I returned to the radiation oncologist’s office for my first treatment yesterday. At my therapist’s behest to “go easy on myself”, I took an Ativan beforehand, since my husband was with me and would be able to drive us home. The radiation tech I’ll be working with everyday for the next six weeks is named Tony. He seems like a pretty laid-back, affable guy (or perhaps that was just me/the Ativan). Anyway, getting back into the high-tech torture rack that is particular to my treatment (mask, tongue depressor, straps, etc.) was a bitch, but maybe I’ll get more used to it with each passing day. It’s uncomfortable, not painful, as is the radiation itself. I’m only “under beam,” as they call it, for about five minutes. A huge, mother ship of a machine pivots around me while making strange buzzing/humming/whirring noises and then it’s over. The fact that I felt nothing other than the pressure and tightness of the mask and tongue depressor made me wonder if radiation’s not some kind of smoke-and-mirrors gambit. I’m sure the eventual side effects will prove otherwise.
To that end, I’ve already begun the rigorous oral hygiene regimen prescribed to ward them off (or at least, minimize things): an oral rinse I use every 1-2 hours, prescription toothpaste and mouthwash, hydrating constantly, avoiding acidic foods, etc. You could probably also add writing here to the list. Yesterday, I came across the following quote from a writer and poet I quite admire, Ashleigh Young: “If making work–any work at all–helps you, then keep doing it. However imperfect.” As someone who tends to be very self-critical, I found her words heartening.
Day one down, twenty-nine to go.
Well, then 