After the first and second surgeries of my life, just a month apart, I got as far away from breast cancer as I could and went to Lake Tahoe for a few weeks, and then the south of France to hike and drink rosé with Gina and Augusto, and then Lulu and Evan visited us in London and we saw the Rolling Stones in Hyde Park. So, I could basically die happy right now, but because of the surgery and radiation treatments I underwent, I have an 87% chance of living ten more years.
Radiation, or as they call it here in the UK to make it sound not-so-scary "radiotherapy," or the cutesy "RADS," is like the poison in The Princess Bride. Odorless, colorless, invisible, and deadly. The chance of recurrence with the kind of breast cancer I had is 30%; with radiation the chance of recurrence is 2-5%. Those numbers made it worthwhile for me to take a deadly poison.
In the US, radiation treatments are usually weekdays for three to six weeks. Here, studies have been done in which they waaaaay increase the dosage--you get the same amount of beams you would get in 25 sessions in the U.S.--but in fewer treatments, with the same outcome. The treatments themselves are painless, like an x-ray. But for me, with two semi-frozen shoulders, the hardest part was holding my arms in a high-fifth ballet position for the 10-20 minutes it takes to calibrate the machine, so fewer treatments were a no-brainer.
No brainers my specialty!
The initial set-up took the longest of all the treatments, they have to minutely calibrate the machine and enter a zillion precise measurements. They put wires on my chest and dotted my skin with a pen. They aligned me with laser beams on the ceiling and around the room. You must remain in exactly the same position with only a millimeter of variance. With my bad shoulders, it was excruciatingly painful; like holding your breath for that long. After the initial session I wanted to sit down on the steps of the fancy Harley Street clinic, with window boxes of flowers blooming around me, and cry. Instead, I walked to Waitrose and bought chewy candy kittens. It was that bad.
Me planning the Rolling Stones set list of my dreams to distract myself.
I had a few rounds of "emergency" physiotherapy to try to loosen up my shoulders. If I pre-gamed with a full dose of Advil, I could tolerate the sessions, barely. Afterward, the technicians would tell me, "You can put your arms down now," but I could only slowly, slowly inch them down, using my better arm to lift the worse arm. Within half an hour of wandering Marylebone Charity shops, I felt less assaulted and was okay. I'm so glad it wasn't 25 sessions, and that it's over.
I started with the intense skin cream treatments everyone recommends to keep your skin from not turning into a fiery red ball after radiation, but it made me break out. Occasional lotion and a silk bandeau bra have been all I need. They make a big deal here telling you, during and after radiation treatments, to wear silk next to the skin. Being forced to wear silk is the treatment I tolerate well.
Radiation is so weird because it's invisible, but the reactions can take place for years. It's all so unknown. Nearly a month later, one side looks sunburned, and rashy, and I feel zings of nerve pain as new cells replace the ones killed, something is going on in there, but it's not so bad. My frozen shoulders are worse, I've heard that's normal.
Five months since diagnosis, three months since the last surgery, and month into recovery from RADS, I'm DONE. I meet with my oncologist later this month to make plans for the close monitoring I will have for the rest of my life. Which will also include more Keith Richards and travel, more time with friends and family, and more wine and candy.
DONE!