I began radiation after four trips to the radiation oncologist's office and two visits with the reconstructive surgeon. I had to completely drain the left (healthy) tissue expander, so it will have to go through the expansion process again.
After the expander was drained, the radiation oncologist tried mapping my chest with the machines. Then he came over and asked, "Do these have metal in them?”
"Yes. That's how they use a magnet to find the port to fill them, or at least that's what I was told,” I replied.
“I cannot do radiation with metal nearby because the beams can hit the metal, scatter, and we cannot control where it goes,” the doctor said softly.
I took a deep breath, trying to process. “So I need to remove both expanders in order for you to do radiation?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry. Did they (the original team from out of state) not tell you this could be a concern?”
“No. That team works closely with the reconstructive surgeon, and this is their standard procedure. The radiation oncologist there told me they would just radiate the whole chest. They didn't have this technology you're using, and they didn't say anything about the metal ports being a problem.” I replied as calmly as I could muster.
“I’m sorry to say you will need surgery to remove both expanders. Otherwise, it's too dangerous, and I can’t be precise about where the beam hits,” the doctor stated with eyes filled with compassion.
I nodded my head and said, “I understand. I’ll call the reconstructive surgeon today.”
“If you leave their number, I’ll call and speak with them myself so we can discuss how to move forward.” The doctor offered.
I almost burst into tears right there on the table, but held it together while I got dressed and walked down the hall to give the nurse the number. I lost my composure in her office. She showed such compassion that it broke the wall I was trying to hold up, and the tears came quickly.
It wasn’t vanity that broke me; it was the timeline and the pain I had already endured with these torture devices (tissue expanders). We are already behind in care because of how my body has responded to everything, and I have not had therapeutic levels of treatment. No one from the previous team told me this might be an issue when the expanders were placed, and I felt blindsided.
Removing them meant another surgery and months of healing before radiation could even begin. Then, if I chose reconstruction again, it would mean yet another surgery to replace the expanders, if my tissue and skin could withstand it after radiation. The thought of a second round of tissue expansion honestly felt worse than the first. It is excruciating and emotionally draining.
In that moment, I did not want to do this anymore. I did not want to fight the cancer. I did not want radiation. I did not want expanders. I did not want reconstruction. I did not want to be bald anymore. I did not want the constant pain that never seemed to ease. I did not want the fatigue that made me feel weak. I did not want to drag my family through more treatments and long drives to appointments. I did not want to be in the middle of this nightmare that has been my every waking moment for the last nine months. I did not want the constant fear I kept caged in the back of my mind that no matter how hard I fight, it could still come back and take my life.
Gavin and I drove home, sharing our frustration and hurt. Once we got home, I went out to the bayou and screamed as loud as I could, releasing the rage and anguish inside me. I vented. I told God exactly where I was. I told Him how much I felt like giving up and letting nature run its course.
When I had calmed down, I went to town to run errands because the world keeps turning even when yours feels like it falls off its axis every few weeks. The mind-numbing chores gave me something I could do and gave me some small sense of purpose.
As I was heading home, the radiation oncologist called. After reviewing the scans again and doing more research, he felt confident he could work around the metal rings. We could move forward with radiation after all. I sighed and praised God the rest of the way home.
That night, I collapsed into a heap of exhausted tears. I didn’t fall to my knees like normal; I flopped at the feet of Jesus because I had no strength left to do it neatly or gracefully. I just stayed there for a long time, soaking my face with tears, and letting my spirit groan in the unburdening of my pain and fear.
Needless to say, the past few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster as we try to determine how to move forward. The stress of the appointments and the back-and-forth driving wore me down. Although I worked hard to focus on the joy of time with family and friends, celebrating my bonus-kids' birthdays, and walking on the beach. I ended up catching a rough respiratory virus and spent over a week sneezing, coughing, and blowing my nose. I had just begun to step into community at church and attend a few Bible studies, but my immune system may not be ready for that yet.
Now, every weekday for the next six weeks, I drive an hour round-trip to lie on a table with a structure molded just for me. The room is quiet. My chest is exposed to the cold air while machines and panels move and lift around me like satellite wings. There is no pain in the moment, just lights, pivots, angles, and low mechanical sounds as the beams pass over my chest wall, underarm, collarbone, and even through my back shoulder. I cannot feel the radiation now, but with each treatment, the side effects will come. The fatigue intensifies and lingers for weeks to months after the last treatment. A sunburn on the inside and outside will create pain I haven't experienced yet, but I know God will walk me through it.
The first time I lay there for the actual dose, I closed my eyes to keep from bolting. Everything in me wanted to jump up and run out of the room. Fear rushed in fast, loud, convincing. But I remembered something I’ve learned in this fire; fear is a liar. I have already walked through chemotherapy when I thought I couldn’t. I am still here. I am still held. God is still saying, “I am with you.”
I have Scripture on the soles of my shoes so that I am always reminded of who walks with me, and as I lie on the doctor’s table, others might see it too. On the table, I recite Scripture from memory, line by line, anchoring myself in truth. Moments like these remind me how important it is to keep writing His Word on my heart, not just on my shoes. These are the quiet moments when lies try to slip into the soul, and fear attempts to steal your joy. I choose to let truth fill my soul, even as radiation fills my body. I will use the Word as my sword and shield as I walk this new path toward healing (and tan) from the inside out.
So if you are wondering what I will be up to for the next six weeks, I have RSVP’d to a glow party for ten to fifteen minutes a day. I will be the one lying very still, reciting words of truth, as I work on my glowing personality.
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| Wearing my new wrap my friend Kayla bought me in Israel |
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| My little guys are such a delight in my life |
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| A treat from our favorite coffee shop on the way to radiation |
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| Walks on the beach are truly healing |
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| Lollie and Al |
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