Keith, Melissa and I head down to Harper Hospital in the Detroit Medical Center before the crack of dawn on the 30th. I check in at 5:45 AM and am quickly taken into a holding area, gowned and settled into a bed. One nurse takes some blood, a second checks my blood pressure and gives me an EEG, while a third goes over my medications and reviews my medical history. The procedure is reviewed and an explanation of what I can expect is provided.
After my prep is completed, Keith and Melissa are brought back to sit with me until I head to pre-op where I will be sedated. Dr. Kim (my radiation oncologist) and several other team members chat with me as they wait for my sedative to kick in (little do they know I can talk endlessly and it make take a while for me to get sleepy).
I am asked who has accompanied me today: "My husband and daughter." An inquiry is made regarding my daughter: Is she in school? "No, she lives and works out East." What does she do? "She works in the ExtraCare department at CVS's corporate headquarters in RI."
The conversation takes it's typical path: How old is she? "35." Now comes the expected incredulous follow up: "You have a 35 year old daughter?" To avoid the anticipated: You don't look old enough, I respond with my classic retort - "Yes, she was a present for my tenth birthday, which makes me 45 and if you are buying that, I have some other things I'd like to sell you."
Dr. Kim is in interested in learning about Melissa's education and career path. We discuss daughters who are highly motivated Type A personalities (he has one too) and the conversation turns to the benefits and drawbacks of parenting a driven and focused offspring (never needs to be told to do their homework but definitely needs reminding of who is in charge - the parents, not the clever child). We share a chuckle and I am off to la la land.
When I come back to consciousness, there is a stereotactic frame attached to my head. A tight fitting is required to eliminate any head movement while I am in the gamma knife machine to insure the radiation beams converge precisely to the targeted area of my tumor bed and not on any normal brain tissue. Despite knowing four pins would be utilized to secure this "halo" (makes it sound sort of angelic, doesn't it?), I am taken aback by what I see.
All I can think of is a horror film where the scene is shot from the perspective of a character wearing a mask and how things appear from the character's perspective. Remember movies like Friday the 13th, where it shows the view as Jason would see it through his mask? My view is completely blocked by the frame and I must look sideways to see. I verbalize to Keith and Melissa that I feel like Hannibal Lecter from "Silence of the Lambs". Keith immediately attempts to lighten the situation by insisting I look more like Dr. Emmet Brown from "Back to the Future".
Next, measurements of my head with the frame on are taken to help plan the dose for my treatment. Imaging is performed to precisely locate - within 0.1 millimeter (yes 1/10th of a millimeter)- the targets for my radiation. An entire team consisting of a neurosurgeon, a neurologist, two medical physicists, and a computer specialist converge to determine the correct angle of the trajectory to be used based on the shape of my head and the location of the tissue to be destroyed. This is called "dosimetry planning" and takes one to two hours to be computed.
After what seems like forever (imagine trying to sit comfortably with large metal frame screwed into your head), I am whisked away to the treatment room. There are two physicists present. They instruct me to move onto the "couch" and sit. I laugh that it is called this as it is a hard flat surface with a large area near the top that is cut out to accommodate laying down flat with the frame resting in the space.
The physicists inform me that they have the ability to pipe in music and one inquires if I have any preferences as to what I would like to have played. I ask if they have any rap - maybe something by Eminem like "Not Afraid". My request is met by dead silence. I indicate that I would be happy to entertain any suggestions they have as they do this all day and might have something inspirational in mind. One of the gentlemen assures me he has a CD here of his own that he thinks I would enjoy. I figure what the heck. (FYI: He starts with Michael Buble's recording of "Feeling Good." Upon hearing this, Keith ran out and purchased every single Michael Buble album ever produced. We listen to them frequently).
Next, they explain that although they will be leaving the room when the radiation is applied, they will be utilizing closed circuit television to observe me. They assure me that I will be able to communicate with them through out the procedure via a two-way intercom system should I want to stop at any point.
Now that the "pleasantries" are over, they approach me with metal arms that need to be attached to the sides of my frame. These arms will be used to hold my head in the correct position so my frame can be connected to a steel helmet inside the machine. They slide the arms into the side slots of my frame and begin hand screwing them in place. I think to myself "Don't you have some kind of battery operated screw driver like a Skil Twist Cordless you could use?" Little do I know how often I would ask myself that over the next hour and a half since the arms are removed and replaced numerous times.
The physicists help me lay down once the arms are securely attached and guide my head as the couch slides into the gamma knife machine. They advise me to relax my neck (yeah right) so they can maneuver the frame into the correct position for it to lock in place. The helmet has several rows labeled by letter and numerous holes labeled by number which are used to point all 201 beams of radiation to the targeted area at the correct angle using computer technology.
Each dose of radiation lasts from one to four minutes. After 15 cycles of attaching arms, having the physicists measure the placement, switch sides and re-measure each placement, laying me down, sliding me in and locking me in place, leaving the room, administering the radiation, coming back, disengaging my head, pulling me out, sitting me up and removing the arms, I am finally finished with my treatment after an hour and a half.
I am taken to recovery to be observed for any complications. I am finally allowed to eat - thank goodness Melissa has packed a cooler with food I would enjoy. I have not eaten since the evening before and I am starving as it is well past lunch time. (We learned the hard way that beggars can't be choosers following my first lung biopsy when I amazed my family by inhaling food and drink I detest).
The joy of eating is quickly replaced with discomfort from the holes in my head where the frame was attached. We request ice packs and are thrilled when shortly after we receive them, I am told I may get dressed and leave. As we head home, I focus on how this treatment will surely increase the odds of my not only being a cancer survivor but a cancer thriver.
Please let your loving supporters know that you are out doing something fun. Wanna take a ride on a ferris wheel?
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