Tuesday, November 27, 2007

At long last, my final radiation treatment took place this morning. Diane and I went through the morning ritual, the same morning ritual, with not a word spoken about this inconvenience ending soon.

She had brought the staff a plate of cookies with a note thanking them, but she was unsure whether her gift would be appreciated. I told her, in a whisper, that it was “sweet.” The nurse behind the counter to whom she gave the cookies termed Diane’s gambit: “Sweet.” You figure, these people were part of our lives for two intense months, and they were responsible for keeping me alive, so any token is a good token. And they do like cookies.

The girl came out to the door between the waiting room and the hallway and called me back. She smiled. I smiled. I knew what was up – LAST TIME! – and I’m certain she did, as well. The treatment went quickly and smoothly, and the bald, young tech took my mouthpiece. I whispered: “That’s it. It’s finished.” I looked him in the eyes and thanked him.

Turning around, the girl was smiling broadly. She had a certificate for me:

Altoona Regional Health System,
Department of Radiation Oncology

Be it declared to all present that
Mark Kilmer
has successfully completed a course of radiation therapy.
This has required commitment, courage and tolerance,
deserving of this special recognition.

Certificate of Merit

By order of the Diploma Committee
Dr. Shocker, Deb, Rose, Sherry,
Dave, Tracy, Alison, Jane,
Eileen, Kathy, Susan, Kathy & Theresa.

This struck me as very nice, and I bit my lower lip gently when my eyes read the words: “commitment, courage, and tolerance.” Anyone who undergoes something like this had better be able to summon plenty of all three.

I waved to a group of other techs and nurses by the other machine, maybe waiting to say goodbye to me. I left that main room, hooked a right, and floated the several feet to the door to the waiting room. And it was on air that I walked into that room. Two people sat looking up at CNN; beyond them, my wife rose to her feet.

“You’re done,” she remarked as I approached her and my coat. I nodded and opened the door.

As we left the waiting room, Diane wished the two patients inside good luck, but they didn’t respond. They had their backs to us and we’re looking up on the wall at CNN.

Dr. Shocker had indicated last week that this morning would be my 36th treatment, which sounds like the right number. It was exactly two months before tomorrow that I received my first such treatment, when I was afraid that the number of treatments I would receive was fifty. (I was still going by Shocker’s off-the-cuff estimation: ten weeks of treatment.)

Right now, what ails me most are the sore throat, the more-than-usual fatigue, and the exasperating dysphagia (swallowing). My wife bought me a copy of Max Lucado’s 3:16 – The Numbers of Hope, and tonight we finally get to watch the Kino restoration of Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle’s The Butcher Boy (1917). (That is the short film we watch at intervals, when something at-the-time important has been accomplished. This qualifies, and it not become a footnote to the film.)

In two weeks, these side effects should be gone. The cancer is long gone, and if it stays away, I am a survivor. That’s what’s going to happen, and I suppose I’ve always been a survivor.