Marguerite
Active Member
Well, I've had four days of treatment now. The first one was difficult, my right arm was at a slightly different angle which made it very painful, the way my shoulder is right now. I thought that was what I was going to have to put up with each time, but actually it's worked out over the next few days. I have to lie on my back with my right arm up and resting in a couple of cradles, to hold it still. I got the two tiny tattoos a few weeks ago; they use those to line up the machine. They are short of machine time and the waiting list is long; I've been put on a 9 day fortnight program which means my treatment will last for six weeks, not five. Today (Friday) is my first day off.
The place is actually quite nice. I arrive, park out the front in the spaces reserved for cancer patients if there are any spaces there, then let them know at the front desk. I have a time I'm supposed to be there but this week I had to arrive a lot earlier; I was prepared to wait, but it meant that if someone else was a little bit late (and even if you're still finishing off a cup of coffee, they will skip you and come back to you later) I was there to fill in a space. So I got seen sooner, which was good.
While we wait, there are some comfortable, padded chairs we can wait in. The waiting room is generally about three quarters full of people waiting - friends, family and patients. Various types of cancer in various stages of severity. We tend to not go into too much detail unless it's clear it will be OK to talk about it. Some people don't like to talk about their cancer, others are OK with it. Yesterday a woman I met & I were talking about things, including medication and general doctor whinges, when another woman nearby got up and moved. Oh well, it's a big enough lounge... but generally a conversation like tat has others joining in.
There are baskets of wool and knitting, so the knitting of squares for "Wrapped With Love" continues while we wait. If we want to knit, we reach over and help ourselves to whatever was left by previous patients. Personally, I at least try to finish a row of knitting before I leave.
We sit and chat, or help ourselves to free coffee or tea (instant - can't have everything) while we wait. Our name is eventually called and we go into a changeroom near the machine we've been allocated to. I'm on machine two. Once you're booked in for a particular machine, that stays your machine for the duration of your treatment. In the changeroom I have to strip to the waist then put on a gown. I then sit outside to wait, then I go in when called to the treatment room. There I lie on the table (it's a bit like an ultrasound set-up) while they arrange the various cradles for my right arm. I have to get my right arm out of the gown so I'm uncovered totally on the upper right body so the machine can be set up. Then I watch my reflection in the glass window of the machine while they arrange my exactly in position. There are green laser cross-hair sights that help line everything up. As the machine is moved around to get it lined up, it makes interesting patterns on my body which I watch in the glass. Part of lining me up involves drawing all over my chest with various felt pens, to help them line up the beam.
Also in the treatment room are some amazing trompe l'oeil murals, including one on the ceiling. Once I'm in position, I'm not allowed to move, not even my head, so I lie there and look at the lovely mural of a ceiling window with butterflies. Then they're ready, they leave me in the room alone and go to the next room while I get irradiated. The whole process is done in 15 minutes (that's what they allow - anything taking less helps them catch up for any delays) but the actual radiation exposure is only about 40 seconds, spread over two "zaps" each time.
Once they come back in after the second zap, they help me up (there's a handy strap they pass to me, which helps me pull myself up) and I head back to the changeroom.
I've made the helpful discovery that if I wear a singlet top with built-in shelf bra, I can wear that under all my other clothing and I can skip the changeroom. This also speeds things up. I think they've got the hang of how fast I change now, so I haven't had to wait after they call me in from the waiting room. For the last couple of days I simply walked in, got my gown (I have my own pigeonhole with my own gown, labelled, which I use every day) and removed all the outer layers. Then I carefully took down the straps of my singlet top but left the top in place, then put on the gown. Once the gown is on, I can pull down the top underneath it, once I am in the treatment room. Much faster. And I don't have to go back to the changeroom after the treatment. Instead, I pull my singlet top back into place immediately, where I would normally be putting the gown back on properly. Yesterday I just grabbed all my outer clothes and walked back to the waiting room and got my outer layers back on there while I chatted to my new friends. I suspect I may have started a new trend in the breast cancer patients there.
Once the treatment has happened, we can go. Except one day a week, when we see the doctor. Also if there are any obvious problems, the people in the treatment room who see us each day will alert the doctor or the specific health professional, and will tell us if we have to see anyone else.
Yesterday was also the Big Morning Tea, which is a Cancer Council fundraiser. All round Australia in various homes, halls, public spaces etc, people have had tea, coffee and cakes, with all money donated (the cost of a coffee or cake) going to cancer research. It was appropriate to have it in the Cancer Clinic at the hospital. My new friend was very cheeky - she didn't want to wait so she walked up to the table and the head of the queue, said, "I am getting in ahead of you; I'm the reason you're here anyway," and got her coffee and cakes.
Cheeky. She said the crowd parted like the Red Sea...
I noticed on Monday, after only one treatment, that I felt a bit ach-ey and sleepy. I had a catnap in the car and that helped. But it's been every day, including today even though there was no treatment. Yesterday & today I wasn't too bad though.
No skin reddening or anything yet but I was told I must start my skin care regime NOW. So I've begun with the sorbolene. I'll go cut some aloe vera leaf this evening and use that from now on as well.
So there we are. Early days, but so far so good.
My sister tells me that her daughter (who was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 30) has not been coping too well at any stage with her diagnosis, can't even bear to hear the word "cancer" around her. So I daresay she didn't cope too well with the conversational attitude in the waiting rooms. A pity - talking to other people has really helped me stay positive and comfortable about the diagnosis. The knitting is helping me too - I see some good coming out of every minute of my time I have to spend in there, in the form of a blanket (or part of one) for someone less fortunate than myself. I think it's a brilliant idea - the wool gets donated, people bring in scraps of wool left over from this or that and it all helps to make more blankets. I've got some odd scraps of wool I might get rid of by bringing them in to the clinic to add to the baskets.
