MY RADIATION VACATION Is knowledge power or is ignorance bliss? THE BOSOM BLOG Part 3

April 9, 2012  |  By Mari  |  Bosom Blog   

MY RADIATION VACATION
Is knowledge power, or is ignorance bliss?

“Look at the money we saved by not going to Malibu this winter,” I said, trying to reframe the picture of doom our life had painted these last ten months.
“Yes, and it all went into your right breast,” was Robert’s rejoinder.
“Well spotted,” I agreed.“Fuck positivity. Back into the Bag. But wait, the time has come to emerge from The Ostrich Bag. At least that had been my intention on this spring day when the sun was blessing us with a rare appearance. So here I am, back at the keyboard again.
My unresolved question remains unanswered: is knowledge power or is ignorance bliss? Recovery, or should I say maintenance during cancer treatment, lies somewhere in between these two useful strategies.
Balance isn’t straightforward. It is up and down and sideways. In crises, life is tipped on its tail. Survival demands that we let go absolutely and then float to the level required at any given moment of any unpredictable and dire debacle. Same goes with utter joy. Exhalation needs to be tempered, too, or it can quickly turn into a greedy, selfish monster.
I am learning to duck in the bag when I feel the demons have got me by the nipple and reemerge when I think I can cope — or don’t have a choice.
For the last five weeks my job has been to appear at the radiation oncology clinic at Rogue Valley Medical Center and submit to the healing/murderous rays that are allegedly supposed to reduce my risk of succumbing to the invisible cancer cells bent on multiplying and reclaiming territory in my body. After all, this is war, or at least a covert operation.
Here’s my daily drill: I arrive at 10:30 for a 10:45 standing appointment  (I’m always early)  dressed in trousers and a very soft tee shirt.  I check in at the front desk and then head for the changing room. I undress from the waist up and stack my clothing in a locker (that doesn’t have a lock). I don one of those elegant tie-in-the-back gowns (but don’t bother to tie it), then I sit and wait until someone fetches me. It took awhile to become accustomed to the routine, but soon I was joking with the therapists, pally with the receptionists and discussing life with the cancer patient scheduled before me. I was determined to spread cheer and tried to stir it up a little bit. After all who wants to be dull? Being just another number on the medical merry-go-round was not an option. And besides that, people are what matter in this life (well and dogs, cats, horses, too). All the rest is just stuff.
The good news is that I have a great radiation team. My doctor is terrific: amiable, patient, a great explainer and has a sterling sense of humor. He has a passion for his work and a rare humility. He has inspired the cartoons you see posted here. Prior to the debut of radiation, he and the radiation therapists conferred and created a blueprint tailored for the assault on my particular brand of cancer cells. These weapons of healing are computerized, and once the coordinates are deemed kosher, I am required to lie supine on an uncomfortable metal table in a cold room, right breast exposed, arms submissively raised above my head and resting in tunnels. I hold very still. I breathe shallow breaths — challenging for a seasoned yogi. I lie there passively as they arrange my trunk and lower limbs.
It reminds me of a far distant day when I was a photographer’s model and I would be posed leaning seductively against a vintage Jaguar or well trained horse (both black) while the photographer and her assistants positioned my hands and fingers, tilted my chin, pushed a stray curl aside, powdered my shiny forehead and adjusted the hem of my dress. I was gorgeous and young and full of dreams.
“Act like a sack of sugar,” my one therapist says, interrupting my reverie. (He looks like John Goodman and has the same offhanded demeanor.)
“Not sugar,” I announce. “Monkeys. A sack of monkeys.”
A discussion ensues, and we agree that the energy of monkeys in a sack is not quite the effect we were looking for, so I report that these monkeys are sated with overripe fruit and in a contented stupor. That satisfies everyone. So, I lie there, like a sated, sack of monkeys, hoping no stray rays of radiation find their way to my heart or lungs. I repeat the Gayatri Mantra while the machine buzzes and my arms and fingers tingle and threaten to fall asleep. I always close my eyes. I fear for my eyes, even though they are not in the chosen line of focus.
This team is composed of four therapists, two women, two men. They are friendly, compassionate and funny — thank Dog. They have families, children of varying ages, hobbies and lives fraught with joys and sorrows.
It is important to avoid the vortex of tunnel vision. Life goes on in spite of my cancer, and I want to participate and remember the big picture.
I am inquisitive and interested in people. During the procedure, after the coordinates are aligned, spoken aloud and confirmed (just like a rocket launch), I chat them all up, one therapist at a time.
We discuss J’s sick baby with her stubborn ear infection, E’s love of riding Harley Davidsons, V’s tattoos from the Vietnam War days, house shopping after a divorce, other J’s  aged and beloved dog who doesn’t get around much anymore. And then V and I take a stroll down memory lane, and animatedly talk about the good old days in our native Hollywood: the Brown Derby, the Farmers’ Market, CC Browns — the best caramel sundae in the world. It was a family run business, and the waitresses and waiters were sisters and brothers adorned in black pinafores with white lace aprons, or black trousers and white shirts with narrow black ties.
As I lay there like a sated, intoxicated monkey getting toasted, I could taste the crunchy almonds and real whipped cream, all those hot and cold flavors mingling in my mouth. The tantalizing textures of crisp nuts, hot sticky caramel and cold vanilla ice cream just soft enough to yield to the spoon without any resistance at all.
Every aspect of the cancer experience is surreal. You know there is no real anything. It is all perception and shifting sands. You feel swallowed up in one continent and emerge in another without a clue. In one moment you are composing your obit, in the next debating what to cook for dinner, or angsting over the stupid driver in front of you.
So, here I was willing myself to relax and to yield to the killing rays for the greater good of my body, or so I hoped.
Several therapists had suggested I visualize the rays as healing golden or peach-colored light. I wasn’t able to master this. I’m not inclined to impose my will on anything. I prefer to steer, and let some more powerful and mysterious source provide the fuel. Instead, I turn to the Gayatri Mantra, my trusted friend. I soften my body and try not flinch while the radiation beams bombard the invisible foe. Even the doctors agree that, “It is a shot in the dark, a well documented one but…”
Above me, protruding from a cutout rectangle in the ceiling, rests a toy pink fish. Red laser beams dance beside her. What a delight and relief to discover this oddity. Apparently I wasn’t the only playful one who believed that nonsense was healing and silliness liberating. They referred to her as the radiation fish. I named her Delphinium — Fin for short. This gave me permission  (did I really need it?) to bring Belisha to my next appointment.
Belisha is a yellow teddy bear with an orange nose that squeaks. She is one of the characters in my new book.
During my treatment, she sat patiently on a wooden chair guarding my Gucci bag (a recent indulgence rationalized by the cancer diagnosis). I knew Belisha was cheering me on while I lay there like an inert bag of sated monkeys barely breathing. I was pretending no one was aiming killer rays of radiation at my tender breast and armpit ON PURPOSE.
Each day I brought treats: stuffed animals, drawings, good chocolate, books and cards. On arrival I unrolled a poster with my name and DOB printed in huge letters to break up the monotony and idiocy of being asked for this information everyday day for 24 days, Monday through Friday, moi and the same cast of characters. Rules are necessary, I concur, but common sense ought to have role in all this, doncha think?

