It seems that lymphedema has started in my arm. This is the collection of lymph in the limb when you have no lymph nodes to pump it out. Radiation triggers it 30% of the time and it seems I'm again in the minority.
But it is very slight right now. Possibly even "pre-clinical." At this early point, it's possible to reverse it back to normal. My appointment at the lymphedema clinic is on Tuesday, which will be 12 days after it started. I'm hoping that is soon enough for reversal. Hence the prayer request.
Please pray that the therapist will be able to rid my right arm of the lymph and that it would be back to normal.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Radiation Update
12 treatments to go. Notes from thus far:
My cubicle in the radiation wing is marked "AP 12/7." It holds my gown.
There are a few other cubicles that are marked as well. 4 others, now. 1 that is marked 12/3 and 3 that have dates starting after my own. There used to be 6, but I've outlasted 2 so far.
"Outlasted," because it's become a little game I'm playing. Each day I discovered another gown gone, I had one of those "Yess!" arm pumping victory moments.
Am I crazy? Because, you know, what a victory that I have to do 7 weeks of radiation.
Yet you all want me to keep you posted, don't you? How many of these 4 can I outlast?
Every 5th day, the techs take x-rays as well as dispense treatment. There is a glass plate they slide in that is marked with a "Y" and "Z" axis, a cross right in the middle of the field.
The "Y" is the horizontal axis, and the positive is on the left while the negative is marked on the right. But. OK. From the camera's point of view, the negative is on the left and the positive is on the right.
On the "Z" axis--the vertical--the positive is marked on the bottom and the negative is marked on the top.
What?
There can't be a good reason for this. Yet there must be. I asked the tech and she didn't know. Every fifth day, it drives me a little more crazy.
Speaking of techs, how does this story make you feel:
The procedure for treatment begins with the set up. I lie down, assume the position of hands above head, and the techs slide me around on the table a bit here and there until the lasers are lined up with my tattoos.
Then one goes to a computer monitor and calls out 2 numbers, one for moving me to the side, and one for moving me down.
I kept forgetting to listen to the numbers and memorize them for the next day, but after several treatments, I was pretty sure they were different numbers each day.
But why would this be? If I'm lined up with my tattoos, and the lasers are at fixed points and my tattoos are fixed points, then shouldn't I be moved--while already on the table--in relation to the machine the same distance each and every time?
I asked the tech.
She said, yes, they were different numbers that get called out, and it was to make sure I was in the same spot each time.
I asked her how this could be possible. Just as I explained it to all of you. She said, "In a perfect world, yes, but we have to be absolutely precise."
What?
"It's all complicated science."
What??
I'm not concerned that the beam isn't hitting the right spot. I have complete confidence that I'm being radiated accurately each and every time.
But this doesn't make sense. Lasers, tattoos, precision machine. . . I should be moved the same distance and direction each time.
I had to let it go. The whole matter. I had to stop thinking about it.
Then, this week, I made the effort to listen to and memorize my numbers. And you know what? They are the same every time.
Now. This tech. Very nice woman. But how would you feel if it were you on the table and she with her finger on the button?
Speaking of feelings, I can finally tell you a very disturbing story from two weeks ago. I have to. Leaving it out would be to permit an incomplete record.
Dr. Tanner was on vacation. I knew there was to be a substitute there that Wednesday, the day that patients meet with a doctor.
So I was quick on the uptake when, Wednesday morning, I lay on the slab, in the position, when this guy walks into the treatment room.
And he made some kind of joke. Something not memorable. He looked at me, at my face. Didn't say a word.
So I said, "Who are you?????" And I probably sounded pretty disturbed.
He said, "Just some guy off the street."
And then the tech made some joke about how, sure, they let just anyone walk in.
So I said, "You should not be making light of this. And I still don't know who you are."
Folks, I was "in the position" already. Naked. Lying there. Looking at a man who hadn't bothered to tell me that he was Doctor so-and-so. I just closed my eyes. Closed them before they went blind with white rage and I started saying things unbecoming.
Then he said, "Oh dear, I've embarrassed the poor woman."
This part looks bad in print. But he said it with genuine regret. And then started saying other stuff--you know how when you really step in it, and you just keep talking, and every additional thing you say only makes matters worse? That was this guy.
The problem was not embarrassment. In his little post-stepping-in-it rant, he mentioned how medical professionals don't get embarrassed about anything--e.g. naked bodies are no big deal to him. The problem was his profound disrespect for my dignity.
What a jackass. That's pretty much the nicest term I can come up with.
And my opinion didn't really change during or following my appointment with him after the treatment. He apologized again in that room, where I was dressed. And told me to 'Drive safely, Girl' -- but he was an old jackass, so I didn't take the remark to be condescension so much as it was just more jackassery.
I got home that morning and cried and cried about it as I told Bryan.
There were those few minutes during treatment, when I was alone, on the slab, following the incident yet preceding the appointment I knew I had to have with this jackass. What would I say? He was guilty of unprofessionalism, yes, of a poor bedside manner, yes. But he hadn't meant to be hurtful.
Yet, I knew there was a huge possibility I would just rip into him. It was about to be a moment very unbecoming of Christ, I knew, I could see. So I prayed right then.
