Third radiation treatment today.
It's such a hard process--NOT! Although I am surprised by the size of what we're radiating. I was expecting a 3x1" little horizontal strip in the bend of my left leg. Instead, it's about a 2" wide by 6" long VERTICAL strip that starts about the bend of my leg and heads north, covering about 1/4 of my stomach. It has to do with how the two lymph node chains that had Hodgkins lay in my body.
So, for every day, Monday through Friday, for 14 treatments, I get to follow the same routine.
Leave the house around 10:35 a.m. to go about 2 miles south to the north side of American Fork Hospital. Hold mask in place as I check in at the left side of the oncologists' offices. Head back to the treatment room.
Meet Dana, Katy, and Kelsey and head into the treatment room. Expose my stomach, which is easiest if I wear a skirt, and lay a towel across it. Lay on a hard metal table. Wait while the three technicians line up the stickers on my body (one on each hip and one in the middle of my stomach) with three different lasers in the room. Lay heavy so that they're respositioning me, sometimes by micro amounts, and I'm not trying to help them by moving myself. Otherwise, I move too much and it takes longer to correctly align my body.
They can shape the radiation beams now so the heavy leaded shields that I remember from childhood are a thing of the past. The outline drawn on my stomach matches the radiation field that's programmed into the machine.
After about five minutes of positioning, which is the longest part of the entire processs, we're ready to start the treatment. The technicians retreat behind about a 6" leaded thick door. Sure. They get to retreat to safety, while I'm feeling pretty vulnerable. Oh well.
Are you ready for this?
I lay as still as I can, while breathing normally, and count while a loud buzzing noise sounds from the huge round machine head that's positioned about 8" above my stomach. One thousand one, one thousand two. . . The buzzing stops when I get to 12 seconds. 12 seconds? That's all? Wow!
Then the machine rotates 180 degrees and reverses the radiation field on it's screen, so it's now positioned directly under me. The buzzing starts again and I count to 10 seconds this time.
We're done! The technicians come back into the room, move the table out from under the machine, and I'm free to adjust my clothing and leave.
By the time we drive back home, it's been less than thirty minutes since we walked out the door. Now that's fast. I seem to recall having to lay still for at least 15 or 20 minutes as a child for each treatment.
Today's radiation is so much more precise. I'm getting half the dose I did as a child and we can radiate the back side also (because one of the lymph node chains curves and starts heading back towards the spine so it's easier to treat it from the back).
It really pays to speak up. Remember that, Trish! It didn't make sense to me to have permanent tattoos for about 2.5 weeks of treatments. Why be permanently marked? So I asked if there were any alternatives. Ta duh--the stickers! A small cross on each hip to line up rotation of my body, then another small cross in the middle of the radiation field on my stomach. Two more stickers define the top and bottom of the radiation fields. That's it. They work great and have needed to be changed only once.
Hurray for modern medicine advances. And no long-term side effects!
Purple Everywhere
Daily Herald picture
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Okay, met with Dr. Jay Clark, local radiation oncologist (because, apparently you can never meet with too many oncologists). He's recommending 14 treatments of what they call consolidated radiation. It's consolidated because there's no cancer that they're treating--just trying to prevent future occurrences.
I have to have a CT with IV contrast so they can map out the treatment field, so I have to come back in 45 minutes and meet at American Fork Hospital's Radiation department, which I do. After a 15-minute wait, I see one of Dr. Clark's technicians who guides me back to a separate CT room that's reserved for cancer patients.
Time to start the IV. Only the CT technician is one of the people at the hospital that can never find my veins. Why didn't I just ask for someone else immediately? Note to self to do that in the future--skip step one and just go directly to step two.
I tell him where my best vein is and he proceeds to dig around and not find anything, so on to attempt number two. Only this time, he acts like he's going to get back at me for not having good veins and tries for one in my right wrist. OUCH! I should have stopped him immediately from trying there too. Haven't I learned to speak up for myself yet? Come on, Trish!
Sure enough, he can't really get a good vein in my wrist though. But he does manage to cause quite a bit of pain, bruising, and swelling. He must have popped through a vein, causing a hematoma, which must be right next to a nerve because it stays painful and bruised for two days!
Finally, he calls for someone else. She tries the left arm to no avail. The technician calls Dr. Clark to see if the contrast is really necessary. He wants us to try one more time and then give up if we can't get the IV started. The ER technician moves back to my best vein for the last attempt. After a little bit of digging, she gets it. Hurray!
Now for the CT scan. Should be simple, right? After all, I bet I've had over 20 CT scans by this point. Oh crud! I forgot that the last time I had the contrast (for the heart catheterization) that I had a strange reaction to it. Sure enough, by the time I get to Dale back in the waiting room, I can't breathe. Darn it.
Back to radiology we go, where I can be monitored for a while and make sure everything returns to normal. I'm sure the reaction has something to do with a high blood pressure (from being in pain after three attempts and one directly involving at least one nerve in my wrist). I've got to speak up and avoid these scenarios! High blood pressure + CT contrast = short of breath for me.
After an hour, my blood pressure and my oxygen levels are back to normal. I can breathe normally so we finally get to leave. Time to go back to bed after all of that excitement!
I have to have a CT with IV contrast so they can map out the treatment field, so I have to come back in 45 minutes and meet at American Fork Hospital's Radiation department, which I do. After a 15-minute wait, I see one of Dr. Clark's technicians who guides me back to a separate CT room that's reserved for cancer patients.
Time to start the IV. Only the CT technician is one of the people at the hospital that can never find my veins. Why didn't I just ask for someone else immediately? Note to self to do that in the future--skip step one and just go directly to step two.
I tell him where my best vein is and he proceeds to dig around and not find anything, so on to attempt number two. Only this time, he acts like he's going to get back at me for not having good veins and tries for one in my right wrist. OUCH! I should have stopped him immediately from trying there too. Haven't I learned to speak up for myself yet? Come on, Trish!
Sure enough, he can't really get a good vein in my wrist though. But he does manage to cause quite a bit of pain, bruising, and swelling. He must have popped through a vein, causing a hematoma, which must be right next to a nerve because it stays painful and bruised for two days!
Finally, he calls for someone else. She tries the left arm to no avail. The technician calls Dr. Clark to see if the contrast is really necessary. He wants us to try one more time and then give up if we can't get the IV started. The ER technician moves back to my best vein for the last attempt. After a little bit of digging, she gets it. Hurray!
Now for the CT scan. Should be simple, right? After all, I bet I've had over 20 CT scans by this point. Oh crud! I forgot that the last time I had the contrast (for the heart catheterization) that I had a strange reaction to it. Sure enough, by the time I get to Dale back in the waiting room, I can't breathe. Darn it.
Back to radiology we go, where I can be monitored for a while and make sure everything returns to normal. I'm sure the reaction has something to do with a high blood pressure (from being in pain after three attempts and one directly involving at least one nerve in my wrist). I've got to speak up and avoid these scenarios! High blood pressure + CT contrast = short of breath for me.
After an hour, my blood pressure and my oxygen levels are back to normal. I can breathe normally so we finally get to leave. Time to go back to bed after all of that excitement!
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