Six years ago this month I was spending my mornings taking off my pants, putting on a hospital gown and lying beneath the beam of a radiation machine. 26 times I felt the technicians pull me into place. 26 times the beast of a machine spun around me and delivered it’s invisible radiation. There was every emotion in the world under that machine, fear, hope and even a bit of laughter as I’d tell the tech some minor joke.
I remember one thing the most – my shoes.
I had a pair of brown slip-on shoes. They were more like slippers, but made for the office and guys like me who hate to tie shoe laces. In the dressing room I’d take off my shirt, pants and underwear, but I’d get to keep on my tee-shirt, socks, and was told to put my shoes back on for the walk to the machine. Stripped of all dignity, save for my fancy office shoes and a plain hospital gown.
Just before I’d get on the table in the treatment room, I’d have to surrender my shoes. They sat on the floor next to the table, waiting for the treatment to end.
Technicians would push and pull my body until it lined up with the laser beams shooting out the walls and ceiling. Then with my gown pulled up, I lie half exposed to the world as the techs retreated to the control room and the noise of the machine drowned out the 80’s rock and roll music they thought I’d like.
5 minutes became 10 and then an entirety as my mind drifted to that place of no thought where I held my body rigid and my emotions at bay. Life seemed to just drain away as I looked up at the whirling machine and the clouds painted on the ceiling.
When the machine retreated and the music again fell in my ear I sensed a person next to me pulling my gown down to cover my nakedness. Gentle words were spoken and strong hands pulled me up to a sitting position.
“Let me do the work.”
“Take your time.”
Were the words I most remember before my eyes could shed the mist of the distant land where my mind had been. The first vision I most recall was of the floor,
and the shoes waiting to walk me home.
Till next time,
Andrew
Andrew, lovely writing. I stumbled upon your post while searching for information. My husband has chosen radiation treatment for his prostate cancer and starts his 28 days within the next few weeks. Thank you for the glimpse into the journey he’s about to take. Sending all good wishes for your continued good health.
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Sorry to hear he has to go through that. Most men tolerate that well and he should do fine. You should checkout the PC forum over at Healingwell: https://www.healingwell.com/community/default.aspx?f=35
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Lovely post, Andrew. My prayers for your good health.
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Thank you!
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I always like your posts and photos Andrew. My mother is having chemotherapy, she has lymphoma. She is 76 and had no health problems at all, and how did this happen ? God knows. Regards
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Thank you. Hope your mother does well with treatment.
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Your post brought back those same kind of memories for me. Radiation treatments almost 13 years ago and although I didn’t have as many as you did, it’s something you don’t forget. Mine were even more invasive because they were internal.
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Not something you ever forget.
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Andrew, I think we “met” through disease. I was writing my book, “En Garde: My Battle With Breast Cancer,” and we somehow saw each other’s blogs. I nam so glad and received to know that we both are doing well, and are still here to tell the story. Your writing keeps getting better and better!
Long may it reign.
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We did “met” that way. I am so happy to beyond that experience. I still think that writing about it has improved my writing.
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Wonderfully written. I have a lump in my throat, partly because your post was so expressive and partly because it brought back memories of sitting in chemo labs with loved ones. I’m glad you made it through.
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Thanks for your kind words. It’s not an experience I want to repeat and hopefully I won’t ever have to do it again.
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Beautifully written, Andrew, and I’m glad you got through it. This resonates a little with what we’re going through with our daughter…
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I had an easy time of it. It had it’s moments. Hope your daughter does well.
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I’m glad you can say it was easy, even though there were tough moments, too. And thanks regarding my daughter…
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Hospital staff are angels with invisible wings.
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They are that.
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We are so lucky to be living in a time that medical miracles and procedures can give us the time to recover and live our lives again. I know how you feel about being amazed 6 years have passed. I feel the same about the 10 years since my heart attack.
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Medical miracles are happening all the time these days. 10, 20 years ago it would have a very different journey.
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Strange the slices of experience we hold onto, and those we discard. Memory is a very odd thing indeed. It can be quite dangerous, I think. I’m glad you came through the cooking experience unscathed, Andrew.
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It is odd what we hold. I have no real idea why this memory because so strong in the last week. It just did and needed to be written down.
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It’s very hard to hold onto dignity at the hospital, but from the sounds of it you did well. Sounds like you had excellent technicians as well. Congratulations on the six year anniversary!
