Dog Lived (and So Will I)

by Rhyne, Teresa J.

  In the days before I began the radiation, I again prepared myself. I bought sports bras with no wires, the natural deodorant that was the one kind allowed, and plenty of aloe vera. I also spent a little time reading outdoors, soaking up some sun while I could. I was instructed to stay out of direct sunlight during radiation.

  I also decided that radiation was like the California bar exam had been. The bar exam itself, I thought, was not that difficult. After all, I’d spent the prior three years of my life studying for that very exam. What was difficult was the physical and mental aspect of being tested for eight hours a day, three straight days in a row. If you allowed yourself to think about that too much, you’d have a much harder time in the exam. Back then, I hadn’t figured out the “Seamus-ness” of concentrating on the cookie, but I wasn’t far off. Then I had focused on the test in increments—one essay at a time or one three-hour test segment at a time, never more than that. Now I’d be counting down thirty-three radiation zaps, one at a time, with a latte after each.

  Radiation patients have the same appointment time every day. I chose the 9:15 appointment slot. Even though I had no hair to wash or blow-dry, no eyelashes to lengthen with mascara, and my legs and underarms did not need shaving, I still didn’t move quickly in the morning, and I knew I’d be grumpy the rest of the day if I had to be anywhere before nine in the morning.

  On the morning of my first appointment though, I again woke early. Moments later, Chris followed me downstairs. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

  “Thanks, but no. It seems like a waste of your time. Besides, there’s Seamus.”

  Hearing his name, Seamus wagged his tail and picked his head up.

  “Well, the doctor said it’s only like fifteen minutes. I’m sure we can leave him for that long,” Chris said.

  “I’m not at all sure of that. But it’s okay. I’ll be fine. If there’s a problem, it won’t be until much later on.”

  I managed to maintain that bravery right up until I was on the radiation table, breasts exposed, arms up over my head and lasers pointed at my chest.

  “Okay, stay still. We’re going to leave the room now, but we can see you and there’s an intercom so we can hear you and you’ll be able to hear us. This won’t take long.” The radiation techs were cheerful and efficient, but that only made me feel more alone when they left the room. The metal door they closed behind them was huge, over eight feet tall and at least a foot thick. The room fell silent.

  Alone on the table, I thought of Seamus. Each time he was taken from me and led back to the hospital quarters for his chemo infusions, I worried that he’d be frightened and feel alone or abandoned—like I felt then. But each time he’d come trotting out, happy and full of energy, just searching for his new cookie.

  I hoped the same for me.

  The machine started up with its space age noises, humming and dinging as the arm moved over me and the laser beams flashed across my chest. I could hear each time a radiation shot was fired. Ping, zip. The machine rotated clockwise. Ping, zip. The machine moved again. Ping, zip. More rotation. Ping, zip.

  “You did great. Now just stay where you are and we’ll come in to release you,” came the voice over the intercom.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep. That’s it. You did fine.”

  I would have wagged my tail if I had one. Good patient! Good, good patient!

  Within the week, I devised a routine. A routine I began to look forward to…well, at least as much as anyone could look forward to a routine that involved radiation of one’s breast. I woke, had my coffee while reading, showered, dressed, and drove to the radiation center. I greeted and chatted with my fellow radiation patients—Ms. 9:00 a.m. was an ovarian cancer patient, Ms. 9:30 was also a breast cancer patient, and Mr. 9:45 was, in addition to early to most of his appointments, a throat cancer patient who on some days could talk and on others could not. Usually I was in and out in under twenty minutes, longer if the machine was moody or if any one of my fellow patients or I were particularly chatty. Then I drove through Starbucks and picked up coffee and oatmeal on my way to my office. I was at my desk finishing breakfast by ten. For a cancer patient, I told myself, this was not bad at all. One day down, twenty-five, -four, -three more to go.

