Chapter 39: The worst spa experience of my life
Thanks portrait mode for a very creepy, artistic shot of my radiation face mask (or claustrophobic cage)
Well, today I start chemotherapy. It’s a cold, snowy Easter Sunday in the middle of a global pandemic, so really, there is no better time huh?! At least I won’t be the only one wearing a mask out in public for the next few weeks…
For those unfamiliar with oncology treatments (let’s be real, even a lot of physicians aren’t super familiar with oncology treatment plans, treating cancer is extremely complicated!), malignant brain cancer is usually treated with surgery (been there, done that, twice actually), chemotherapy and radiation. The chemotherapy essentially tries to “boost” the power of the radiation therapy, which I will start tomorrow.
Radiation therapy essentially uses intense energy, like a strong futuristic x-ray machine, to kill cancerous cells. Supposedly, it is not painful, but can give your head something that resembles a mild sunburn. Usually, people do not lose their hair until week 2-3 of radiation therapy, so I’ll continue to enjoy my (now very grown-out ombre blond look, thanks COVID!) for a few more days to weeks.
Last week, I had a radiation “dry run,” essentially a trial session to make sure the settings are set correctly. The experience was fascinating, so I’ll share a bit with you all here. Even as a physician, I’ll be honest, I previously knew very little about radiation therapy. I knew what it was used for and the general principles of how it works, but I would never have been able to describe the experience to a patient without doing some research myself.
Well, my radiation dry run was, simply put, like a very strange and unpleasant spa experience. I checked in in the lobby, which was eerily quiet due to COVID-19. Three other people sat in the lobby wearing colorful fabric masks like I did. We all waited for our nurse to escort us to the treatment room in the back. The treatment room is a very large room with 2 huge radiation machines in it (they look almost like CT scanner machines combined with space ships, if space ships had 3D rotating “arms” which emit bright laser lights in various colors as they move silently around your head and body). Although there were 2 machines in this room, I was the only patient.
Like a spa pre-treatment room, I was asked to undress and put on a gown. I was then guided to a “massage table,” really, a very cold, very hard metal table with a small comfortable pillow underneath my head. The pillow was made a week ago from moldable material that now fits the exact shape of my head. After lying down, a plastic mask/cage (also made a week ago to snuggly fit over my face) was placed over my face and snapped down to the pillow under my head, essentially locking my head in place. This is not a spa experience for the claustrophobic, let me tell you!! Snapped in place, unable to open my eyes or speak, I tried to imagine a cold, plastic-smelling towel was simply draped over my head as I waited for my massage to start.
There was soft, calming, spa music playing in the room around me. My radiation therapist said “I’ll be right back after I take some pictures and run through a treatment simulation.” With my head in this mask contraption, all I could do was give her a nervous thumbs-up.
I lay there, alone, on a hard massage table unable to see anything until suddenly, the 3D “space ship arms” started rotating around me emitting bright purple, green, blue, and red lights. Combined with the spa playlist in the background, I tried to imagine I was getting some strange laser-sculpting treatment. 20 minutes or so later, my radiation therapist returned to the room and unhooked my head from its small, claustrophobic prison. I told her that I felt like I just had the worst spa-experience of my life because the massage part never happened, and she laughed, saying “see you Monday for the real thing!” I’m not sure she liked my joke, but I amused myself.
Today, I’m still making my way through my latest great book, Lovingkindness by Sharon Salzberg. This book teaches the basics of lovingkindess, or metta. In an incredibly simplistic viewpoint, this is the Buddhist meditative practice of – you guessed it!- being loving and kind towards yourself and others. I think the key piece her is to remember to include yourself in this idea.
Salzberg goes on to say “when we do metta practice, we begin by directing metta towards ourselves.” This, she says, is an important first step because “This is the essential foundation for being able to offer genuine love to others. When we truly love ourselves, we want to take care or others, because that is what is most enriching, or nourishing for us.”
I could spend today feeling fear -fear of what chemotherapy will do to my body and what radiation will do to my mind. But instead, I choose to practice lovingkindness towards myself. I choose to thank my body and my mind for the great places they have taken me so far, despite the unlucky hand I was recently dealt. I choose to love myself despite my fear, or maybe in spite of my fear, because loving ourselves is the best foundation we have for loving others.
Loving others, having compassion (literally meaning “to suffer with” others) I would argue, is the real purpose of this chaos we call life.
To those who celebrate Easter, Happy Easter. To those who don’t, Happy blizzard in April day.
Chemo and radiation, time to work your poisonous magic!
Fondly,
Courtney
© CB2020