March 21, 2009 A Band of Sisters

Every evening, five days a week I climb onto a narrow sheet-draped table and subject my right torso to four separate beams of radiation angled just so to attack any remnants of breast cancer lurking in corners. By the third day it becomes old hat.
We arrive at 5:45PM for my 6:15PM appointment. We are very glad for this time slot which allows us to work until 2ish then drive to Phoenix, grab something to eat, get treated and head back.
Every few days they seem to get backed up and I've waited as long as an hour and a half. The back up of back-to-back patients affords me the opportunity to meet a few more patients aka "victims" or "survivors". No one complains about the back-up. We are comforted by our sheer numbers and by the chance to compare pains and burns and skin care remedies.
When I first meet 6 o'clock Margaret she has 3 remaining sessions. Her short blond wig sits slightly askew on her head in need of a good combing. She has strong opinions and a shrill delivery advising all to pursue Tau Chi, read Paul Coelho, ignore any diet restrictions and forgo the follow-up drug regime our doctors want us to do following radiation. She means well. She is a psychiatric nurse and speaks in short clipped statements. Margaret marches in for her turn at radiation before they call for her and returns ordering the next patient, "your turn. I don't wait for them to call me." The sign posted on the wall instructs us to wait until we are called. The ladies smile indulgently. Margaret's replacement, 6 o'clock April is here today - two 6 o'clock patients -no wonder we are late. April's smile is sweet. She seems scared, a nervous what-am-I-doing-here look on her face. She says she's fifty but I clearly see a young girl, striving for courage. 6:45 Toby is 40, with the body of a 20-year old, a big smile, false eye lashes and a cute long blond wig. She's dealing with her cancer, and trying to get back together with an old boyfriend. She's a candidate for the radiation seeds so I'm not quite sure why she's here.
5:45 Michelle is still here. She is the 35-year old mother of a 2 and 5 year old. She's Hers2 positive which I don't fully understand except that I know the miracle drug Herceptin promises great hope for her. She has a year of chemo with this drug beyond the common treatment most of us have had.
7:00 Monique is big, bold and sassy and it's instantly clear she has a heart of gold. 45, bald, in a baseball cap, she share that hers is inflammatory breast cancer, scary because this is the mother-of-all breast cancers, very fast-growing. It is evident that she has taken Toby under her wing as she advises her to forget the boyfriend and concentrate on getting well. She tells me later that her fiance, her faithful Robert who sits in the waiting room with my husband, has an inoperable brain tumor. They are strong together.
A patient returns from the treatment room and changes. She emerges with a question, "anyone here triple negative"? Michelle answers "No, but I have a friend who is. She's doing well". This statuesque 67-year old is just finishing her 3rd round of radiation after 3 rounds of chemo. After she leaves Michelle explains. If you test estrogen, progestrin or Hers2 positive - you're in luck. There are drugs to treat you. Triple negative - nothing works. Now I understand why they told me "you're estrogen and progestrin positive - that's a good thing".
My claim to fame seems to be that I'm the only one among us who elected a bilateral mastectomy. Most have had lumpectomies. I'm not unhappy with my decision.
6:30 Jan is 79. She is trim and spry. Her doctor in Wisconsin sent her here to see the best, Dr. Kuske. She was diagnosed three months after her husband of 60 years died. He, she tells me, was in a wheelchair from polio for 62 years. I do the math. "So you married him when he was already in a wheelchair?" I ask. "I'd knew lots of boys," she says. "He was the special one." It's obvious, so is she. She has been staying in her brother's guest casita. Every morning she gets up, goes into the house, grabs a cup of coffee and climbs into bed with her brother and sister-in-law, who are having their coffee, and they talk. Picturing this makes me smile. Jan is having her last treatment. 6 o'clock Margaret talked her out of the oral chemo follow-up. She says this treatment has taken the stuffing out of her.
I am warmly greeted by at least one of these women every day. I look around and realize I am in good company. I'm glad to be a part of this club I never wanted to join. My husband calls us a band of sisters.