Thursday evening

Zap #5, 6, 7 and 8 down - 17 zaps to go.

Catch up time, I guess. So far at least - the main side effect of radiation (and likely cumulatively of the chemo before it) is that I continue to be very tired, often falling asleep between 8:00 and 9:00. I continue to get up pretty early, between 5:30 and 6:00, so I guess it's not that dramatic a change from my normal level of tiredness.

Radiation is mostly a non-event. The 3 main techs who perform it are very sweet, very young, and hopefully very competent. The radiation itself takes perhaps 6-7 minutes. Yesterday in addition to the radiation, they did some x-rays, the point of which is to check and confirm the positioning of the lines that guide them in where they are zapping me. (Which reminds me - I was talking to my friend J at work the other day. She also had breast cancer, a mastectomy but didn't need chemo or radiation. She was talking about putting a temporary tattoo on her breast before she goes back for her next doctor's appointment to see the effect on her doctor. I thought I might consider the same thing - a nice temporary tattoo across my abdomen where they zap me every day. I can imagine the Gang of Three's shock and awe when I lie on the radiation gurney, roll down my pants and there's a big "tattoo" of Che Guevara or something! It's a thought.) I also met with Nurse S one day, I forget which day, and with Dr. VR, another day. Since I had no exciting new side effects to complain of, the meetings were pro forma and short.

Perhaps the most interesting part of radiation has actually been meeting some other women also undergoing radiation. There are 2 women that come every day for appointments that follow mine. One is a woman in her late 30's or 40's, L. Interestingly she works for a pharmaceutical company doing research into oncology drugs. She had breast cancer, stage 0 (STAGE 0!!!), but they are doing radiation prophylactically. The other woman is older, perhaps early to mid 60's. M. She also had some very early form of breast cancer - I don't even think it was staged - but because her mother had it and her sister currently has a recurrence of an aggressive form of it, they also are treating her prophylactically. Neither L nor M had to have chemo.

Hearing their stories was sort of sobering for me. I guess upstairs on the second floor - that's where they do the chemo - everyone up there has some form of cancer or some cancer at some stage that requires chemotherapy - which means, treating the entire body to rid it of cancer cells, which if you think of it, by definition is more sobering than radiation which is targeted treatment to deal with a specific part of the body. Upstairs among the chemo patients, I felt lucky - so many people there for their second or third round of chemo to deal with reoccurring cancers. On the first floor, among the radiation patients I've met so far, it's they rather than I who seem lucky.

And yet I don't exactly feel depressed or demoralized by this. I still feel basically positive. I've heard that often depression and fears set in AFTER treatment is concluded. I can see that. It's almost as if you feel a kind of inviolability while you are going through treatment, like you are in a weird protective cocoon created by the chemo/radiation - the really really bad stuff (pain from the disease itself--versus pain from the treatment, death, etc.) can't get you while you're in treatment, right? But then when the treatment stops, you start thinking: What now? What if it comes back? How will I know if it comes back? What if it comes back worse? and so on. It's a demonstration of the truth in the old adage that the devil you know always seems preferable to the one you don't.

Meanwhile I struggle with anger and depression about the unbelievable delays in getting assistance - water (WATER!), food, basic medical care, shelter - to people in Haiti. Basically all the political news - results of the MA election, Supreme Court overturning campaign finance laws, etc. etc. - depresses and angers me. My sweet daughter-in-law's father passed away - may he rest in peace - and she and my grandson are on their way to Honduras. Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning. One rope I reach out for is my walks with Jessie. I hope to get to the park Saturday and Sunday this week. I'm starting to read (and hopefully remember) a little about freshwater ecology (who knew fresh water is heaviest at 39.2 degrees Fahrenheit? Not me.)

Thanks to all who have called to check on me, sent cards and emails to make sure I'm okay. It's largely because of your support that I am. It's amazing to me. And I am okay.

Peace.