  • • •

  Folks keep asking what the radiation dosage is, how long it takes, and whether it’s “low dosage.” And, um, I don’t know. I’m sure they told me, but I’m also sure I decided it wasn’t information I needed to keep in my overcrowded brain right now. As long as the doctor knows, I’m good. I tried to count (one Mississippi two Mississippi three....) how long each zapping was, but they seemed inconsistent to me, so I finally asked. And the radiation nurse told me it isn’t about the time, it’s about the dose. So I’m zapped for as long as it takes to get 180....um....I think she said centigrams. (Dad...I know you’ll let me know the correct measurement and then demand repayment of some of that tuition money you wasted on me.) She said to think of it like pouring a cup of sugar. It’s not how long it takes; it’s just done when you get to a cup.

  • • •

  By week two, I’d come to know my fellow radiation patients. After my Wednesday zapping, when I returned to the waiting room, Ms. 9:30 and Mr. 9:45 and his friend, a heavyset African American man whose e-reader I’d begun to openly covet, were seated, each quietly reading.

  “I’ll get changed and wait for you,” I said to 9:30.

  “Great, I brought a scarf. I can’t wait to have options besides all these hats,” she said.

  “But you look cute,” I said.

  “I’m sixty years old! Cute is not what I want. I want sophisticated. I want to look like you.”

  “Well, we have the same hairstyle, so you are off to a great start,” I said. Everyone in the room laughed. We all had the same hairstyle.

  The day before, Ms. 9:30 had asked me how I tied the head scarves I wore. Just as I’d given up the wigs in favor of scarves for the summer, she had given up wigs in favor of a variety of cute, sporty caps.

  I’d now amassed an impressive selection of scarves, including the several expensive, large, luxurious silk scarves Trudi had given me and the many my mother had sewn especially for this purpose. My mother was still battling shingles and could not come out for another visit, so she’d busied herself sewing. And quilting. (I now also owned a pink ribbon quilt.)

  I received daily compliments on my headgear from the staff and other patients. I promised Ms. 9:30 I’d teach her how to tie the scarves. My verbal instructions failed, as did my demonstration on my own head, so today we were moving on to full demonstration with class participation. I took off my scarf to demonstrate the tying.

  “You have hair,” Ms. 9:30 said.

  “No, I have stubble. And it’s weirdly dark.”

  “You have more than I do. If I had that much, I wouldn’t be putting anything on my head.”

  I thought about that for a moment. At home, I’d begun to go without any head covering. But I wasn’t quite ready for a full public viewing. Still though, it was nice to hear.

  After a few tries, she mastered the art of pirate-scarf tying.

  “I need hoop earrings,” she said.

  “And heavy, dark eyeliner, a la Johnny Depp.”

  “Very cool!”

  I liked this group of people I was getting to know. All of us were fighting the battles of our lives, but everyone had time to be kind to one another. The nurses told me how the dynamic of a waiting room changed with the groups that came through, and ours was a particularly kind group. They’d had nervous groups who increased the anxiety in one another, groups who flashed their scars at one another, and groups who competed over who’d suffered the most. I was happy for my group.

  But then one day, about halfway through my treatments, when I exited the dressing room,
dressed for work, I walked into a discussion among the other patients. A new patient had joined our ranks and was demanding to know everyone’s numbers.

  “So what’s your number?” she said to me.

  “My number?”

  “Was yours breast cancer?”

  Cancer patients are possessive of their cancers, I’d noted. There is much talk of “my cancer” or “your cancer.”

  “Oh, um, yes. Breast cancer. Triple-negative.” I looked at my fellow patients—the regulars. Ms. 9:30 looked like she was trying not to laugh and others were just shaking their heads slowly. I was aware that “triple-negative” was not a number, but I wasn’t sure what she was getting at. At least “triple” was number-y.

  “So like 5 percent?”

  “I’m sorry. Five percent what?”

  “Five percent chance of recurrence. You know. These doctors all give us our numbers. So we know. We know if it’s coming back. What’s your number?”