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It is. I was grateful for the techs and nursing staff, they did an amazing job. Even the docs were great. Hard to believe it’s been six years.
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Thanks, Andrew. I have a friend who is about to begin the same treatment that you describe. This post has given me a lot of insight of what he will be going thru. Hopefully I can be as empathetic as your attendants.
Ω
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Best thing you can do is to be flexible. He’ll have good days and bad days and may need to change plans at the last minute. Also never ask what he needs. Likely he won’t know, but do offer to help, “Would you like a ride?”, “A visit?”, “A meal?”, “Mow your lawn?”, something. Most times what we need is just someone to listen and agree, “Yeah, that sucks.” Hope he does well.
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Thank you, Andrew. Great advice.
Ω
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Hope all goes well for your friend.
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Me, too. Thanks, Andrew.
Ω
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Modern medicine, treatments and testing, although “cutting edge” is still either invasive or humiliating. How I sympathize with you as I recall 4 MRIs in 2 years. The DooWop music helped though. Your writing is phenomenal Andrew. Kudos.
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The radiation machine is a bit like and MRI, so you know exactly what happens. The only difference is that I got to do it 5 days a week for 5 weeks. So much fun!
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Yuk!
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exactly.
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So Andrew. Do you still have the shoes?
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Sadly, no. I wore them till they fell apart and I wore a hole in them.
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Frightening experience. If I’m ever there, I will remember your dignity and poise.
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It wasn’t fun. Dignity and poise aren’t the easiest to do without your pants.
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Thanks for sharing this Andrew. It brought me back to my husband’s experience. Congratulations on the 6 years!
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Thanks! Hope you are doing well.
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We are Andrew. Thanks for inquiring.
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Good to hear.
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The best post I’ve read on this blog. The one to beat it will be when you recount it has been 12 years. Best wishes. x
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Thanks for your kind words. I was a bit surprised to realize it had been six years.
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How well you describe such a painful memory.
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Thank you, it wasn’t the best time in my life.
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A friend of mine went through it, too, with all the indignity and pain.
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It’s not some you do for fun. Hope your friend is do well now.
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Very well, and cancer free
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Good to hear.
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Thank you for sharing this. Tomorrow I have my first meeting with my oncologist. As cancer has been discovered in some of my lymph nodes, six months of chemotherapy is in my near future. After that more surgery and after that radiotherapy. Your post is subtle and yet filled with so much unsaid. Sometimes the silence between our words has the most meaning. And sometimes it’s a quirky thought or image that keeps us grounded in the present, like a pair of shoes waiting. I haven’t found a way to write about my cancer diagnosis yet. However, reading the stories of others does help. I am reminded to breathe again.
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In writing there is power in silence and the trick is to use it well. I’ve read your blog and wish that everything goes well for you. It’s scary to stand at the beginning of this journey. It can be filled with statistics, probabilities, uncertainly and confusion. You learn as you go. The only way to write about it is to start by just writing the raw emotion, the fear, the concern, and all those. I wasn’t able to write about any part of it until the treatments started and I had some distance from the shock of diagnosis. The words come with time – be open to them when they arrive.
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Good description Andrew
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Thanks! Let’s hope that neither of us has to do anything like this again.
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That is really beautiful. Thank you for sharing something so close to your heart.
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Thank you. This is one of those things that’s been on my heart for a few days.
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I hope that I never have to walk in those shoes.
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You don’t want to take this walk – far nicer ones to take.
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A real indignity which is so worthwhile for the years gained. Years we’re all grateful for Andrew.
Hugs
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Exactly, what’s a little indignity when the result is six more years?
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Your text is gifted. An awesome message…..thank you!
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Thanks for you kind words.
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There are feelings you share that can only be felt by the person who is living the experience the way you did. I pray six years become sixty. Thank you for sharing Andrew. God bless.
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I have to say I was a little shocked when I counted the years, couldn’t believe it was that many at first.
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I guess it’s slow when you’re going through it and fast when you look back.
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There is a time warp that happens.
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Andrew…Just know that your right wing friend in N.C. still prays for your continued good health🙏
Another great post.
Ron
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Thanks Ron. Always good to get prayers – no matter the wing.
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Powerful story. I empathize with your story from the times when I would report to the hospital for dialysis.
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Then you know all too well these feelings.
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