Week two of radiation came and went like that leftover slice of cake you promised yourself you’d save for later. Poof. Gone.
Here’s the thing: I have to show up for radiation every. single. day. It’s become a bit of a routine—like morning coffee, but with more lasers. Most of my appointments are at the same time each day, but life being life, a few were shuffled around because I had already booked other doctor visits before the radiation calendar came out. I’m popular like that.
So now, after I check in, I no longer get that private, civilized text saying, “Your appointment is ready.” Nope. Now I get a PA announcement. Picture it: a calm voice echoing through the waiting area saying, “Ms. Johnson, please go to the dressing room.” I know it’s meant to be helpful, but it feels more like I just got called down on The Price is Right. Should I run? Should I wave at the crowd?
The tech team continues to be professional and kind, even as they pretend to laugh at my weird sense of humor. Honestly, I don’t even think I’m that funny, but they go with it. A+ for effort, team.
By now, I’ve adjusted to getting up on the radiation table like it’s just another Tuesday. In fact, during Friday’s treatment, I didn’t even have to do the usual wiggle-wiggle “cha-cha” to line up. Progress! Although let’s not get ahead of ourselves—next week might have me dancing again. I’ve learned to feel the pressure on my rib cage as a marker for correct positioning, and I also try to relax my right arm and hand just right to make the magic happen.
So far, my radiated breast looks about the same. I’m doing what the doc ordered—moisturizing like I’m auditioning for a Nivea commercial. I saw some photos of radiation side effects and immediately said, “Oh no, ma’am.” I’m sticking to this lotion routine like my skin depends on it—because it does.
Now, let’s talk about that day at Mayo. Five appointments. FIVE. I should’ve gotten frequent flyer miles.
First up, labs. I weirdly look forward to them now because I want to see “normal” pop up on my results again. My blood gets drawn through my port, which means no arm-sticking, thank you very much. Since I had treatment that same day, they left me accessed (which sounds like tech support lingo but just means “no second poke”).
Then it was off to radiation. By now, it’s second nature: lie down, shimmy, freeze like a statue, and seven minutes later, it’s done. I’ve even started chatting with other patients in the dressing room. One woman was on her 9th treatment—we bonded over the fact that we had the same surgeon. She and her husband moved ten hours from Mississippi to get care here. Another woman shared how cancer ate away the bone in her shoulder, and now she’s getting radiation on her head.
Let me pause for a second. You ever notice how you don’t see a certain car much, but then once you like it, it’s suddenly everywhere? That’s how cancer feels. I always knew it existed, but now I see it everywhere. This past week alone, two people I know personally told me they had cancer—one years ago, and the other was recently diagnosed. It’s like we’re in this secret club that no one wants to join.
Back to my day—I saw my nurse, who reviewed my labs and gave my shitty titty (that’s what we’re calling it) a quick exam. Labs weren’t great. Still low hemoglobin and potassium, which means I’m still anemic and back on potassium pills. I don’t know what low potassium does exactly, but apparently, it’s not the vibe we want. She also reminded me that I’ll start oral chemo about four weeks after radiation ends, probably around May 28 to line up with my next Keytruda. Just when I thought I’d start feeling “normal,” chemo swoops back in like, “Hey girl, miss me?”
Oh! I’m also supposed to do nightly breast massages to help with scar tissue. Not the luxurious spa type, though. More like, “gently break things up, but don’t go too deep.” Honestly, it’s weird—but I do what I’m told.
The day ended with a trip to the chemo suite. I settled in with some ginger ale and crackers, got my Keytruda infusion through IV, and tried to watch TV but ended up scrolling my phone instead. Classic.
That was six hours of my life with the medical dream team. More to come.
Here’s the part where I get reflective. Blogging these experiences helps me, but I always wonder—how do other people cope with this every day? I’ve watched YouTube videos, read forums, and searched for answers. I wanted to know what kind of breast cancer I had, how treatment worked, what the side effects were, how people handled work, family, friends, hair loss, fatigue—everything.
I still don’t know it all, but I know more now than I did yesterday. Everyone’s journey is different. Mine includes humor—sometimes awkward, often dry, occasionally sarcastic. It’s my way of dealing. Yours might look different, and that’s okay.
If you’re reading this and you’re going through cancer, or someone you love is, please know this: you are not alone. I’m here, showing up daily, sharing this wild ride not because it’s easy—but because someone out there needs to know they’re not the only one feeling all the feelings.
Until next time, stay moisturized, stay brave, and stay weird. We’ve got this.
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