now I can cross that off the list.)
When Dr. M was finished drawing all over me, and the mold was made (not fluffy -- hard plastic), they fired up the CT scanner. By this time my arms were aching and my hands were asleep. I kept trying to relax but found myself holding my breath. In between prayers I kept telling myself this is nothing, quit your whining, be a grownup. I thought of Jesus on the cross, reminding myself that suffering happens. And in the Big Scheme, this is just being uncomfortable for a little while, not really "suffering."
Then the tattooing began. Here's another shocker for you: I have a tattoo. So I thought I was prepared for these tiny freckles she was about to give me. Turns out it's been long enough ago that I had forgotten what it felt like. News flash: I'll not be getting any more tattoos, at least not voluntarily.
Then there were some instructions, some papers. I was shown back to the dressing room and got myself put back together. Start to finish it was probably an hour. And I was all set. I'll be going in every day, Monday through Friday, for 28 treatments. So, I thought, except for being an inconvenience, it won't be that bad. Another Polly Anna moment.
I was not expecting the Big Emotions that were about to hit me. I stood frozen in the hall outside the office. What just happened? That was a busy, frantic hour, but what just happened really? Then it hit me. I'm still in cancer treatment. This is no less cancer treatment than chemo was. It's not over.
And it won't be over for another 6 weeks.
I go in on Monday for one last dry run and some X-rays, and then treatment begins on Tuesday. Compared to the sacred-few-hours that was chemotherapy, this will feel like a rush job -- about 30 minutes in and out. But I'm praying that I'll find some moments and some people during this part of my treatment that will bring me closer to God.
Will you pray for me? I will be praying for you.
Quite a contrast with the other appointment I had last week. Mapping for radiation. And just like that the celebration of being "finished with chemo" came to a very abrupt halt.
Like everything since my diagnosis, nothing went the way I imagined. "You'll lie on a table," they said. Lying down? That sounds comfortable, I thought. "We'll make a mold of your body for precise positioning," they told me. I imagined being cradled in memory foam. "We'll give you some tiny tattoos," they said. Tattoos are fun, I thought. Sometimes I really live up to my name: Polly Anna.
I laid on the table with both arms over my head. exposed from the waist up with two techs hovering over me and Dr. M measuring and drawing on me with a purple marker. (Not permanent marker, though... later it bled onto my very expensive mastectomy bra.) The techs were chatting away, presumably to make me feel more comfortable. Instead it reminded me of being on a topless beach -- avoiding eye contact at all costs. (Oh, come on, I was young and on vacation with a girlfriend who was a much less self-conscious than me. And now I can cross that off the list.)
When Dr. M was finished drawing all over me, and the mold was made (not fluffy -- hard plastic), they fired up the CT scanner. By this time my arms were aching and my hands were asleep. I kept trying to relax but found myself holding my breath. In between prayers I kept telling myself this is nothing, quit your whining, be a grownup. I thought of Jesus on the cross, reminding myself that suffering happens. And in the Big Scheme, this is just being uncomfortable for a little while, not really "suffering."
Then the tattooing began. Here's another shocker for you: I have a tattoo. So I thought I was prepared for these tiny freckles she was about to give me. Turns out it's been long enough ago that I had forgotten what it felt like. News flash: I'll not be getting any more tattoos, at least not voluntarily.
Then there were some instructions, some papers. I was shown back to the dressing room and got myself put back together. Start to finish it was probably an hour. And I was all set. I'll be going in every day, Monday through Friday, for 28 treatments. So, I thought, except for being an inconvenience, it won't be that bad. Another Polly Anna moment.
I was not expecting the Big Emotions that were about to hit me. I stood frozen in the hall outside the office. What just happened? That was a busy, frantic hour, but what just happened really? Then it hit me. I'm still in cancer treatment. This is no less cancer treatment than chemo was. It's not over.
And it won't be over for another 6 weeks.
I go in on Monday for one last dry run and some X-rays, and then treatment begins on Tuesday. Compared to the sacred-few-hours that was chemotherapy, this will feel like a rush job -- about 30 minutes in and out. But I'm praying that I'll find some moments and some people during this part of my treatment that will bring me closer to God.
Will you pray for me? I will be praying for you.
Oh, Polly, I'll be praying. Your bravery is inspiring.
ReplyDeleteI will most definitely be praying for you! I know whole-heartedly that you will find something positive out of this experience and I look forward to reading about it! Love, hugs, and prayers coming your way! ❤
ReplyDeleteHaven't stopped praying. Remember when we had a conversation about God picking our sacrifices for us. Well I don't think you have to give up anything else for lent. Sorry Polly. Stay brave.
ReplyDeleteYou will be in my prayers. Radiation treatments can be emotional. It is still cancer treatment. But my hair started growing back during those treatments and it was the first hope for getting my life back. Plan something enjoyable to do after treatment everyday. Nothing too strenuous. You are still in cancer treatment. I went to lunch everyday and let myself have my favorite meal on the menu. Or I just went to Wendy's and had a Frosty. I got a pedicure. I had a Subway sandwich on the park bench where I could watch the ducks swimming in the pond. Just something everyday to reward yourself for showing up for treatment.
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