Moms Don’t Get Sick

When I first found out I would be receiving radiation, I was pumped. Finally, superpowers to live up to my personality. Unfortunately, I soon realized all I would get was a sunburn and a sore throat and not the webs I was expecting to now shoot out of my wrists. Which if you ask me is kind of bullshit but I guess frying the cancer was a worthy outcome too. In all honesty, I had no idea what I was walking into. I was excited to have a treatment that wouldn’t cause me to live in the bathroom for a week and to give my hair a chance to grow back. (side note: I was manifesting blonde, curly hair and I’m here to say that isn’t happening and again I call bullshit.) I had my first appointment with my lovely radiation oncologist who assured me they would be doing a series of things to make sure the radiation lined right up to my chest wall and lymph nodes but would avoid hitting any important organs. I would follow up with a CT scan to have imaging of how to “zap me” and I would even get some new tattoos. Yes, you read that right. When they lined everything up correctly, they would then give me the tiniest red dot tattoo to be able to get the machine in the exact spot each time. For those who are concerned about the idea of adding several small tattoo dots to my chest, think of it this way…it was like adding a ding from a rock to a car that had already been crushed. The tiny red dots on my chest were hard to see past the “oh my that looks painful” smiley face scar I have from armpit to armpit. Once all of this was finished, I was given a schedule to arrive at the cancer center everyday for the next six weeks.

On my first day of radiation, I arrived like a kid ready for kindergarten. I had gone through four months of chemotherapy and experienced surgeons remove most of my chest, a few zaps was going to be nothing. The techs would usually take you to a changing room where you would change into a gown. But since my body would only make a 12 year old boy envious, I would just take off my shirt in the room before my radiation. Each time, I was greeted by a large space with a cold slab in the middle of it surrounded by a machine. The machine looked like if it could spin fast enough I would just need a DeLorean and I could stop this cancer from happening in the first place. They prepped the table by putting a mold of my arms above my hand to keep me in place. They used flash lights to find my tattoos and aligned the machine and table up perfectly so the radiation would hit the right areas. Lining my body up just right was the most time consuming part. Once they thought they were close enough they would do a scan of my chest to see. If it was good we would move on to radiation, if not they would come in and adjust me. After my position was correct, this giant machine above me would go back and forth four times. Each time a glass screen would adjust a line of sticks that morphed into different shapes. Now, if you are looking for technical terms and accurate descriptions, you have come to the wrong blog. They said the correct terms and I nod knowing as long as they keep me alive, we are in good shape. My arms would get tried being up above my head since my mobility had changed since my surgery. Other than that physically, the treatment didn’t bother me at all. Mentally was a whole different story.

My radiation appointments were an hour away from where I lived meaning I had two hours of driving and 20 minutes of staring at the ceiling to think. I was to do this Monday through Friday for the next six weeks. The fears and realities of the situation I was in, that I had been suppressing for months, were slowly creeping in. The question of how long I really had would be the loudest unwanted thought that would fester in my mind. By day three of the radiation, I was a basket case. I couldn’t relax, I couldn’t turn off my thoughts, and I couldn’t sleep. I had terrible acid reflux and I would have panic attacks that would cause me to get physically ill. I could not figure out what was happening to me. I had been so strong for so long and now I was crumbling to the ground. I didn’t want to admit to anyone that I wasn’t handling this well because I had to be stable so no one else would worry. If I started to show that I wasn’t actually strong enough for this, everyone would stop believing I could beat this. Now, I know now that NONE of that is true. I have been told countless times by my loved ones to let it out, to curse the world, or cry till I puke. But in my mind, if I lost it then the whole foundation of “we got this” would crack. I finally told my radiation oncologist that I was very close to living out the plot of one flew over the cuckoo’s nest and to hear her say a lot of her patients experience that made me finally feel not alone.

When I think of PTSD, I think of soldiers on the front lines who have seen and had terrible things happen to them. I definitely didn’t think of myself as someone who would have PTSD from chemotherapy. I had been having such panic attacks after radiation because I was accustomed to receiving chemotherapy and then going home to sit and wait for the unthinkable symptoms pending. The radiation was different. I would have my treatments but go home to normal life but my mind was ready for the living hell I had experienced months before. I also went from seeing the doctors and receiving treatment every three weeks to going every single day. I couldn’t pretend my life wasn’t controlled by my cancer anymore. I had to be faced with the fact that I was sick each day when I walked into the cancer center. I was losing two and a half hours each day with my kids. I was alone to lay on a table as I prayed this would fry my cancer away. I lost my footing during the first week or two of radiation but then I found my way to positive thinking again and I have the staff at my cancer center to thank for that.

Each visit, I would take out my frequent flyer card to scan for everyone to know I had arrived. Each visit, I would see Lisa’s smiling face. She immediately asked me how I was doing and would soon learn my husband and kids names. She would make sure to ask me how they were or if I had any new pictures to show. I would find myself going about my day and saying “oh! I can’t wait to tell Lisa this” or “I need to show her this photo!”. Her warmth and interest in my family made me excited to see her at the beginning of each visit. I no longer was a bucket of nerves walking in because I knew I would get to gush about my three kids for the beginning of my visit. The warmth didn’t stop there. Once I was called back to get my treatment, I was greeted by my favorite techs, most of which are named Katie so it was very easy to remember. I would get up on the table and we would dive into talking about our obsession with trashy, reality TV shows. Every Thursday morning, I was thrilled to come to my appointments to get their opinions on the show that aired the night before. Were they paid to be kind and welcoming? yes. Did I now assume we were all friends for life? yes, yes I did.

