You recognize them by their grey hair and burgundy blazers. George Bush (the first) would have praised them as glimmers among his 1,000 points of light. They are the legions of hospital volunteers, who donate their time and good cheer to foster our better health.
These good Samaritans play a visible role in cancer treatment. During chemo, I noticed the same woman volunteering every time I was there. She brought pillows and blankets to the patients hooked to IVs, chatted with family members, and assisted the nurses in small ways.
The radiation technicians and doctors rely on volunteers, too. Bill, a courtly gentleman in his late seventies, is at the hospital four mornings a week to assist with the radiation process. Because radiation is a daily occurrence, it's hard not to know Bill. He sits in the "gowned" waiting room, which is where patients, dressed in hospital robes, wait their turn to lie under the beams. Bill learns all the patients' names and gleans little tidbits about their lives -- whether or not they have children, where they work, what they're reading, etc. By doing this, everyone sitting nearby also learns a little something about the others being treated. Thus, Bill breaks the ice and creates a social network among the patients.
Bill also helps the technicians by escorting patients to and from the treatment rooms, or to the examination rooms on the days when they see the radiation oncologist. I don't know what Bill did before he retired and became a hospital volunteer. He's a natural at creating a welcoming environment and helping people to relax.
Those who prefer to keep to themselves in a hospital setting may wince at the idea of Bill facilitating conversation among strangers in a waiting room. But Bill's efforts are a good thing, because the whole process of cancer treatment wears people down. Exposure to his kindness, which he dispenses regularly and without pay, is uplifting, really.
I had a less than kind moment myself the other day, and since confession is good for the soul, let me get this out. I was in the bank parking lot about to get back into my car when a woman passed by me and said, "I like your hair." Since I'm now sporting a credible likeness to Sinead O'Connor, I was taken aback for a beat and paused before responding, "It's the chemo. This my post-cancer look." Hearing this, the woman visibly drew in a breath and was clearly stunned. I finished off the moment by saying, "Thanks, it's starting to grow back," before getting into the car.
Later, I thought about my reaction. I could have just said, "Thanks," and skipped the explanatory language. Perhaps my gut instinct was that her words were insincere, although in retrospect I doubt that was the case. I think now that she was applauding my boldness. So I'm chalking this experience up to my being a little slow on the learning curve and not being fully comfortable in my own skin yet. The next time someone makes a comment, however, I'll be better able to respond.
I have the example of Bill and the other hospital volunteers who dispense so much caring each day. They've taken the bumper sticker notion of committing random acts of kindness and incorporated it into their daily routines. Here's to the folks in the burgundy blazers.
6/22/08
6/15/08
Photons And Electrons
Radiation is a curious process. It differs from chemo in that the gestalt of radiation is more akin to a science experiment than to a medical procedure. We're all familiar with chemo. Very strong drugs are infused intravenously and circulate throughout the body on a search and destroy mission.
Radiation, however, resides at the intersection of physics and biology. Some people have radioactive seeds surgically implanted in their bodies. My treatment is more traditional. Rays are being beamed at the site where my growth was removed. The radiation penetrates into the body's tissues and attacks all the dividing cells in the neighborhood. Later, the normal cells will reinvigorate themselves and resume their regular activities, while the dead cancer cells will lie scattered about as so much detritus.
Treatments are dispensed in small increments. My individual radiation plan calls for 35 treatments, each lasting just a few minutes. During my first 28 treatments, the technicians are sending photons, which have to ability to go deeply into the breast tissue. For the final seven sessions, they will switch to electrons and target the top layers of skin around the surgery scar. Treatments are given five days a week, which means that radiation takes about six weeks to complete.
Thus far, I've been radiated three times. Compared to chemo, this is a snap. You undress from the waist up, put on a hospital gown and wait for a technician to find you. Once you arrive at the treatment room, you remove the gown and lie down on the table. Two technicians adjust your exact positioning based on what the oncologist prescribed. They remind you to keep very still, and then they leave the room. The machine that delivers the radiation hovers about 24 inches overhead and to the right and briefly emits a high-pitched whine. Next, the machine re-positions itself about 75 degrees counter-clockwise from where it started. Again, the high-pitched sound signals treatment is underway, lasting another 30 seconds or so. Once the whining ceases, the doors to the room swing open, the technicians re-emerge, and the session is over. Time for me to move along, so the next patient can have a turn.
