November 29, 2023. My calendar for 2023 has a designation for every day of the year. Some are traditional, some are silly, and I’m pretty sure they are totally made up. Today is the mouthwatering Lemon Cream Pie Day. I like it. Lemon pie is one of my favorites. I’m noting it on my phone’s calendar, so from now on, every November 29th is Lemon Cream Pie Day.
The calendar’s monthly illustration is whimsical and always accompanied by a quote. The one for November is, “It can be easy to focus on what we do not have, but today is about being thankful for what we do, like having a heart so we can love, and having a family so we can practice. –Gabriel Andreas” I consider each one of you who read this blog and have supported me through my illness as an important part of my family. I hope you don’t mind if my heart continues to practice loving you. It’s such an easy thing to do.
As for me, I start 5 days of focal radiation (stereotactic body radiation therapy or SBRT) this coming Monday. I went for mapping and simulation on the 15th. It wasn’t what I was expecting at all.
The entire process takes place in a CT machine. The simulation technician had me lie down so I would go into the CT scanner head first. My head and neck were fully supported. She explained that I would wear special glasses that would allow me to see my breathing pattern, and I would be required to hold my breath. That all seemed simple enough. But this is when it took a step into the Twilight Zone. First she inserted a mouth piece, similar to what you might wear scuba diving. It was connected to an air line. Next she attached a nose clip to avoid air leakage. Then she placed special glasses over my own that allowed me to see a read-out of my breathing pattern. Finally both technicians inflated a sort of bean bag mold that they packed on both sides of my body to help keep me immobile. The simulation went something like this, I would breathe normally for three breaths which through the glasses looked like a radio wave. Then a colored bar would appear a few inches above the wave which was my cue to take a deep breath until the radio wave line reached the middle of the colored bar. As long as I held my breath the line would stay there. Once it disappeared I could breathe. The goal was to reach 40 seconds! Are you kidding me? I did not know how long 40 seconds could be until I tried to hold my breath that long! Was I successful? Yes. But it took me about 10 attempts to finally get there. What made it all the more challenging was trying to hold my breath for a specific amount of time with a somewhat heavy and very awkward device in my mouth, a clip on my nose, wearing glasses that only allowed me to see a read out of my breathing pattern. I wasn’t at all sure I could do it. My success came when I decided to try mindfulness–acknowledging what was happening in that moment while noticing my feet resting on the table, my arms raised above my head and my hands resting on the back of it, the weight of my body lying there–all in an attempt to distract myself from the effort it was taking to hold my breath for a mere 40 seconds. Doo, doo, doo, doo. Doo, doo, doo, doo.
On Monday the UCSF radiation team will implement everything we practiced on November 15. The simulation team said I likely won’t have to hold my breath for 40 seconds. It could be 23 seconds. It could be 38 seconds. In other words, it varies. According to Dr. Braunstein, once I’m all set up, the actual treatment will take about 10 minutes, provided I’m able to hold my breath for the required amount of time. If I breathe before the colored bar disappears, radiation automatically stops. I’m sure I can do it, but I have to admit I’m a bit nervous. There is a contingency if holding my breath for the required amount of time proves impossible. I don’t know what it is. I hope I don’t have to find out.
According to my calendar, November 30 is Personal Space Day. Sounds like a perfect day to practice holding my breath.
Though we tremble before uncertain futures, may we meet…adversity with strength, may we dance in the face of our fears. —Gloria E. Amzaldúa
lana has cancer 