Booster Days

I’ve completed the 25 radiation treatments and started a series of eight booster treatments. The boosters are carried out in Accelerator 4 and differ from the treatments I had in Accelerator 2 in a number of ways. First of all, the ray is electronic and directly targets the location of my erstwhile lump, instead of photon, which, if I understood the explanation correctly, bores deep and spreads in the area until it meets the resistance of the inner contours of my breast. Secondly, instead of the reflection of interlocking red guidelines on my body, a yellowish light is beamed directly on to my scar and there is only one, 20+-second blast, instead of two. And most significantly, the radiation team in Accelerator 4 seems to favor a more upbeat background music than their colleagues in Accelerator 2, who preferred the gentler rhythms of Julio Iglesias and Beethoven; I need to remind myself to remain still and not to twitch in time to the music.

A small coterie of women, with whom I compared lump size and respective treatments, has migrated with me from Accelerator 2 to Accelerator 4 where we continue to wish each other luck.

My breast looks like it’s been left out in the sun too long. It’s red and patchy and I faithfully apply the creams that the nurse, Rahel, recommends—so far there’s no discomfort or blistering. It’s also larger than its twin, although I accept that the lack of symmetry is discernible only to myself. I tire easily and disconcertingly, tend to drop off while watching movies that, now that I’ve taken a break from work, I have the time to watch.

I view everything through the prism of my emotions. I’m quick to tears and feelings of anger and frustration. The slightest aggravation or disappointment can trigger any one or all of these emotions. When my first appointment in Accelerator 4 was cancelled due to a malfunction, I felt so let down I could barely resist the impulse to burst into tears and stamp my foot. My daily treatments, while a pain in the ass, bestow a sense of being cared for. They also serve as a framework within which I function as if my life were normal and any deviation from it disproportionately undermines my ability to cope. A cancelled appointment is equivalent to a loose thread that threatens to unravel the fabric of my life.

The hospital allocates three months for therapy and I have had three sessions to date. My psychologist’s mission is to help me regain the well-being I had before my diagnosis and to combat my fear that I meet the same fate as my sister.

Between them—the doctors and radiation technicians, Liron the psychologist and Eran, my mediatation guide—I would seem to have body, mind and spirit covered.