Finally, the last phase of my breast cancer project has arrived. Sometime in July I will be done with all of it, and move into a closely monitored maitenance mode. My hair is now about 1/8" long all around. I had a coming out of sorts last night, when my husband and I went to a nice restaurant for dinner with my head uncovered. Although some people did a noticeable double take, I just smiled, enjoyed my meal, and reveled in my return.
Radiation, however, resides at the intersection of physics and biology. Some people have radioactive seeds surgically implanted in their bodies. My treatment is more traditional. Rays are being beamed at the site where my growth was removed. The radiation penetrates into the body's tissues and attacks all the dividing cells in the neighborhood. Later, the normal cells will reinvigorate themselves and resume their regular activities, while the dead cancer cells will lie scattered about as so much detritus.
Treatments are dispensed in small increments. My individual radiation plan calls for 35 treatments, each lasting just a few minutes. During my first 28 treatments, the technicians are sending photons, which have to ability to go deeply into the breast tissue. For the final seven sessions, they will switch to electrons and target the top layers of skin around the surgery scar. Treatments are given five days a week, which means that radiation takes about six weeks to complete.
Thus far, I've been radiated three times. Compared to chemo, this is a snap. You undress from the waist up, put on a hospital gown and wait for a technician to find you. Once you arrive at the treatment room, you remove the gown and lie down on the table. Two technicians adjust your exact positioning based on what the oncologist prescribed. They remind you to keep very still, and then they leave the room. The machine that delivers the radiation hovers about 24 inches overhead and to the right and briefly emits a high-pitched whine. Next, the machine re-positions itself about 75 degrees counter-clockwise from where it started. Again, the high-pitched sound signals treatment is underway, lasting another 30 seconds or so. Once the whining ceases, the doors to the room swing open, the technicians re-emerge, and the session is over. Time for me to move along, so the next patient can have a turn.
Finally, the last phase of my breast cancer project has arrived. Sometime in July I will be done with all of it, and move into a closely monitored maitenance mode. My hair is now about 1/8" long all around. I had a coming out of sorts last night, when my husband and I went to a nice restaurant for dinner with my head uncovered. Although some people did a noticeable double take, I just smiled, enjoyed my meal, and reveled in my return.
6/8/08
Mind And Body
It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life is Lance Armstrong's account of his struggle against advanced testicular cancer and his subsequent successes in the Tour de France. In the book, Armstrong takes the reader through his early years as a cyclist, through his devastating cancer experience, and finally through his rise, phoenix-like, to the pinnacle of his sport.
Armstrong's theme, which he hints at in the book title, is that he succeeded in the grueling Tour de France partly by drawing on the lessons he learned in his fight against cancer. Armstrong's disease was quite advanced when it was discovered, having reached his brain and other vital organs, and his survival is indeed miraculous. He contends that his illness changed him both psychologically and physically, which worked to his advantage as an athlete. He notes that cancer helped him grow into a more mature, less cocky cyclist. Physically, Armstrong said that his post-cancer physique was leaner, which allowed him to attack the hill-climbing components of the sport more efficiently since he was carrying less bulk.
Although Armstrong goes through a period of aimlessness following his treatment, which he refers to as "survivorship,'' he mostly maintains a positive attitude throughout his cancer ordeal. What is interesting, however, is how he characterized the mental components of illness and recovery. He writes: "I believed...in the doctors and the medicine and the surgeries.... I believed in the hard currency of... intelligence and...research." But Armstrong also noted that he "believed in belief, for its own own shining sake."
He decided that belief in something was preferable to belief in nothing and eventually arrived at the following conclusion: "I didn't fully see, until the cancer, how we fight every day against the creeping negatives of the world, how we struggle daily against the slow lapping of cynicism. Dis-spiritedness and disappointment, these were the real perils of life, not some sudden illness or cataclysmic millennium doomsday."