One week down. Five weeks to go.
Marg
The place is actually quite nice. I arrive, park out the front in the spaces reserved for cancer patients if there are any spaces there, then let them know at the front desk. I have a time I'm supposed to be there but this week I had to arrive a lot earlier; I was prepared to wait, but it meant that if someone else was a little bit late (and even if you're still finishing off a cup of coffee, they will skip you and come back to you later) I was there to fill in a space. So I got seen sooner, which was good.
While we wait, there are some comfortable, padded chairs we can wait in. The waiting room is generally about three quarters full of people waiting - friends, family and patients. Various types of cancer in various stages of severity. We tend to not go into too much detail unless it's clear it will be OK to talk about it. Some people don't like to talk about their cancer, others are OK with it. Yesterday a woman I met & I were talking about things, including medication and general doctor whinges, when another woman nearby got up and moved. Oh well, it's a big enough lounge... but generally a conversation like tat has others joining in.
There are baskets of wool and knitting, so the knitting of squares for "Wrapped With Love" continues while we wait. If we want to knit, we reach over and help ourselves to whatever was left by previous patients. Personally, I at least try to finish a row of knitting before I leave.
We sit and chat, or help ourselves to free coffee or tea (instant - can't have everything) while we wait. Our name is eventually called and we go into a changeroom near the machine we've been allocated to. I'm on machine two. Once you're booked in for a particular machine, that stays your machine for the duration of your treatment. In the changeroom I have to strip to the waist then put on a gown. I then sit outside to wait, then I go in when called to the treatment room. There I lie on the table (it's a bit like an ultrasound set-up) while they arrange the various cradles for my right arm. I have to get my right arm out of the gown so I'm uncovered totally on the upper right body so the machine can be set up. Then I watch my reflection in the glass window of the machine while they arrange my exactly in position. There are green laser cross-hair sights that help line everything up. As the machine is moved around to get it lined up, it makes interesting patterns on my body which I watch in the glass. Part of lining me up involves drawing all over my chest with various felt pens, to help them line up the beam.
Also in the treatment room are some amazing trompe l'oeil murals, including one on the ceiling. Once I'm in position, I'm not allowed to move, not even my head, so I lie there and look at the lovely mural of a ceiling window with butterflies. Then they're ready, they leave me in the room alone and go to the next room while I get irradiated. The whole process is done in 15 minutes (that's what they allow - anything taking less helps them catch up for any delays) but the actual radiation exposure is only about 40 seconds, spread over two "zaps" each time.
Once they come back in after the second zap, they help me up (there's a handy strap they pass to me, which helps me pull myself up) and I head back to the changeroom.
I've made the helpful discovery that if I wear a singlet top with built-in shelf bra, I can wear that under all my other clothing and I can skip the changeroom. This also speeds things up. I think they've got the hang of how fast I change now, so I haven't had to wait after they call me in from the waiting room. For the last couple of days I simply walked in, got my gown (I have my own pigeonhole with my own gown, labelled, which I use every day) and removed all the outer layers. Then I carefully took down the straps of my singlet top but left the top in place, then put on the gown. Once the gown is on, I can pull down the top underneath it, once I am in the treatment room. Much faster. And I don't have to go back to the changeroom after the treatment. Instead, I pull my singlet top back into place immediately, where I would normally be putting the gown back on properly. Yesterday I just grabbed all my outer clothes and walked back to the waiting room and got my outer layers back on there while I chatted to my new friends. I suspect I may have started a new trend in the breast cancer patients there.
Once the treatment has happened, we can go. Except one day a week, when we see the doctor. Also if there are any obvious problems, the people in the treatment room who see us each day will alert the doctor or the specific health professional, and will tell us if we have to see anyone else.
Yesterday was also the Big Morning Tea, which is a Cancer Council fundraiser. All round Australia in various homes, halls, public spaces etc, people have had tea, coffee and cakes, with all money donated (the cost of a coffee or cake) going to cancer research. It was appropriate to have it in the Cancer Clinic at the hospital. My new friend was very cheeky - she didn't want to wait so she walked up to the table and the head of the queue, said, "I am getting in ahead of you; I'm the reason you're here anyway," and got her coffee and cakes.
Cheeky. She said the crowd parted like the Red Sea...
I noticed on Monday, after only one treatment, that I felt a bit ach-ey and sleepy. I had a catnap in the car and that helped. But it's been every day, including today even though there was no treatment. Yesterday & today I wasn't too bad though.
No skin reddening or anything yet but I was told I must start my skin care regime NOW. So I've begun with the sorbolene. I'll go cut some aloe vera leaf this evening and use that from now on as well.
So there we are. Early days, but so far so good.
My sister tells me that her daughter (who was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 30) has not been coping too well at any stage with her diagnosis, can't even bear to hear the word "cancer" around her. So I daresay she didn't cope too well with the conversational attitude in the waiting rooms. A pity - talking to other people has really helped me stay positive and comfortable about the diagnosis. The knitting is helping me too - I see some good coming out of every minute of my time I have to spend in there, in the form of a blanket (or part of one) for someone less fortunate than myself. I think it's a brilliant idea - the wool gets donated, people bring in scraps of wool left over from this or that and it all helps to make more blankets. I've got some odd scraps of wool I might get rid of by bringing them in to the clinic to add to the baskets.
One week down. Five weeks to go.
Marg