I.amN.otD.eadY.et children so listen up!

The second week of treatment was pretty much the same as week one. Everyone at the cancer center was so nice. I told someone I knew why people went to the doctor as often as they did because they were treated with such tenderness. It might have felt like love.
The staff also knew we were early birds. The wait time was always less than 15 minutes. Barely enough time to enjoy a cup of coffee, but I seem to have lost my taste for the stuff, even to this day. They called my name. With just a last name and birthdate, I entered the inner sanctum where the “Versa” machine and all its mysteries were housed. Of course, I had to change into a gown, but I was allowed to wear shoes. After all, it was winter, and the floors were cold.
It was cold lying on the metal platform they called a bed. The girls always offered a warm blanket and a step stool to make getting on and off easier. The warmth of the blanket was calming. I needed that. As you know hospital gowns are not high fashion. Not even practical fashion in the winter months.
I can still see the not-so-iron mask coming down over my torso. I closed my eyes always, even to the end of the six weeks. I peeked once or twice, but not for long. The sound of the snaps anchoring the tightly fitted mask to my head and neck made my heart beat faster. They tried to be as quick about it as possible. Once retreating behind the windowed wall where the machine’s controls were kept, the music began.
Christian radio songs filled the room. The ladies asked me what I listened to. I don’t listen to music. When I listen to the radio, it’s only in my car, and usually KNDR Radio. I kept telling myself I could do anything for 15 minutes. So, when the music began playing, I deduced each song was about three minutes long. I counted the number of songs while trying to slow my breathing. Later, I found out the machine was so, it made accommodations for each of those breaths.
Three songs. Three songs were approximately 10 minutes. If I knew the words, which many times I did, I sang along. If I didn’t know the words, I would imagine Jesus was right there in the room with me. We were holding hands because, after an adjustment in the scans, they took away my joy sticks and placed a metal something-or-other over my pelvis.
Just like that, radiation was over. The technicians came as quickly as possible to unsnap that mask and help me off the “bed.”
“You did good.”
“I have no choice,” I thought to myself. “If I wriggled too much, or panicked about the mask, the treatment would have to be done over and that’s the last thing I wanted — a do-over.”
Usually twice a week, I received a massage. Not long enough in my opinion, but very appreciated. Once a week I saw Dr. Reynolds.
There were appointments every Tuesday at Sanford’s Cancer Center with Dr. Rakshit followed by four hours of chemotherapy. After two weeks, the nurses asked if only one other person would stay in the infusion cubicle with me. I had to kick either my spouse or my daughter out the door. I think they took turns.
The second week of treatment, the last week of March, ended with my birthday. Whoopee. The staff at the Bismarck Cancer Center remembered. (I have to tell them every time I enter a room my last name and birth date, I could hardly keep it a secret.) Those nice ladies handed me a bag after Thursday’s treatment. There was a birthday balloon tied to the handle. Inside was an aluminum cake pan, cake mix, and frosting to match. It’s the only birthday gift I got — oh wait — Claire bought me a small gift, something too painfully private to share publicly.
Claire also baked that cake for us. It was strawberry with strawberry frosting, I think. I tried to eat some but failed.
That was the extent of my 2023 birthday celebration.