reaching radiation

I have finished chemotherapy. That sentence is something I had been wishing and fantasising about saying since its initiation three months ago. I had been told by my oncologist that I would possibly have another five chemo sessions to go before a possible course of radiation therapy. With this daunting outlook I headed to Peter Mac cancer hospital to meet with the radiation therapist. A female doctor in her late thirties advised me that I had two options. I was to either finish a course of six chemotherapies or complete 3 and a half weeks of radiation therapy. The choice seemed to have two players, both were equally as villainous and depraved and both were staring at me with beguiling smiles beckoning me to their lair. She explained the short and long term consequences of radiation therapy, this included short term burning of the area been radiated, fatigue and a possible sore throat. The long term effects were a little more sinister and included secondary cancer in the form of breast cancer and or the possibility of thyroid dysfunction. Long term skin discoloration and nerve damage was also a possibility. armed with this information and after having a thorough discussion with the oncologist in the chemo lab at St Vincents I decided that the toxicity of the radiation was slightly less then undertaking six more chemotherapy sessions. The continual chemo would invariably lead to the exponential rate of being sicker and weaker and possibly create permanent lung damage from one of the chemicals in the chemotherapy concoction. The lesser of two evils? Decisions where both the outcomes are not optimal or even palatable is so very difficult.

I start radiation in a fortnight,

till then the food tastes sweeter. My arms don't ache. My chest doesn't heave. No tears haven't fallen from the captivity of my eyelids. My hot flushes and thus menopause will slowly wear off. Life feels lighter, more manageable and has the alluring sense of nearing the end of this chapter.