I was undergoing my fourth radiation treatment. I was sitting across from my friend Rachel’s husband, Rob. he had a paperback dog-eared book John Cheever’s story. Rob was my driver that day.
When we first arrived at the medical center, Rob found a seat in the waiting room and I went to the changing room. I carefully undressed, peeled a rectangle of gauze from my chest, and put on a white gown. Maine Med’s radiation oncology department was located on the basement floor, and the cold air felt uncomfortable against my bare hands. But the pain took on an unexpected psychological dimension. Feeling the pain meant I was still here to feel it.
After that, I took a picture with a smile in the dressing room. Since I started treatment, I have been taking one bottle before each session to break up the week. As usual, I sent the photos to my husband Dan and my friend Rachel. i was here. This happened. I then left the dressing room and joined Rob in the blue chair.
It was Rachel who came up with my plan for the Radiation Buddy System two weeks ago. As I sat in my car after going for my final CT scan before treatment, I felt my courage slip away from me. The loneliness of cancer is existential. You are the only one who enters a strange room full of buzzing machines. You wake up in the middle of the night alone and think: I have breast cancer. life will never be the same. I called Rachel from the parking lot and said, “I wasn’t sure I had the courage to drive to the radiation myself.” She paused for a moment, then replied, “I’ll think about it.”
Within days, she did. Rachel gathered four female friends and three of their husbands to create a schedule for my radiation driver. Everyone was happy to register. Rachel’s work schedule doesn’t allow for me to drive myself, so she acted as the coordinator and emailed me the plans the night before each appointment. Tomorrow’s driver will be Mary. She is scheduled to arrive at 9:15 a.m.
On Monday, the fourth day of treatment, the skin on my chest was already starting to tingle. Rob was sitting across from me and I asked him about the book he was reading. He told me about finding the paperback at a swap shop in a local dump. I told him I loved Cheever’s stories, especially “The Swimmer.” After the session, Rob drove me home and I felt lighter when I got out of the car.
When you are preparing for radiation therapy, your doctor will likely tell you that you can drive yourself. It’s simple. It only takes 20 minutes. But it’s not easy. It never only takes 20 minutes. Maybe I could have managed the actual mechanics of driving, but I know it was the driving from friends that got me through treatment.
When my friend Nora took me to my appointment, she came into the exam room and asked me a question. On Ria’s day, we first have breakfast at my house. Dutch baby with raspberries. Emma cried with me when we saw a boy the same age as my second son arrive at the radiation center for treatment. Mary appeared from the garden on the day of the drive with a bouquet of flowers. Surrounded by long-time friends, chatting like we have for years, I was able to see cancer as just one part of my larger life.
On my last day of radiation treatment in mid-July, my husband, Dan, brought donuts to the radiation treatment team at Med, Maine. At the end of my session, I rang the cowbell to signal the end and everyone gathered around and applauded. When I got home, my eldest son was standing in the dining room holding a Lazy Daisy cake he had baked, and the candles were lit.
It’s been almost a year since that appointment, but I still remember it clearly. My breasts swelled to the size of watermelons. My nipples were bleeding and my areolas were peeling off. The instructions coming from the speakers reminded me to hold my breath and stay still.
But I can’t remember the pain anymore. I can I can still feel my friend Jess’s foot brushing against mine on the sofa in the waiting room. A feeling of relief spread through me as I walked out of the treatment room and found Emma, Rob, and Dan waiting for me. More than anything, I feel a deep sense of fulfillment. Over the course of five weeks on the road, with conversations about books, teens, and what’s best for Dutch babies, I learned what it felt like to be truly cared for. I realized that love comes in many forms: flowers, cake, spreadsheet schedules.
Sometimes it was as simple as a friend holding a paperback in the waiting room and trying to talk about it all the way home.
Caitlin Shetterly I’m a journalist, editor, and writer. her new novel, lion baypublished in May. She lives in Maine with her husband and two sons.
PS “9 Life Lessons I Learned After Cancer Diagnosis”, What does it mean to think of cancer as a battle?
(Photo by: Angela Rober/Stocksy)
Source: Cup of Jo – cupofjo.com
