My Cruise of Light, Energy and Love

Twenty down; eight more to go.

Apparently some folks on the West coast are displaying some anxiety regarding the trace amounts of radiation coming from Japan’s Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant. All that I can say is – “WELCOME TO MY WORLD.”

While riding in my own radiation tunnel, experiencing some unpleasant side effects – how should I put this delicately? Rad also burns healthy tissue in that place where the sun doesn’t shine. Seeing on today’s lunch menu – a pork butt sandwich, made it ache even more. Poor pig.

It’s somewhat paradoxical while undergoing my own radiation woes that the world’s attention is on the Japanese. The Japanese are displaying to humanity a dignified stoicism that is both extraordinary and humbling.

They exhibit a grace under pressure that I can only hope to emulate. According to Time reporter, Hannah Beech Akaushi, the Japanese word, “gaman” signifies their “calm determination to overcome what cannot be controlled.”

I keep reminding myself of this while in the Tomotherapy sphere: Gaman. Twenty down and just eight more to go. Gaman.

So after undergoing nearly three weeks of radiation – Monday through Friday with weekends off for good behavior, my doctor cheerfully announced that she wants to add another six radiation treatments to my schedule.

Wouldn’t it just be easier flying to Japan?
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Radiation is grueling – cumulative effects of nausea, fatigue and aliments that I never knew existed: Sunburn on your bladder? Once with some youthful exuberance, I ripped my bikini top off in the hot Hawaiian sun; a short time later my milky white ta-tas resembled overly ripe raspberries. From that day forth, I respected cover-ups and UV 30 – cognizant that certain parts of the human anatomy should never be exposed to sunlight.

Needless to say, I was ill equipped for sunburn on the bladder.

Soon as the bladder began recovering, another orifice began acting up. Realizing that certain subject matters shouldn’t be discussed in polite company – let’s just say if you own stock in Preparation H, thanks to my buying power, you will be pleased by its quarterly performance. Although it might work well for under eye wrinkles, and making your torso looked ripped for the ladies, despite numerous applications, it didn’t solve the problem.

After listening to my cries for help, my father began channeling my grandmother from the old country, because he began insisting that I soak a tea bag in cold water and stick it in that spot where the sun doesn’t shine.

Oddly enough, it works better than Preparation H.

I doubt very much that this is what Sarah Palin had in mind, but consider me a devoted tea bagger.

I met a new friend in Rad Island Lab (my nickname for the oncology radiation department at Froedert Hospital).

Like me, my new friend Stacey has impeccable taste in fashion – we both favor baggy sky blue cotton robes that cover faded speckled gowns made in soft cotton pajama material. It’s the new kink: for the gown features a mere tie in the back and one on the side – for a quick easy view of the latest thong showing off a skinny ass.

We differ in footwear – while I favor clunky brown Frye boots, Stacy wears black flats.

Being fashionistas, hair is cropped this year – Stacey goes more for frontal lobe baldness; while I opt for very, very short with various bald patches that display skull.

After going through 6 months of chemotherapy, followed by 5.5 weeks of radiation, Stacy is now planning a vacation that centers on swimming with the dolphins.

“Even if I have to resort to prostitution, I will get the money to go on this trip,” she vowed.

Being a supportive friend, I added. “I’m sure that there are plenty of men who have fetishes for bald-headed women.”

She stared at me. And laughed.

Yep. At long last, I found a new friend who shares a similar penchant for open back hospital gowns, nausea, massive medical bills, and a wacky sense of humor.

One week down – 4.5 weeks left to go.

Last week, I began TomoTherapy at Froedert Hospital.

“Tomo” is a Greek word, meaning “slice.” TomoTherapy delivers radiation slice-by-slice versus traditional methods that irradiate the tumor in one big swoop.

The TomoTherapy delivery process means less radiation on healthy cells.

Legend has it that a bunch of physicists and engineers went out drinking one night in Madison, WI and instead of playing normal bar games like the average Wisconsin cheese head, pondered why radiation beams couldn’t be delivered with a laser like precision.

From that evening of debauchery, TomoTherapy was born. Apparently, someone still has that bar napkin with the initial rough draft. (And who said that drinking is a waste of time???).

Gentle reader if you need more information about TomoTherapy, visit their website – http://www.tomotherapy.com.

For me, the decision to go ahead with radiation wasn’t an easy one to make. Even with TomoTherapy, radiation has a number of adverse side affects (think Hiroshima).

However, after interviewing a total of seven doctors; as well as weighing the opinions of of those opposed to it, I opted for the procedure. In keeping with the integrative medical approach adapted early on, I decided to combine radiation with a healthy dose of alternative care (which includes, acupuncture; Reiki; nutrition; meditation; weight lifting and yoga.)

Worldwide about 300 oncology centers offer TomoTherapy; however, fortunately, Froedert Hospital, a mere 20 miles from my home, does.

So thus the Light Energy part of my cruise begins. Welcome aboard.

Well, this probably falls into the “more than you need to know,” category – but, yesterday began shaving again. Yep. Bring out that old razor because hair is back on my legs.

In time, I probably will once again start bitchin’ about this grooming practice – let’s blame it on my Mediterranean bloodlines, but in the meantime, I am savoring this experience.

My hair is coming back – and so am I.

Long strands of brown, golden and grey lie everywhere.

It reminds me of a cat or a long-hair dog.

Except it’s me.

Having clunks of hair lie in your hand is disturbing. Waking up and seeing a pillow covered in the stuff reminds me a barbershop floor except, well, it’s in my bed.

