Shit.

I have heard that shit is the most functional word in the English language. Here’s a link to prove my point.  And believe me, I’ve said it a lot in the past 10 months.  When I got my cancer diagnosis,  I was like…are you shitting me?   During chemo, I often thought to myself I feel like shit.  Right before my surgery, I was all like, Let’s DO this shit!  After surgery it was more like This shit hurts. Beginning radiation I told Jeff Let’s just get this shit over with. And last Friday I finished my final treatment. SHIT YEAH!

Yep, you read that right-FINISHED!  And Boy Howdy am I glad to get that behind me!  Not because it was horriblyterriblyawful, (it wasn’t), but because it marks the completion of what, at times, I couldn’t imagine completing. I made it all the way through the proverbial tunnel and passed into that elusive light.  YAY, ME!!!!!

So, was radiation a Tiptoe Through the Tulips or a grisly grind? Neither, really. Radiation itself doesn’t physically hurt. The only pain I experienced was getting tattooed without the benefit of a few stiff drinks or reliable pain killers. (Which I had the luxury of self-administering with my previous, well planned tats). Ouch! Shit!  My new tats (OMG, I just typed tits, and had to correct my error)  are small, just about five tiny blue dots in no predictable order, from my lower rib cage to my upper chest. They were put there to serve as a guide for the cancer-killing rays that would penetrate me daily (except weekends-thank god for the weekends) for five weeks.

In those 25 days of walking to and from treatments, I got familiar with lots of the street vendors on my route, sometimes stopping for an Agua Fresca de Pepino  (a blended cucumber and water drink) or a paleta (popsicle). Fortunately, masks are the law, and the vast majority of people here in Guadalajara wear them, although often incorrectly. I didn’t hesitate to play the cancer card and ask them to please pull it over their nose. Tengo el Cancer, I’d explain, pointing to my once-bald head.  But I have hair now, albeit super short, so I assume they just figured I had a brain tumor. Whatever. I’m not about to gesture to my chest and try to explain in my ever-so limited Espanol,  no mas ta-ta’s. 

Alas, once again, taking off my top became rote, to the point of once exiting the dressing room before I remembered to don my paper gown. I wasn’t even embarrassed, though, that’s the weird thing.

Before entering the radiation clinic, everyone is required to wear a mask, step in a tray of disinfectant, (had to quit wearing my flip-flops for that one), and get their temp taken. In the beginning, the Seriously Stout Security Guard (SSSG) routinely had his mask reliably resting on his upper lip. I would stop a good distance away and wait for him to raise it before going through the paces, initially explaining that I had El Cancer, which, when you consider it, so did nearly everyone else coming here.  Eventually, he caught on, thrice proudly pointing out that he had instructed the other guards at the door to do the same. (There were always three or four guards sitting around the entrance, chewing the fat and shooting the shit, but not doing much else.) He liked me, I could tell, and I, him.

While waiting my turn in the windowless basement, every day, at precisely 11:30 am, previously mentioned SSSG would descend via elevator, one-floor from his post, and proceed to the bathroom, where he would tarry just long enough to take the most massive, malodorous shit in all of Mexico. Retreating back to his post, puffed-up with pride at the sordid scent bomb he left in his wake,  I began to wonder if he was doing it for my benefit, as an ardent display of affection.

But getting back to treatment, here’s a pic of my burns on my back. Yeah, I need to clarify that is my back. My front looks about the same, but more scars, and I’m not about to show you that.

Radiation burns

And I made it through without having the debilitating fatigue that effects so many. I burned, but again, not nearly as bad as I’ve seen pictures of on some of my BC facebook sites. Your skin actually continues to burn when treatment is over, but I’m hoping that this is as bad as it gets for me. The worst thing about radiation is that, combined with significant weight loss, it instantly adds 38 years to your skin. Even, or especially, your face.  ForFuckSake!  It’s like one morning I woke up and did a double-take in the mirror. Who the shit is that old hag?  I’m gonna have to spend a lot of extra time and pesos with my dermatologist when we get home.

For the record, total cancer treatment from being diagnosed to finishing radiation took me just over 10 months.

But now, I’m done! Finished! This shit is finally behind me! I’ll toast to that! Salud!

Salud!

And as always, No Pasa Nada.