I have learned that the system is not something to buck, even if you and the bronco are one. Battles need to be chosen wisely.
It is essential to be skillful at every turn and solution-oriented even at a time when I feel the least capable of doing so. There is not much healing left in the business of medicine, but in this one small enclave, I found kindness, caring and authenticity.

There are many disjointed components in the world of cancer. Each time I encounter a new doctor, specialist, therapist, interview situation, clinic, test, diagnosis, hospital room, it is like beginning all over again. It nearly breaks one’s spirit.
As I enter the new tiger’s cage, I aim to tame the beast, no matter what. If  I really believed in the efficacy of the human spirit and the oneness of humanity, I had to apply my principles, identify the person under the white jacket and connect to a heart that beats just like mine (well maybe not exactly. Theirs probably doesn’t click as the result of a mechanical valve).

The diplomacy required to skillfully negotiate the labyrinth of the medical bureaucracy makes peace in the middle east look like a piece of cake.
Back to the barracks: so there I am lying in the frigid room, on the very hard table adorned with one white sheet, taking the vibes of radiation — 25 seconds from one view, 25 seconds from another. After 16 treatments, they began the radiation boost. This meant that the beams were focusing on the tumor site instead of the whole breast and armpit. Now the two 25 second zaps were increased to four. For each location, the table shifted in a ghostly way as the equipment was repositioned. The periods of radiation were short, but by now I was feeling it and it hurt.
Once a week I met with the doctor and we checked my progress and the damage level. We also took time to talk about life and that meant a lot. It’s the people that count, Mari, always remember that.
Then the session ends for the day. The afterglow always feels awkward and anticlimactic. I thank everyone, try to pass a witty remark (it rarely is witty though), amble back to the changing area, immediately slather my burning bosom with various numbing and soothing ointments. I layer up and head out into the unreal world. Often Robert is waiting for me in the spacious reception area. It is designated as an amusement zone, complete with large stuffed bears (so ugly they are almost cute) a jigsaw puzzle spread out on a central table, magazines (no New Yorkers) and a place to get a cup of stale coffee.

