Life in the radiation clinic
The names have been changed to protect the truly nice
Two things are true: I can’t be Chuck Yeager. And I still have cancer. I was diagnosed with aggressive prostate cancer in 2014. When I checked in at the hospital they said, “Stick out your right hand,” and slapped the patient “handcuff” on my wrist. I told my wife, “I’m officially in the system now.” So I had the surgery, was told that the cancer had not spread, and went home damaged but secure in the knowledge that I was probably cured. Except I wasn’t.
My PSA readings went almost to zero. Almost. And have steadily risen ever since. So the surgeon told me late last year that “radiation might help.” Might.
And that led me to the radiation clinic. The doc explained to my wife and me the whys and wherefores of the treatments, and the many possible side effects. And then she said, “It will be five days a week. For 37 treatments.” Thirty-seven treatments, you’re kidding?! (Not 35 or 40?)
I asked if that would get rid of the cancer. “It might. If the remaining cancer is where the prostate used to be, we have a good chance, but if the cancer is somewhere else, then no.”
She sent me for another round of CT and bone scans and the cancer could not be detected anywhere else, so I signed up for the 37. Back in the system.
You get scheduled for the same time every day. I hit the patient holding pen the first day, and, this being ultra-friendly Pittsburgh, they immediately asked me why I was there and how many treatments I needed … a big thing among us cancer folk. One had 12, one had 20, I had 37, one had 41, and the winner had 43.
Like me, Millie had had surgery, but the cancer returned. Her kids are out of the house, and her hubby brings her every day. Nice lady.
Pam is alone, and because life loves to cream you when you’re vulnerable, the original cancer has spread to her brain. Damn.
Sam came late to our party and was told that 43 doses of radiation, radioactive seeds and hormone therapy might fix him. I hope so. He came in with a cake one day. Said it was for the birthday of one the “angels” he knows who works in the radiation suite. Angels … I would agree with that.
The five angels who rotate through the week, and this includes one angelic guy, are the nicest, kindest, most supportive, gentlest medical providers that ever walked the earth. I told Wendy one time, “You guys are the greatest. I wish I could bottle your spirit and take it home.” She said, “We decided that, as long as we are on this side of the table, we will be as friendly and as kind as we can be.” They deal with cancer all day long but are always, every single time, wonderful.
Our little patient group is nice, too. We all have cancer, but no long faces. No depression. Which leads me to Chuck “The Right Stuff” Yeager ... and Pete.
When I read biographies of accomplished people, I always wonder if, in similar circumstances, I could handle the challenges. After reading Yeager’s I thought, “I can’t be him. He’s just too brave and tough.”
Well, I can’t be Pete, either. Nicest guy you ever met. Always friendly. Always in a good mood.
Pete somehow managed to get two different, independent primary-site cancers at the same time. He’s doing chemo for one and radiation for the other!
When I first met him we had some long talks. Told me he has a wife and a bunch of daughters. The talks quit when the radiation treatments for the mouth cancer made his throat and lips swollen and flame red. Made it very painful to speak. I told him, “Pete, I’ll talk, you don’t have to.”
I told him I was glad he had strong support from his family. Sons worry about their fathers. But daughters, of which I have one, ache for their dads. I can only imagine what Pete’s girls are going through.
I told Ol’ Pete, “You know, you make it very hard for the rest of us. How can we complain when you’re getting smoked and are always in a good mood?” He smiled.
I asked, “Pete, I know it’s hard for you to talk. Can you swallow?” He smiled and shook his head. Then he lifted his shirt and showed me a huge bandage over his stomach. “You’re getting tube fed?!” He nodded. Chemo, radiation, tube feeding, and he smiles all the time!
On Pete’s last day of radiation, I got there early to say goodbye. When they called for him, I got up and shook his hand. I patted his shoulder and told him he was a great inspiration to all of us. Told him we were praying for him. He leaned close, smiled, and gave me a hug.
I don’t know what will happen with Pete, and HIPAA laws prevent the staff from telling me. But when you hit your knees tonight, please send up a couple of prayers for Pete. A guy I could never be.