March already and I can’t believe it — that time has sped by and STILL I‘m undergoing treatment. Sigh.
Madame Spring has taken center stage out here. The cherry trees are beginning to bloom. The hummingbirds have disappeared, but, o lordy, the frogs are a-singin’ — so loud, I can hear them in the house with the doors and windows closed. Such little critters. Such BIG voices.
No Popsicle report this week, but here’s the Zap Count: 28 down, FIVE — only FIVE — to go.
And boy am I glad. At this point, the whole left side of my chest is red and itchy. The underarm is seriously irritated and that irritation now encompasses the back of my left shoulder, which also displays little red dots that indicate (as the nurse described it) inflamed hair follicles. I’m on my second tube of hydrocortisone cream and aloe vera as well. The radiation visits have gone like clockwork, everything is progressing well, but this isn’t like any picnic I’ve ever been to. And there aren’t any pieces of cake either. I’ve developed a sensitivity to any whining motor noise reminiscent of the sound of the linac, which unfortunately includes the sound of the automatic hatch closing on the back of my car. To that, add the still achy hips and legs (shoulders now too), and the continuing flares of induced menopause, without my usual exercise to mitigate things (the skin and other troubles prohibiting much concentrated activity), and I am (in case you hadn’t noticed) a mite irritated.
Last week, the technicians and Dr. W began to prepare me for the change in the treatment plan. Today, blessedly, was the last of my baking on the large scale. Tomorrow starts the “boost.” For this, I’ll switch to a different room, a different machine, turning left instead of right after the hallway from the fish room. The new machine will douse the scar left from surgery with electrons rather than the photons I’ve been targeted with till now. To lay the plan for the boost, Dr. W drew more magic with her black marker at last week’s visit. I now have two concentric shapes outlining the scar on the top of my left breast. The outer one is a large oval; the inner shape reminds me of Nebraska. So now you can picture it — a lobster-red background outlined by tattoo dots on which lie two heavy black outlines, a nipple, and a scar. A couple of bolts for the neck and Frankenstein lives again!
Yep. Irritated. That’s what I am.
After Dr. W finished drawing the geometric shapes on me, she told me to try not to disturb them with either washing or the ointments I’m applying to the skin. As she stumbled in her explanation of what to do, I completed her point. “So, you want me to color inside the lines, is that it?” She nodded and smiled.
The good thing is the hair. Despite what all my photographic play in earlier posts might indicate, the loss of hair was never about identity. On a woman, baldness — and the scarves and hats used to disguise it — becomes a beacon flashing out the message: “Here is a victim of the treatment for cancer. Have pity!”
Men can be bald without comment. Women can’t. “How brave!” the audience said when Melissa Etheridge performed bald at the Grammy awards show a few years back. But Michael Stipe of R.E.M., and Bruce Willis, well that’s just their style.
The only problem is that the hair issue isn’t consistent. Many people who undergo chemotherapy don’t lose their hair, and yet deserve the same concern as those who do. Existence can indeed be deceiving. Last week, I asked Dr. W if we should assume that my cancer is gone. She responded instantly, automatically, “Of course! We don’t see it anywhere.” Maybe not, but we all know that things exist even if you can’t see them. Though modern medicine doesn’t show any evidence, any of us who’ve gone through serious medical treatment know that, no matter how modern, there’s much medicine can’t do. Still, I’ve done all I can to wipe out the disease, and so it’s now a matter of my mental choice. I can go down the path of worry and anxiety, wondering if the cancer will return. (Many people report feeling betrayed by their body when they get their diagnosis. I don’t think my body betrayed me, but instead was overwhelmed by the errant growth of its own cells.) Or I can choose the more uplifting path reflected in the tone of Dr. W’s response. And so, I’m putting my heart in the trail of her words. Can I assume it’s really gone? “Absolutely!” she says.
And just to help keep it away, I decided to go down that spiritual path to the crystal shop in town, the dark, dusty one next to the mailbox shop on State Street. I was curious to see if the information I’d read in the book could play out in reality. The shop looks to have been around a long time. Dream catchers hanging in the window. Long glass cases packed full of trays with different types and colors of rocks. The man behind the counter, weathered by many years, wore a blue flannel shirt, his grey ponytail cascading down the back. He was quietly reading when I came in, but didn’t speak till I greeted him. The first day I simply asked questions, trying to ferret out his attitude and decide if these rocks were for real. He seemed authoritative, answering what questions he could and referring to his collection of reference books when he wasn’t sure of something. He wasn’t weird or pushy, and so the next day I brought back my book on crystals and showed it to him, asking which ones would work for me, to dispel negativity and to help me heal from breast cancer. He reviewed my book, consulted his own, and then finally called his wife who, he said, knew more than he did. She told me that any of the black rocks would do for dispelling negativity — hematite, laboradite, onyx — and THE crystal for women, even those who don’t have breast cancer, is rose quartz — for balance, for healing. Wouldn’t you know, it’s the pink rock.
If you’re interested in tracking down some rocks of your own, take a look here: http://crystal-cure.com/gemstone-meanings.html
Who knows. One might be just right for you.