Like a Pork Belly Roast, Cook Me Until Done

Just when you think the worst is over, when hair is slowly returning, (eyebrows must be plucked again)...nooooo...the doctor says the tumor has shrunk but not enough to make him happy. There could be cancer at a molecular level at the site. It's a precautionary measure that follows. Radiation.

At first my new doctor, a nuclear oncologist, said I'm to undergo 30 zappings, but now he's reduced treatments to 25 after he ordered yet another CT scan. So I have a new regimen added to my daily routine: radiation everyday for the next five weeks, weekends off.

Two treatments down, 23 to go. Or so I hope it is not pushed back up to 30.

Close to my spine near my kidneys is where the swollen lymph nodes reside. That is where the radiation beams are directed. The radiation technician (who happens to be my neighbor, Brian...small world) gave me my first ever tattoos, one on either side at the waist. These little black dots are guides, along with my belly button, for taking proper aim.

Getting those specks hurt, like getting a dull needle poked through me. I can't imagine having a rose or butterfly or "I Love Mom" inked into my flesh. At least these blend in along with my natural moles and beauty marks; imposters, barely noticeable but forever engraved reminders of this ordeal.

I am directed to a large room at the cancer clinic. It is mostly empty space, except for the monster machine in the center and the uninviting slab of a bed underneath. I lie down on the hard bed, arms overhead in tray-like vices. I'm told to expose my abdomen, from the lower rib cage to a few inches below the navel. I comply. I want to be the best patient ever, and have those plutonium beams hitting the right places. The doctor had said that they will avoid the kidneys that would, (his word) "die" if radiated. Instead the beams are forced through other healthy organs, the lower stomach and the intestines, to get to the bad guys.

This may result, I was warned, in side effects including nausea, vomiting, diarrhea and fatigue. No overall hair loss as with chemo, but I may get a sunburn on my back and belly, where the beams strike. I'm told to premedicate with anti-nausea pills. I'm told to take over-the-counter anti-diarrhea medication if that side effect gets me. I'm told to give up sit-ups or crunches over the course of the treatment, but otherwise exercise as I feel up to it. And sleep if I'm tired.

Lying on the slab, Brian tells me to stay still, breath normal, and relax. “Relax, just relax,” he says too many times. Then I'm left alone in the dimly lit big room, just me and the monster machine that moves above and below me. It makes buzzing noises. Its arms have windows that open and close. It points a red line of light on me and presumably zaps me. I feel nothing except like I'm in a science fiction movie, trapped on the alien mother ship. Or maybe I'm in a James Bond film, and Dr. No has me strapped to a laser-cutting machine, torturing me for the pure evil of it.

And then it's over. The End has popped onto the screen as Brian returns to the room, tells me I can get up after he lowers the hard bed closer to the floor. It's fast, maybe five or ten minutes and I'm done till next time.

More tests like CT and Pet scans and blood drawings are in my future; and 23 more dates with my neighbor in a most unlikely place. I'll never look at Brian the same way now if I see him mowing his lawn or putting up or taking down his outdoor Christmas decorations, or if I bump into him if we happen to retrieve mail from our joined mailboxes at the same time. He's not just a neighbor anymore who teasingly flirts and always has a smile for me. He's part of this alien life I've been living the past seven months. And he's now part of the team of men and women who've come into play for saving my life.