This is week three of Radiation treatments for my breast cancer. To date, I've had twelve of my scheduled sixteen sessions. In the perfect "just my luck" scenario, this time period has also coincided with the ramp up of the Covid-19 debacle seizing the world by the cojones throat. Radiation causes me to be immuno-suppressed, no small consideration as this virus makes its way through the general population. I am also in one of the more vulnerable age categories, 40's 50's whatever... Lucky me.
For the most part, its impact on me has been minimal. I am blessed with a devoted husband who gleefully shops the senior hour at the grocery store, plans and executes delicious meals and drives me to my radiation therapy. But there is where things have been getting weirder and weirder. Here is a chronology of the experience.
Day One: We show up, walk into the facility together, figure out my barcode scan-in process [actually, he does...I stand there trying to figure out where the scanner IS], and then separate at the door to the treatment area. He sits in the waiting room just outside the area, reads his book and chats with the receptionist. I go in, change into the always-attractive and fashion forward johnny and robe, wait in the inner waiting room furnished with stacks of great magazines that are actually from THIS year, am called in, give my name, birthdate and area of treatment and spend a few short minutes under the rotating buzzing mini-spaceship. End of appointment.
Day Two: Pretty much the same, although Brendan opts to wait in the Solarium just inside the door where he can read a book, or work on the giant jigsaw puzzle on the table and chat with other family members waiting. He opts to read and not chat. My routine is the same.
Day Five: Signs appear stating that family members are no longer allowed in the building and must wait in the car. No big deal; this eliminates the chat issue. [Yeah, he's the introvert to my extrovert.]
Day Six: Multiple large signs appear requiring the use of the hand sanitizer pumps before entering any doorway. Because of an earlier doctor's appointment nearby, Brendan and I opt to bring some sandwiches and eat in the cafeteria, which closes to the public the following day.
Day Seven: Signs are revised to include using sanitizer pumps AFTER leaving any doorway.
Day Eight: The magazines in the inner waiting room have disappeared and chairs are moved further apart. A separate area for patients with face masks is walled off.
Day Nine: In addition to the usual questions about my name, birthdate and treatment area, I have to use every hand sanitizer pump between the front door and the treatment table (a total of five) and affirm that I do not have a cough, a fever or shortness of breath.
Day Ten: The pre-treatment "quiz" is amended to add the question whether I have been in contact with anyone who has tested positive for Covid-19.
Day Eleven: Driving up to the facility requires taking a certain route indicated by staff with red "airport tarmac" wands, stopping at two checkpoints to answer the health questions [at both checkpoints] and receiving a "check-in" sticker. Brendan is given a designated area to park while he waits.
Day Twelve: Another checkpoint is added inside the facility to screen all people walking in, directing them to the correct destination and ensuring all hand sanitizers are being used. All staff in the facility are wearing medical masks.
Through all of this, the staff have retained their wonderfully cheerful attitudes, despite being "challenged" at times, usually by an older patient who is clearly frightened by all of this protocol. Granted, my appointments have been in the morning; heaven only knows how long their patience could hold out over a long day of treatments and irritable patients. They are truly heroes to go through all of this. It can't be easy, for sure.
These doctors, nurses, technicians and administrators cannot "shelter in place". Instead they must stay on the job to work with patients, some severely immuno-compromised and in desperate need of the therapies the center offers to keep them alive while also potentially exposing them to a deadly virus. Then these staff members return to their families praying that they are not conveying anything harmful home. It is truly a delicate balance.
Today there was a brief power outage as I waited to go in for my treatment. The technicians and nurse on duty stayed calm, checked to make sure we were all ok [it got VERY dark for a few moments], assured us that there would be only a minor delay while the equipment rebooted and carried on. Their professional demeanor soothed a lot of nerves, including mine!
I feel fortunate to be as healthy as I am. With only four more radiation sessions left I feel significantly fatigued [two pages of a book and I am down for the count] but have otherwise had no adverse effects. The stories I hear from others in the waiting area: four hour round trip drives every day, multiple cancer sites in advanced stages, debilitating side effects from concurrent chemo treatments...all give me a profound sense of gratitude for my situation and the caring professionals in whose hands I have been placed.
It's ALL going to be ok in the end. Everything. We just need to be patient, use common sense and keep our sense of humor.
Addendum: This is a family fight and this is my sister Betsy,
a Nurse Practicioner on the front lines in Florida. I am SO very proud of her and all of her fellow health care workers!
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