As the weeks wore on, I wore out. The burning became insupportable. The fatigue set in. My indomitable spirit rallied, however. For this I am grateful and astonished.
I attribute it to my years of spiritual practice, my hero husband, my caring friends, an acute homeopathic remedy supplied by my doctor pal, good food and exercise and my personal brand of faith. Its proportions are one third humor, one third skepticism and one third love for the preciousness of life.
My moods were mercurial. One moment, I felt frisky and creative and playful, then suddenly I was as exhausted as Mumbles after running forty laps around the swimming pool on a hot afternoon, with a well-lathered tennis ball in his mouth, but sans the exhilaration. I would collapse on the nearest sofa and rest my back against a supportive surface. I felt too tired to hold myself upright. Then R would brew me on one of his killer pots of tea, and I would reemerge a new Mari.
The Muse dropped by from time to time, but she didn’t tarry. I drew and wrote in spurts. My attention span was just enough to watch Miss Marple on the BBC and doze. Books sat unread. Papers unedited. I did send lots of greeting cards. I drew cartoons inspired by my doctors and disease. I visited with a few old friends – the ones that didn’t eat energy but offered a reciprocity of spirit and love.
I wept in the garden, when the sky wasn’t weeping. The days brought snow, sleet, mesmerizing cloud formations. The rain plummeted, the frogs sang. I loved their serenades and would sit at the window peering into the reflection pond and trying to spot them. Daffodils and China lilies and hyacinths bravely poked their way up out of the earth. Sometimes, I even dared to hope.
I don’t cotton to the phrase, cancer survivor, I prefer, duel to the death. That is what it is. Not finite like a new hip or heart valve. They either work or they don’t, but cancer is sneaky, cunning, covert. The terrorist you can’t see. That tension you carry in your body that is so familiar you aren’t even aware of it until someone massages you, or you have a spontaneous moment of grace and surrender.
Like the unknown time of our impending death, be it hours, days or years away, cancer remains a silent partner. Like all my demons, fears, doubts and reluctance to plunge with complete abandon into this ocean of life, cancer taunts and threatens to spoil everything. BUT I don’t have to play that game.
I choose to scarf up each delicious moment or to savor it. I wander through the garden and wail for the suffering of all sentient beings and then bless a blade of grass. I look into Mumbles’ eyes and am overcome with lovingkindess. I choose love. I choose humor. I choose a hug  where we touch heart to heart and there is no holding back.
The holding back is the cancer’s breeding ground. I am planting other flowers, and these blooms aren’t destined for a grave. They are meant to adorn a wrist, a throat, be tossed carelessly on the lawn or living room carpet. I want petals everywhere I walk.
Right now I am in pain. My nipple is shedding. It is all quite ridiculous, real, yukky and okay, too. It’s what is. No judgment, no promises, just the next perfect moment not to waste. That must mean it’s time for tea.
On the whole, I survived radiation better than I had anticipated, but my discombobulation has been undeniable: I drop things, bump into walls, forget where I’m going, and I think that I sent a  birthday card twice to a friend — one week before her birthday.
People will forgive almost any foible when you have the cancer card up your sleeve.

AND I set my hair on fire the other day. I always light five candles on a silver candelabra before I climb up on the Chinese bed to meditate. I did manage to light the five candles but my hair joined in. I was quite surprised. I extinguished the flames without difficulty, but what a pong. Whew! I had to laugh because I practice mindfulness meditation and Metta — lovingkindness meditation.
A slew of expletives later, I finally settled down on the Chinese bed with Mumbles and offered myself poodles of compassion. It was a very enlightening meditation that night.

Here is a cartoon I drew a decade ago. It appears in my book, “The Buddha Smiles.” Was it prophetic or just pathetic? My dear friend Ann said, “Dear Girl this was supposed to be a metaphor.”
The upcoming attractions include a follow up visit to the oncologist and continued visits to the lymphedema therapist.  With this kind of cancer there is always a risk of swelling. I decided to do whatever I could to prevent having a right arm that looks like an elephant’s leg.
Both are women I like and respect. Unfortunately, when the oncologist called, the other dreaded C word was spoken: Chemotherapy. (Did you know that stands for chemical therapy?) The results of my Onco DX test indicated that chemo might be on the table. I thought this was not even a possibility in my case. I thought I didn’t have to worry about this. It even was on my grateful list.
“At least I don’t have to have chemo.” I would say to my friends.
After the initial shock, I decided not to let myself dwell. I would  befriend this new shadow for the next ten days until my doctor’s appointment on Tuesday week. I must not let my mind go there.
“No dwelling, Mari. No dwelling.” Every cell in me says, “No. I can’t do chemo. No. No more assaults. Yes I will take the estrogen blocking drugs. I don’t want to, but I will take them. But not chemo. I don’t see it.”

Her arguments will have to be irrefutable. Still, no more discussion now.

It is time to take a walk in the sun — bundled up, it’s still spring in Oregon. I’ll feed the Koi, I’ll pick some Daphne — blissfully fragrant, I’ll call a soul sister, and then I’ll wait for Robert to come home and brew me one of his revivifying cups of Royal Blend tea, with just a soupçon of whole milk.
“And you’ll throw the ball,” Mumbles woofs, ball in mouth, nose pressed against my right thigh. “There is no time BUT the present,” he wags, and I throw the ball and feel happy throughout the whole of my being.
I love you all for reading this and for having the courage to take the next breath in the name of love. Dog Bless.