Radiating perspective

"...[W]hen I look up in the universe, I know I'm small but I'm also big. I'm big because I'm connected to the universe, and the universe is connected to me." - Neil deGrasse Tyson

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens ... a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance" - Ecclesiastes 3:1 and 4

You all have been very patient with me, sending non-intrusive thoughts, cards, gifts, and prayers in recent weeks. For that, I thank you. I dropped some scary news and raw emotions on you over a month ago, and then, "poof"... I disappeared.

I am sorry about my radio silence on the blog. I needed some space and time - not from you, but from the depth of despair I was feeling. The post-surgery pathology information was difficult to process. I cried a lot for a few days. I talked to my family and to Sean. But, mostly, I talked to God and sought peace in the uncertainty of my new reality.

Here's what I now know... everything's gonna be alright.

With my #1 supporter and love of my life in Yellowstone

No, I don't have different results to share. And, no, my treatment plan hasn't changed. I still have no way of knowing where cancer could be lurking in my body or reassurance that radiation and more chemo will kill it. What I have now is perspective.

Two days after receiving the pathology reports, Sean and I piled ourselves, some clothes, and a massive amount of camera equipment into our truck and took off for Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks. We'd planned the trip for prior to my surgery, but Lizzie got sick and we had to reschedule. The getaway's new timing, although not what we'd expected and even then slightly delayed due to heavy snow along the route, was perfect.

If you've ever been to the northwest corner of Wyoming, you know how it can take your breath away. There's a vast sky above, and lush rolling hills below; geothermal features bubble and steam while grizzlies, bison, wolves, and other amazing creatures dance in the circle of natural life. The wonders of our world converge (and are, thankfully, protected by our National Park Service) - mountains meet lakes and rivers, boiling pools meet rock, and predators meet prey.

Surrounded by the seemingly endless beauty around me, I took comfort in knowing that my life is part of a much bigger picture. My troubles, this cancer, and my uncertainty are important. But, they can't consume me, lest I miss the forest for the trees. With our senses heightened and emotions close to the surface, Sean and I had important conversations, bonded more deeply, and began plotting our next steps.

With the many gifts and blessings we have, coupled with the love you've poured onto us, we are taking this one day at a time. We are living each day better because of cancer.

After our vacation and coming to terms with our new normal, I met with my radiation oncologist, an integrative medicine doctor at the cancer center, a social worker, and an acupuncturist. My lifestyle is changing, as I eliminate additional toxins from my diet (e.g., sugar, soy protein isolate) and seek to incorporate more relaxation techniques (e.g., daily prayer, meditation, and acupuncture). And, in the past two weeks, I've established my new five-days-per-week routine of radiation treatments.

Radiation is NOTHING like chemotherapy. There are side effects, yes, and those will accumulate as I go through the 6 weeks of treatments. I'll have skin changes on the areas being treated and fatigue will slow me down a bit. So far, however, this is more of an inconvenient treatment than anything else.

For my radiation appointments, I go to a different suite in the same cancer center I've come to know and love. I have a card with a bar code that I scan upon arrival, and then I proceed to a dressing room, where I doff my top, bra, and wig and don a half-gown. I toss my personal items and clothing in a locker and head to a private waiting area with other folks awaiting their times on the radiation table.

As I wait, I have to admit that I'm often struck by the diversity of people around me who are also battling cancer. Women, men, young, old, wealthy, poor, parents, spouses, siblings... cancer doesn't discriminate. And, it's increasingly clear that it can happen to anyone at any time. I sometimes wonder how everyone there manages it - my radiation treatments will cost around $15,000 over six weeks (I'm very thankful for our insurance!).

My radiation machine has an additional arm and grip above
my head, but otherwise looks much like this rendering

When the therapist retrieves me, we walk down a hallway to the radiation machine room. In there, after confirming my birthdate and the areas being treated, I climb onto a table, am provided a warm blanket, and remove the half gown. Typically, there are two therapists in the room and, after I'm settled in with my hands gripping a bar above my head, they make sure I'm aligned properly on the table. [That part's possible because on my first visit the therapist took pictures and gave me four tiny dot tattoos - yep, they're permanent - that correlate with the lasers used each day to get me in the right place for the treatment.]

Once I'm in place on the table, the therapists align the table with the machine and leave the room. By this point, I'm 4+ feet off the ground and above me is an arm of the machine. I'm essentially looking at a window into the machine, and I can see parts moving behind the glass to aim the radiation in the right places. Then, I lay there for 10 minutes while that arm and a second one that appears move around me. Usually I close my eyes for the treatment and just relax. I don't feel anything during the whole process - no pain, no heat, nothing. The appointment ends as quickly as it began, and I'm back in a dressing room before heading out the door.

In those quiet moments when the machine is humming and moving around me in its programmed pattern, I'm often reflective. I mentally express my gratitude for the people who are treating me (delightful, caring folks!), for my immediate and extended family (many of whom I was able to spend time with recently), my dear friends who are with me at each step in person or in spirit, the once-strangers-now-friends we meet at every turn who are company on our journeys, my strong husband whose love sustains me, and the world around me that awes me everyday.

It's funny how a machine targeted at killing cells is a such peaceful place where I'm awakened. The daily drill provides a certainty, and I've come to cherish the meditative moments alone with the whirring machine.

Come what may, it's all going to be okay.