Dr. Bernie Siegel has also written about illness and positive thinking in several books, including his bestseller, Love, Medicine and Miracles. Dr. Siegel was not really on my radar, but another woman with breast cancer told me that she found his book helpful. So I listened to an Internet radio broadcast in which he focused on breast cancer. For those who are interested, here is the link: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/breastcancerwellness/2008/02/19/Love-medicine-and-miracles-for-breast-cancer-survivors
In short, Dr. Siegel advises patients to empower themselves in many ways: to be proactive in their treatments and to take charge of their lives. He teaches people to use positive messages, imagery, and humor to aid in healing. Dr. Siegel also believes that many of us carry emotional baggage from our childhoods with us, which can lead to illnesses.
Armstrong's theme, which he hints at in the book title, is that he succeeded in the grueling Tour de France partly by drawing on the lessons he learned in his fight against cancer. Armstrong's disease was quite advanced when it was discovered, having reached his brain and other vital organs, and his survival is indeed miraculous. He contends that his illness changed him both psychologically and physically, which worked to his advantage as an athlete. He notes that cancer helped him grow into a more mature, less cocky cyclist. Physically, Armstrong said that his post-cancer physique was leaner, which allowed him to attack the hill-climbing components of the sport more efficiently since he was carrying less bulk.
Although Armstrong goes through a period of aimlessness following his treatment, which he refers to as "survivorship,'' he mostly maintains a positive attitude throughout his cancer ordeal. What is interesting, however, is how he characterized the mental components of illness and recovery. He writes: "I believed...in the doctors and the medicine and the surgeries.... I believed in the hard currency of... intelligence and...research." But Armstrong also noted that he "believed in belief, for its own own shining sake."
He decided that belief in something was preferable to belief in nothing and eventually arrived at the following conclusion: "I didn't fully see, until the cancer, how we fight every day against the creeping negatives of the world, how we struggle daily against the slow lapping of cynicism. Dis-spiritedness and disappointment, these were the real perils of life, not some sudden illness or cataclysmic millennium doomsday."
Dr. Bernie Siegel has also written about illness and positive thinking in several books, including his bestseller, Love, Medicine and Miracles. Dr. Siegel was not really on my radar, but another woman with breast cancer told me that she found his book helpful. So I listened to an Internet radio broadcast in which he focused on breast cancer. For those who are interested, here is the link: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/breastcancerwellness/2008/02/19/Love-medicine-and-miracles-for-breast-cancer-survivors
In short, Dr. Siegel advises patients to empower themselves in many ways: to be proactive in their treatments and to take charge of their lives. He teaches people to use positive messages, imagery, and humor to aid in healing. Dr. Siegel also believes that many of us carry emotional baggage from our childhoods with us, which can lead to illnesses.
While I agree that a mind-body connection exists (anyone who has blushed with embarrassment knows this to be true), Dr. Siegel and I part ways at the idea that one's unresolved emotional issues can morph into cancer cells. Many theories exist to explain the growth of cancer cells, including exposure to toxins, hormonal imbalances, genetic pre-dispositions, and poor diet. Scientists don't fully understand all the underlying causes, but I'm skeptical of the theory that holding a grudge against one's parents is a cancer catalyst. A similar theory, which some authors have floated, is that women bring on breast cancer by being passive and "bottling-up" their emotions in their chests. This idea is ridiculous, and only casts blame on those who are unlucky enough to develop a lump in their breast.
The truth is that well-balanced, fully expressive, upbeat people get sick, too. One of Lance Armstrong's physicians, Dr. Einhorn, spoke to this point in the following observation: "I've seen wonderful, positive people not make it in the end. And some of the most miserable, ornery people survive to resume their ornery lives."
The trick of illness is not to be emotionally defeated by it, but to learn how to use its lessons to a later advantage. Lance Armstrong took the idea of the mind-body connection to the extreme and conquered the Tour de France. He also started a major cancer fundraising organization. But small efforts are good, too. This weekend, I went to Bikram Yoga, a 90-minute yoga class held in a room heated to 105 degrees. Yes, you read that right. It was definitely hot, but I persevered and felt pretty good at the end. I also start radiation in a few days. At the beginning of this detour, I might have had some trepidation about being radiated, but not now. I've vanquished chemo and survived a session of Bikram yoga. How bad can radiation be?
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