Internal Radiation is No Vacation

Not having radiation is like being on cancer vacation. All I’m saying is internal radiation is a massive form of total torture, to say the least. Holy moly. I mean, what is up with that? Warning. Warning to the people visiting this site for food news. The cancer section is about to get graphic.

The morning of every internal radiation means taking two pain pills plus two other relaxation pills. These four pills do not change a thing. No way. Not one thing is different. Internal radiation makes chemo look like a free trip to Disney.

My supportive husband has not missed one single internal radiation appointment because he knows I’ll probably be breathing inside a Baylor bag if he’s absent. I’m not trying to say cancer should be a breeze, but geez. Throw cancer people a treatment bone.

The machine placed inside my body reminds me of a mini robot’s arm from Terminator. Oh, please be dilated before entry or a doctor dilates, which is like being in labor for 12 minutes. Once the sun is shining and cumulus clouds are all fluffy above, it’s time to go get a CT scan. Imagine an instrument becoming one inside your freshly dilated organ, only to quickly be sent for a CT scan 8 seconds later. I mean, really?

Post CT scan means cancer people can expect to go to the radiation room. A girl greets and hooks wires up to the inserted torture gadget of total cancer sadness. The door is then closed and about 9 minutes of alone time happens as the machine begins to deliver radiation treatment to the intended area.

Wait. I left out the packing part. This is awesome. Tons of packing must be placed above the colon and beneath the bladder. This packing magically protects these areas from radiation harm. Thanks. Thanks a lot. After 28 external and 6 internal radiation treatments, I have now completed all radiation, as well as a round of  not so much fun chemo.

Since there’s one super duper snooper (who may or may not be human) I do not want to know my business, I’ll keep the rest of my cancer-non-cancer a secret. Maybe I’m in remission. Maybe I’m a rock star with extra hair. Maybe I have so much hair I need hairspray, pony holders, and even big ribbons like cheerleaders wear. Maybe I need a haircut twice a week. Maybe I run around the neighborhood all the time trying to get rid of loads of energy consuming all parts of my body. The great news is I’m going to live forever.

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