  Wow. This total stranger wants to know the odds of me dying? Why? So she could decide if she’d be wasting her time getting to know me? “Ah. That number. Well, I have an 85 percent chance my cancer is not coming back.”

  “So you have a 15 percent chance of recurrence.”

  “No. I have an 85 percent chance it’s not coming back.”

  “That’s a 15 percent chance of recurrence!” She stepped closer to me, her brow furrowed, as though I was failing to understand and it was her job to set me straight.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my math. That’s just not how I’m going to look at it. I prefer to think I have an 85 percent chance it’s not coming back. But thank you for asking.” I looked past her to the patients seated in the room. Ms. 9:30 gave me a thumbs-up, and I could see that several of the other patients were now smiling. As I left, I heard the newcomer explaining to the others that I was in denial.

  That evening Chris and I took a fully recovered Seamus for a long walk, and I told Chris what had happened. We’d been banned from our hot tub for months. Walks with Seamus had become our new talk time.

  “That’s shocking,” he said.

  “I know. Right? Like I need reminding I might die from this. From a total stranger!”

  “Well, that’s not all that surprising. People are rude. No, I’m more surprised at you.”

  “At me?”

  “Giving scarf tying lessons, cheerful talk…when did you become little Miss Pollyanna Optimistic? Focusing on the positive? Are you sure your brain wasn’t zapped in that lightning storm during radiation? Maybe they swapped your personality with some poor cheerleader somewhere who’s now yelling ‘just do your fucking job and let us go home’ on the sidelines of a football field somewhere.”

  I laughed. He had a point. Not about the poor cheerleader, of course, but about me. My first response had been a positive one. An optimistic thought. No doom. No gloom. Me!

  The dog lived and so did I.

  And it seemed I really believed that now. It wasn’t just a hope or a mantra. I gave Chris a quick kiss and finished the walk still smiling. On the last day of radiation, Chris came with me. I finally got my diploma and a cheerful graduation ceremony from Dr. Hocko and her wonderful staff. I thought, briefly, that I’d even miss the radiation oncology center. I’d come to know my fellow patients and the staff well, and in many ways my recovery had started there. When we left, Chris took a picture of me in front of the center, clutching my diploma and throwing my hat into the air, proudly displaying my half inch of hair and grinning ridiculously.

  • • •

  Be warned—if you are looking for some sad, crazy, or even funny cancer treatment story you’ve got the wrong blog today. Yeah, sure, this is a blog about my cancer “odyssey,” but I took the day off from cancer. Instead, it’s a happy little post about Chris and me celebrating our anniversary. June 12 was our first date—at an Angels game. So, this June 12 found us back in the Diamond Club at an Angels game. Because it was a special occasion I went in drag (fake hair and eyelashes! This was big!).

  Our first date was a lot of fun (yeah, um, that’s why we kept dating), and it also marks the anniversary of me learning the term cougar. (I’ve now perfected my knowledge. Ahem.) There was a pair of cougars in the seats in front of us at that first game. This time, there was a family of four. Both times, however, there were obnoxious drunk guys behind us. Ah, public sporting events. I like these times when I get to return to normal, however briefly. And nothing says normal like drunk guys and fireworks at a baseball game. I may have been a little more tired than normal, and “in drag,” but it was a great night out with a fantastic man who doesn’t care if I’m in drag or bald or fighting cancer or cranky or any of those things I’ve been in the last several months.

  Chris didn’t even mind that for the second time in five days a stranger came up to him and commented that he looked like Jay Leno. He didn’t even mind when drunk Angels fan asked him to do a Jay Leno impression (yes, he did it and yes, it’s very good). When his hair is long, people think he looks like Jay Leno. When it’s short, Vince Gill. To me, he’s all Chris. And all mine.

  Chapter 24

  ALOHA, CANCER

  As we headed into summer, daylight was lasting longer and so was my energy. I came home from work one evening to find a group of friends with Chris on our back patio, sipping French rosé wine and watching the sun go down.

