25 Days. Finally. Done.
My radiation treatment drew to a close this afternoon during an all-too-appropriate rain storm in midtown Manhattan where scaffolding was my umbrella. Similarly appropriate was the shot I took in my right butt cheek earlier in the morning, to start the day off right. My skin is red and sensitive but not peeling. Nurse Barbara tells me I will be tired all week and my skin will get worse before it gets better. But doesn't everything?! I don't care. Not having to go north of 14th Street for another month is the greatest gift of all.
So I was sick in bed all weekend. (What did you do?!) I caught a virus a few weeks back that I have not been able to shake. As my radiation technician put it, my "immune system has been a little busy." Nurse Beth tells me it's going around and many of her patients have been worried that there is something terribly wrong with them because they get it, feel better, and then get it again. As did I. And the cure is to stay in bed for a week. Who does that?!?! It's not as fun as one would imagine. It's not all movies and books and catching up on email and phone calls because my head hurts and I can't read or think and I hate all actors right now because I'm not one anymore.
But my super-hero husband and his mom came to the rescue and I got two days in bed. I was restored enough to get up this morning to make breakfast and lunches for the kids and get them off to school dressed, with teeth brushed, homework in their backpacks, and snack for 30 kids for Michael to carry. After that, all I needed was two Advil and a taxi to get me uptown for my shot before I came back downtown for a nap.
Nurse Beth didn't recognize me, she's not the first, and I haven't been able to shrug these off yet. Now that my hair has grown in a tiny bit, I am going out without my scarves on. Some mom friends saw my head last week during a hot flash, saw that I have hair, and told me to stop wearing my mom's kerchief from 1976. But now if I run into someone who is not expecting to see me, they don't seem to recognize me. Or maybe they do but they are so overcome with disbelief and sadness that I had cancer and my thick long hair is now completely gone, not just hypothetically hiding under a piece of fabric? Because I don't know for sure, I don't know whether to introduce myself or just play along or... what would some other options be? Should I be wearing a name tag?
Also, as pathetic and superficial as it sounds, I really do miss my hair. I know the little pixie cut is "cute," but I'm not sure how well I pull off cute. I've never been a "cute" girl, my name is not Zooey, and I look ridiculous in knee-high socks. I much prefer a black leather jacket over a black ensemble with some boots. Add a pixie cut and sunglasses to hide behind, and I end up looking a little angry. Not cute at all. Plus, it's not even a hair cut. It's hair growth. Yuk. My wig will be another option as soon as October decides to stop acting like mid-June. But there's definitely no such thing as global warming.
But you know how you really know you are a cancer patient? It's when you are on the radiation table, receiving your final treatment, and you find yourself dreaming about the kale salad you are going to eat for lunch. Then, still on the table, you have a hot flash. And then, still on the table, these lyrics come through on the speakers from the Cancer Center playlist:
"Cause you had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around..."
The nurse who comes in to take the sheet off your naked boob hears the end of the song and is mortified. She apologizes on behalf of everyone but you tell her it's ok because it actually made you laugh, not cry.
And that's how you know you are a cancer patient.
(Right, Boehner?!)
