Blind Date

You know that feeling before a blind date? That feeling of uncertainty, anxiety and fear--what if the person is ugly, boring, not fun, annoying, or obnoxious? And at the same time, the optimism and hope--imagining that it will work out, hoping the person is the right match, and knowing that going on this date is a good idea. Well, not to sound flip, but that's exactly how today felt. Mike and I had a blind date with Whole Brain Radiation.

The uncertainty of what lies ahead is one of the most crippling feelings, and one that cancer patients have to wrestle with daily. Needless to say, we were anxious, nervous and scared today. Endless questions going through our minds: what will it feel like? Will it make Mike sick? Will it work? Will the side effects be awful? At the same time, we were also positive and optimistic. Hoping that the radiation works. Imagining it will work. God, we need it to work.

We got to Penn around 12:45, a whole 15 minutes early. The hallway that leads to Penn’s radiation department is long and narrow, with a mural painted on both sides. I guess the hospital folks thought that a hallway donned in blue paint with white clouds would be comforting to patients as they walk to their flesh BBQ session. It is anything but comforting.

A few minutes after we got there, we met with Dr. Lustig, the radiation oncologist. He first examined Mike's rash, which is now covering Mike's entire body, itches like hell, and looks like purple leather. Dr. Lustig was also at a loss about the rash, and could not offer much more than the same steroids we were given yesterday. I guess it will be up to my internet-acquired medical degree to solve the rash mystery.

After the two-minute chat with Dr. Lustig, a technician came to take Mike to the radiation room for his first treatment. Mike was sweating, and looked nervous. Even though he will never admit it, I knew he was scared. I was too. His radiation technician was a very good looking woman, which I am sure gave Mike some comfort. Before he walked to the treatment room, Mike stopped and gave me a quick kiss, and I was able to utter “be tough.” Mike and I had made a deal that during each radiation session, when his eyes are closed, Mike will just picture Melanoma getting killed and leaving his body--our own wacky guided imagery of sorts. So as he walked away from me, I thought with the loudest quiet voice: “F’ You Melanoma. Get out of our lives.” I then hoped that Mike was thinking the very same.

Back in the packed waiting room, and eleven year-old patient waited for her treatment. She looked really sick. Looking at her made me feel like my chest had been lit on fire. It all seems too unfair.

The first treatment finished with no incident. Mike could not really explain what happened in the treatment room. What I have learned is that Mike's face/head is jammed into a tight mesh mask and strapped to the table, his eyes are closed, and he cannot move. The radiation treatment then starts, targets the entire brain, and lasts about and about 15 mins. That's all I know, and that's more than enough info for me on this particular subject.

Considering he had just finished his first brain radiation session, Mike seemed calm. On the car ride home, I sneezed, and Mike quickly told me not to wipe it on his new car seats. Oh good, his sense of humor is still in tact.

Later in the day, we gave Mike a new hair cut. For the second time in one year, we shaved Mike’s head because of cancer treatment. This really sucks. But life goes on, and so shall we. Even if it means with a bald head!