Part 32 Switch off the machines


Becah accompanies me to treatment the following overcast and drizzly day, while the kids are off to Dallas with their grandmother. More vomiting again following radiation. At home I lie around listlessly, chilled, watching shows like the 25 Biggest TV Blunders and other nonsense to try to divert my mind. Becah accompanies me again on my midweek session, where I experience a delay as the technicians try to get the machine to work. I am sick again after a sunnier and cooler Thursday treatment, returning home to rest and watch a “Vegas” rerun. I stay home Friday so the radiation machine can be tinkered with, and the children return from Dallas in time for “Fun Friday”. What a life they have! Traveling and parties. Of course, they also have to live with the uncertainty of what will happen to their battered daddy, which takes the shimmer off.

The next day - a rainy Saturday - is somehow cozy to me, but the evening is rough. Bouts of coughing wake me often at night, enabling me to taste the saltiness in my mouth. The next day I keep Brooke while Becah takes Bree to Reliant Stadium to see Selena Gomez and rising star Justin Bieber at the rodeo. My parents drop by to visit before GG comes back to stay for her “rotation”.

I eagerly greet Monday – my 38th radiation session. I am chilled and dragging from fatigue, but none of that matters. I simply have to get through until…Tuesday. This day is here at last. I wait in the chemo/IV room before my final treatment, shaking and shaking the vial. On CNN, they announce that the House has actually passed the President’s medical reform bill. My vial doesn’t clear, though, and they replace it. After eventually getting my shot (which could be stinging sharply but which I don’t feel because of my joy at this moment), I go into the waiting room for my radiation. For the last time I will see the mother and her small children, who squabble daily as they play with puzzles, waiting impatiently for their dad’s treatment. I say goodbye to a man who has been undergoing treatment for a liver disease but who will soon be celebrating the end of his sessions with a barbeque lunch (I secretly envy that he can at least eat a sandwich – something that I have not been able to do). They soon call for me. One more time the mask slips over my face, the machine arcs slowly and hazily above my head, and in 22 minutes it is silent for good.