The Flying Circus

Week One of Therapy ends today, Friday 8 February - Samantha's Birthday! 

Out the door from Ashburn at 0715, into Bethesda Radiotherapy at about 0820, depending on traffic.  Darkened room, strapped down, mask on, hands tied to feet, a whirring machine spraying me with weird colored lights - the hardest part of all this is to remember how to relax. 

 Here's the image I have.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

 

                        
Dark room, metal table, strip to the waist, mouthpiece in to keep mouth open, mask on, hands and feet strapped down, whirring lights and absolutely no movement.  I have to keep remembering that when Goldfinger tells me that "he doesn't expect me to talk, he expects me to die," that I must mention "Operation Grand Slam," that magical phrase which will suddenly cut the switch on the machine.

After about 25 minutes of the machine this week, the switch has cut and I have been allowed to exit the dungeon and go have a mid-morning snack with that nice young lady, Victoria Galore.

Then upstairs to Chemotherapy, a room full of lounge chairs filled with what appears to be a social club of ladies with chemo tubes tucked into their collars, very elderly with blood dripping in from overhead IV's and seniors like me who are getting drugs through arm catheters or ports in the chest.  Lots of jabbering among customers - screws up my concentration on reading cancer bulletins and working Sudoku.  But a much more pleasant, hour-long experience than the 25 minute Goldfinger machine.

Just one week of therapy (of seven) has expired, yet look at the following picture of the "stuff" we have received to use each day. 

And this is just Week One.  I think the message is, if you get cancer, immediately hire a contractor to increase the size of your bathroom!

Now, don't get me wrong - we are very pleased with the great medical care at NNMC and all the supplies they provide.  But some stuff is not only needed, it is just flat useful.

For example, here the electronic porta-pak they provided to me to pump that most incredibly named chemo drug,  5 FU, into myself 24 hours a day.  I'm seen here with some hair, since most will be gone in the next several weeks.  

In the second photo I have donned a baseball cap sent to me from a friend in the Department of Physical Education at USMA.  You can begin to see what useful means.

Finally, the third picture reminds all that just because  an old geezer is wearing  a chemo device doesn't mean that he is without his concealed carry license.

Extra points for the blog viewers who can identify the weapon.

So, Week One - not so bad.  Side effects start in Weeks 2-3.

Thanks for your continued prayers.  I'll see you on the high ground!