  “We were just telling Chris how wonderful he’s been through this whole awful experience,” Jane said.

  I pulled up a chair, and Chris poured me a glass of wine. “Yeah, I know. I tell him that, too. I also told him how popular he’d be with the ladies if I didn’t make it. He’d have his choice of women.”

  “It’s true. Oh my god,” Becky joined in. “A guy who not only stuck by his woman and went to every single doctor’s appointment, but also did this crazy thing with his hair just to show support? They’d be lining up. Wait, where do I get on the waiting list?”

  “Seriously. I’m in,” Laureen said.

  “You can’t be; you’re already married,” Becky said.

  “Okay, well then I’ll just be his pimp. I’ll handle the scheduling for Mr. Popular Young Widower. This will call for great organization skills.”

  We were all laughing, and the riff went on for some time. Chris added a few names to the waiting list himself.

  “Hey, people, I’m still here! I’m not actually dying. A little respect for Cancer Girl, please!” I said.

  “You started it,” Becky said. “And seriously, I’ve never been around someone with cancer, and I never thought I’d be able to joke about cancer things. So I guess I have to thank you for that—for showing me how to handle this and making it easier.”

  “Well, I’m a little concerned I may have made you all a bit too comfortable. I’m worried about the next woman you all know with breast cancer. She may not laugh at you pimping out her man.”

  “No worries. We won’t,” Laureen said. “We’ll be too busy pimping out Chris.”

  I was happy to hear the laughter, but even happier to hear the toast that Jane made next.

  “I mean it, Chris. You were outstanding through all of this. So I’d like to make a toast to Chris.” She raised her glass, and we all held our glasses up. “I’ve never been so happy to have been so wrong about someone.”

  I caught Chris’s glance across the glasses, and I could see he was happy to hear this. After all we’d been through, finally everyone could see what Chris and I knew all along. (Well, Chris knew all along; I was a little slower to the realization of what we had.)

  “That means a lot, Jane. Thank you,” Chris said, touching his glass to hers.

  It meant a lot to me, too, and I drank in the moment as the sun dipped below the hill and our friends continued talking and sipping wine on a gorgeous June night.

  �
� • •

  Chris here, subbing in for Teresa tonight. And since it’s been about a month since my last Growin’ It Out for Cancer posting, we’re dropping Month 5 on you tonight. And what a month it’s been in hair growth. We’re sneaking up on four inches and we’re definitely racing headlong into hair helmet territory.

  In fact, we may have already sprinted through helmet territory and are moving right into a full-on lion’s mane. My hair suddenly began to take on the same shape and form of Miss Havisham’s garden. The hair around my ears (around, people, around!) can now be stretched all the way down over my ears if I so choose (I don’t), and I’m starting to get worried that soon, there won’t be enough room behind my ears to keep the massive amounts of hair I have on the wings properly tucked and stylish. I fear that soon the only look I’ll be capable of is Donny Osmond circa 1972, and even he didn’t have to deal with that, that, that THING undulating and breaching and pluming across my forehead. Seriously, the natural waves forming in the front and back of my hair would make Jacques Cousteau gasp in awe and would send thousands of Indonesian coastal dwellers screaming for higher ground. I mean, check out whatever that is going on in the back, those little Fancy Dan girls starting to U-turn back toward my neck. That’s not natural. Hair’s not supposed to move that way, right? I’m not getting a mullet, right? RIGHT?

  • • •

  Chris and the friends at our house that evening had begun plans for a Survivor-themed celebration of the end of my treatment. They made invitations and T-shirts with a parody of the Survivor reality television logo. The logo was pink and said, “Out-Chemo, Out-Radiate, Out-Live.” The party would be held in our friend Michelle’s backyard, recently landscaped and looking just like Provence. She had the added bonus of two large dogs, Will and Nellie, who were Seamus’s best friends. Seamus viewed her yard as a sort of Doggie Disneyland, so much so that it was difficult to get him back in the car after we visited.