Radiation was the easiest thing when it came to physical symptoms but mentally it took a huge toll on me. Once I finally felt like I had my nerves under control though, we found out that the cancer had metastasized to my brain. Once again, I was back to this crippling spiral of thoughts of my future. Would I see my kids reach their next birthday? Would I need to start writing letters for them for the events I wouldn’t make it to? I was now being held hostage by my anxiety for each solo ride to radiation again.

The last week of radiation was called a “boost”. I would be getting my radiation but very close up. I had to lay on the table for longer than normal for them to draw all over my scar to make sure it once again lined up perfectly. I wanted to scream though because until a few days ago I thought I was about to reach the finish line. My radiation oncologist came in to double check all the work that had been done and she said “only a week left!” to which I replied “nah, it’s in my brain”. Now, I understand that was not the correct way to say that. Most people would have cried or told their doctor at a more private, appropriate time. But this is me we are talking about. When I see a hearse now I loudly say to whoever is near me “oh my rides here”. I am unhinged but I think my doctor is now at least somewhat used to it. After she finished the job of double checking she went to call my oncologist and look at my brain MRI.

When I saw her again, we were now in a private, more appropriate setting where she said with such confidence “oh yeah, I can just zap those out in one treatment and if more show up, I’ll zap those too”. At first, I thought my tumors were making my ears hear things but they weren’t. This badass boss of a woman just said “no problem, I got the cancer in your brain”. WHAT. At that moment, all my fears melted away. In ONE treatment, she was going to ZAP the cancer OUT of my BRAIN. I’m sorry ma’am, did you just become my hero?? the answer is YES, yes she did. As my favorite true crime obsessed podcaster would say “let the women do the work”!

I had a week break in between the end of my chest wall radiation and my brain radiation. What my radiation oncologist would be performing is called Stereo tactical radiosurgery which my lovely doctor husband explained to me in big words but I am here to describe it in two years of theater college terms…Basically we would take a bunch of pictures of my brain and pinpoint the three tumors that were causing me, yet again, to be a dramatic patient. Once they pinpointed the tumors, they would use what I can only imagine as a light saber strength beam to zap the tumors to blow up the bad cells and avoid hitting the healthy cells around it. This would kill or at the very least stop the tumors from growing. The next step was to make my face mask. My head had to stay extremely still to make sure it didn’t hit anything it didn’t need to. The mask looked like the picture below.

I know what you’re thinking…pure sex symbol…I agree completely. I honestly preferred this to a brain MRI because even though it was super tight on my face, I wasn’t in a tube the size of a toilet paper roll. I could move around and I was able to see what was happening rather than looking up and seeing the top of the machine 6 inches from my face. Making the mask took longer than the actual brain radiation. They first laid me down on a warm mold to shape the back of my mask, once that cooled and hardened I moved on to the white stretchy mold under the top layer. I’ve never had a facial but I would say this was the closest I ever got to one. It was a gel material that was the temperature of a hot bath. They laid it down covering my whole face except for my eyes and mouth. My tech told me that they used to not have the eye holes and I was grateful that this was no longer the case. All I could picture was Jack Black in Shallow Hal putting Vaseline all over his eyes. I had to wait for that to cool when the final piece was added…the Jason mask. Again, this piece was hot and needed to form to my face which would take 20 minutes. As a mom of three, I welcomed my pretend facial and laying down 20 minutes without being asked to wipe a butt or open a snack.

After my 20 minutes of peace, they locked the mask down into the table which really prevented me from moving my head at all. They gave me a CT scan to line up with my brain MRI and once those results appeared they came and drew three different circles to show where I would be zapped and the tumors would have their wicked witch of the west melting moment. I was hoping for a miracle moment where they would come out and say “WOW! They’re gone” but unfortunately that didn’t happen. I would get my “holy crap, you’re kidding moment” though.

I came back a week later for my procedure where I was greeted by my favorite tech so there was lots of vanderpump rules talk. She also gave me the most amazing bracelets to celebrate me finishing my radiation. These people really are the sweetest people in the world. I feel like I’m just going to hang out with friends between the receptionists, nurses at the cancer center, and the techs for radiation. They prepped the radiation for me and had me lay down and aligned my mask perfectly, nice and tight. Soon, they disappeared behind their glass barrier as the machine started up. With each of my pregnancies I was in labor for AT LEAST over 12 hours, my double mastectomy took over 6 hours, my first round of chemo took 4-6 hours in the chair, and my chest wall radiation took between 30-20 minutes. My LITERAL BRAIN SURGERY took barely 2 MINUTES. I got clipped in, the machine whirled around my head 4 times and my radiation oncologist came out and said “we got ’em!”. I’m sorry, ma’am…what. You just added at least a year to my life in under 2 minutes. It was the most amazing thing I have ever witnessed. To think, how far cancer treatments have come in the last few years gives me such help for the future.

Years ago, my diagnosis would have been a death sentence but not today. When I tell people I have stage four metastatic breast cancer with spread to my brain, I watch as their faces drop into disbelief. They look at this young mom with a whole life left to live with a terminal illness and their own brains shut off. They think “how much longer does she have?” or “who will raise her kids” and I just want to answer forever and me, duh. When you really think about it we are all “terminally ill”, we just aren’t actively fighting for our time or having it shoved in your face. I just have to fight to get to the next life saving treatment. I may be on borrowed time but my fight and gratitude for the doctors, nurses, techs, and my support symptom lets me know it’s not borrowed…it’s mine to rightfully have.