And the Holy Spirit answered: Jesus knows what it feels like to have one's dignity assaulted--and He at the hands of people who really did mean to be hurtful. And it was a small price to pay compared to the salvation it bought for those He loves. You can forgive this guy, Amy. For the glory of Jesus, you can count this a small price.
My cubicle in the radiation wing is marked "AP 12/7." It holds my gown.
There are a few other cubicles that are marked as well. 4 others, now. 1 that is marked 12/3 and 3 that have dates starting after my own. There used to be 6, but I've outlasted 2 so far.
"Outlasted," because it's become a little game I'm playing. Each day I discovered another gown gone, I had one of those "Yess!" arm pumping victory moments.
Am I crazy? Because, you know, what a victory that I have to do 7 weeks of radiation.
Yet you all want me to keep you posted, don't you? How many of these 4 can I outlast?
Every 5th day, the techs take x-rays as well as dispense treatment. There is a glass plate they slide in that is marked with a "Y" and "Z" axis, a cross right in the middle of the field.
The "Y" is the horizontal axis, and the positive is on the left while the negative is marked on the right. But. OK. From the camera's point of view, the negative is on the left and the positive is on the right.
On the "Z" axis--the vertical--the positive is marked on the bottom and the negative is marked on the top.
What?
There can't be a good reason for this. Yet there must be. I asked the tech and she didn't know. Every fifth day, it drives me a little more crazy.
Speaking of techs, how does this story make you feel:
The procedure for treatment begins with the set up. I lie down, assume the position of hands above head, and the techs slide me around on the table a bit here and there until the lasers are lined up with my tattoos.
Then one goes to a computer monitor and calls out 2 numbers, one for moving me to the side, and one for moving me down.
I kept forgetting to listen to the numbers and memorize them for the next day, but after several treatments, I was pretty sure they were different numbers each day.
But why would this be? If I'm lined up with my tattoos, and the lasers are at fixed points and my tattoos are fixed points, then shouldn't I be moved--while already on the table--in relation to the machine the same distance each and every time?
I asked the tech.
She said, yes, they were different numbers that get called out, and it was to make sure I was in the same spot each time.
I asked her how this could be possible. Just as I explained it to all of you. She said, "In a perfect world, yes, but we have to be absolutely precise."
What?
"It's all complicated science."
What??
I'm not concerned that the beam isn't hitting the right spot. I have complete confidence that I'm being radiated accurately each and every time.
But this doesn't make sense. Lasers, tattoos, precision machine. . . I should be moved the same distance and direction each time.
I had to let it go. The whole matter. I had to stop thinking about it.
Then, this week, I made the effort to listen to and memorize my numbers. And you know what? They are the same every time.
Now. This tech. Very nice woman. But how would you feel if it were you on the table and she with her finger on the button?
Speaking of feelings, I can finally tell you a very disturbing story from two weeks ago. I have to. Leaving it out would be to permit an incomplete record.
Dr. Tanner was on vacation. I knew there was to be a substitute there that Wednesday, the day that patients meet with a doctor.
So I was quick on the uptake when, Wednesday morning, I lay on the slab, in the position, when this guy walks into the treatment room.
And he made some kind of joke. Something not memorable. He looked at me, at my face. Didn't say a word.
So I said, "Who are you?????" And I probably sounded pretty disturbed.
He said, "Just some guy off the street."
And then the tech made some joke about how, sure, they let just anyone walk in.
So I said, "You should not be making light of this. And I still don't know who you are."
Folks, I was "in the position" already. Naked. Lying there. Looking at a man who hadn't bothered to tell me that he was Doctor so-and-so. I just closed my eyes. Closed them before they went blind with white rage and I started saying things unbecoming.
Then he said, "Oh dear, I've embarrassed the poor woman."
This part looks bad in print. But he said it with genuine regret. And then started saying other stuff--you know how when you really step in it, and you just keep talking, and every additional thing you say only makes matters worse? That was this guy.
The problem was not embarrassment. In his little post-stepping-in-it rant, he mentioned how medical professionals don't get embarrassed about anything--e.g. naked bodies are no big deal to him. The problem was his profound disrespect for my dignity.
What a jackass. That's pretty much the nicest term I can come up with.
And my opinion didn't really change during or following my appointment with him after the treatment. He apologized again in that room, where I was dressed. And told me to 'Drive safely, Girl' -- but he was an old jackass, so I didn't take the remark to be condescension so much as it was just more jackassery.
I got home that morning and cried and cried about it as I told Bryan.
There were those few minutes during treatment, when I was alone, on the slab, following the incident yet preceding the appointment I knew I had to have with this jackass. What would I say? He was guilty of unprofessionalism, yes, of a poor bedside manner, yes. But he hadn't meant to be hurtful.
Yet, I knew there was a huge possibility I would just rip into him. It was about to be a moment very unbecoming of Christ, I knew, I could see. So I prayed right then.
And the Holy Spirit answered: Jesus knows what it feels like to have one's dignity assaulted--and He at the hands of people who really did mean to be hurtful. And it was a small price to pay compared to the salvation it bought for those He loves. You can forgive this guy, Amy. For the glory of Jesus, you can count this a small price.
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