And for those who’re interested in such things, my Brazilian is also coming along very nicely, thank you very much.

Ever since my diagnosis, I knew hair loss was inevitable. And despite getting a wig and collecting several hats, I still felt ill prepared for it.

“You could get a bulls-eye tattoo on your head,” my younger brother Russell offered helpfully. “Think about the number of lives you could save by being there just in case someone felt like jumping out of a window.”

Thank goodness for friends who held some confident boost rallies. Muscle bound minister man gave me a call on the day after it began. “I was thinking about you and wondering how you’re doing?” He asked.

I told him. “I’m losing my hair.”

Perhaps because he’s a preacher and has a way with words – (not to mention, amazing guns; seriously, it makes me want to convert) – in his deep melodic voice, he kindly reminded me that bald is the new black, and I of all people can easily pull it off. Anyway, his compliments made me blush right up to those empty hair follicles.

The next day, I had an early morning breakfast meeting. I managed to do my own version of a comb over – incidentally, thanks to this experience, I can now officially relate to middle-age men (and dogs) who pretend that they’re not balding.

Marie and I were the first ones to arrive. Thank goodness for people like Marie. Like Mr. Preacher Muscle Man, she too has a way with words. “Remember that movie in which Demi Moore shaves her head?”

“GI Jane,” I volunteered.

“She looked amazing in that film,” Marie said sipping her coffee.

“Well,” of course. I answered. “That’s Demi. She’s a beautiful woman.”

Marie looked at me. Her brown eyes grew luminous. “I’m talking about you. You remind me of her. You have that same sort of effervescent radiance. You glow with or without hair.”

I began mumbling my thanks for being so kind.

“I’m not being kind,” she said. “It’s the truth. You’re beautiful.”

It’s nice having friends who lie.

On Sunday, I decided to take wiggie out for a short jaunt. It squeezed my head as if I was wearing a tight shower cap. Alternatively, I feel like the Jewish version of Dolly Parton on a big hair day, or Tammy Faye with gobs of mascara pouring down my cheek.

“It does make you look 10 years younger,” Russell offered. When he’s not urging me to get a skull tattoo, he too offers moments of kindness.

It’s these moments of laughter and kindness that bridge the gap of tears.

For women especially, hair and their looks is how they present themselves to the world. Having it be altered dramatically because of illness or accident creates a new paradigm. Reliance on the inner core becomes an even greater necessity.

Paraphrasing a Dolly Parton quote, “I hope people see the brain underneath the (bald spot) and the heart beneath the boobs.”

Even if they don’t: I need to. I need to.

For the past month or so, I have been lost at sea. Drifting – somewhat aimlessly. Instead of being on a cruise headed toward Well-Being, I landed on a dingy about to spring a leak.

My cruise was originally set toward WELL-BEING, but unfortunately, I kept on running into Muggles (so many are involved in the health care field as you might have guessed) – and I allowed them to bump me off course.

It began when I called one of the cancer support groups: I told the volunteer about my cruise analogy. “Oh, my dear,” she sighed. “I’m afraid that you’ve got it all wrong. This is not a cruise. It is a marathon.” She emphasized every word. “One. Long. Grueling. Hellacious marathon. Wait,” she said. “Just you wait.”

Gosh. With attitudes like that, I’ll pass on the support thank you very much.

So over the weekend while recuperating from my first chemotherapy treatment, between bouts of deep sleep, I chose Harry Potter for my support team.

In Harry Potter, the wizardly world exists along side the so-called “real” world. Although both worlds share similar things, wizards see everything, while the supernatural remains invisible to the non-magical Muggles.

When you’re surrounded by Muggles, it’s often challenging to experiencing the majesty of the unseen world that like the seen world follows laws. Some instead describe it as mere coincidences, others more familiar with Jung might consider it as synchronicity. Religious folks swear it’s Jesus. Esther Hicks who channels spiritual entities named Abraham, describes it as the Law of Attraction – a concept which is sweeping the planet.

You create with your every thought.

By the Universe Law of Attraction (that which is like unto itself is drawn), you are attracting the essence of whatever you are giving your attention to – wanted or unwanted.” The Teachings of Abraham Well-Being Cards

Like any concept that requires a paradigm shift, there will be those who believe in its validity; and then those who will insist that it has no basis in scientific reality.

However, unless I want to think like a Muggles, I remove myself from the debate and instead take comfort in this knowing:

It is not necessary for even one other person to understand these Laws of the Universe..for you are the attractor of your experience. Just you!
The Teachings of Abraham Well-Being Cards

When you have been a student of consciousness as I have been for nearly 30 years, knowing what I know, and yet, not wanting to do what I know – makes it a particularly interesting sort of hell.

Every problem provides a solution. The key is not to focus on the problem but on the solution.

Already I can see that cancer is giving me a gift. It is forcing me to focus like never before.

And because I’ve been studying this stuff for years, I know how it works.

I understand the power of thought: What you think about expands.

However, it is not just the thoughts you think – it is the emotion behind it. For it is that emotion – or a vibration – that triggers a manifestation.

My problem is how quickly I forget this stuff. I know it. And then I don’t. And when I start to listen to Muggles then I get off course – instead of cruising, I’m clinging to a dingy.

Bottom line: It bottles down to getting happy and finding things to appreciate. Sure, it would be a heck of a lot more fun experiencing the joy of sex rather than that of chemo….I have a choice here. Think like Muggles or choose otherwise.

If I can learn to thrive through chemotherapy, then anything after all of this will be a breeze.

For you see, I don’t want to be in a marathon – I want to cruise, baby.