Neck coincidences – part three of my tumerous saga

[a CT scan machine]

The weekend at home had passed. Work again, but different, no longer am I permitted to drive a car (actually I was not able to). So organised lifts with a kindly fellow employee. Michele and I would drive to a specified point where I would be collected. I specifically remember how I had to walk from my car to the other lady’s car. I had to hold on to each car, just like a toddler learning to walk. Also I had become afraid to fall; I still had the plaster cast on my right hand. I must have looked quite a pathetic sight to any passer-by.

While at work from that Monday, I had to contact my medical aid and organise permission to go to the oncologist’s offices. But he was in Israel attending a conference on cancer. However, things had to proceed speedily, urgency and being aware of the crucial nature of dealing with the tumour as quickly as possible. Those of you who have a medical aid will know of the red tape requirements. Yet I found them efficient and speedy (I suppose they want to protect the source of their future income – joke?!). By Wednesday, the planning session at the Oncology/Radiation Therapists had been organised for the Thursday at 10am. My emotions were generally covered by dealing with urgent arrangements, contacting family and friends to update them.

[evidence of vital planning]

It was quite interesting how patterns can be repeated in life, quite ironic in fact.

In 1967 while playing on a jungle gym and swinging upside down, I slipped off and fell directly onto my head. After a few days I was unable to move my head, my neck had “seized up”. Up to that stage in my development, I had always tilted my neck and hunched up my shoulder to rest my head on my shoulder. I had a “big head” and my neck battled to cope. Please remember that a big head does not denote increased intelligence, it is just a big head! We used to get chappies bubble gum and there would be random facts recorded on the inside of the paper wrapper, the one statement was, “a big head does not denote additional intelligence”, that observation has remained with me ever since. Anyway, I had to go to hospital and I spent 5 months there. But the interesting thing is that my oldest sister, Elizabeth was a radiographer at the East London Hospital and she took the x-ray of my neck. She is an intelligent woman and has several degrees and doctorates behind her name. Little did I know that our paths would cross again in the field of her chosen career.
So when I tell my other sister Dianne that I am going to Olivedale Hospital, she says that Liz was there as a manager before she emigrated to Canada. This is now about 40 years later that I have to deal with neck problems again. So when I get there I mention the fact to the receptionist lady, she does remember Elizabeth and tells me that she actually set up the radiotherapy department about 15 years ago. Quite a cute coincidence I thought.

So Michele has to fill in another mountain of papers. A photo gets taken of me and put on the wall with the other cancer patients. Into the wheelchair where I meet a senior radiation therapist; a very professional woman. Meticulous measurements made, junior staff given exact instructions. I have to lie face down on a fancy narrow bed/table, there was a narrow T-shape opening with firm foam as a covering at the top table where my nose and mouth had to lie. A plastic sheet of green material was heated and placed over my head, it was very hot, it was jammed over my head with great force, there were two radiologists who had to click in each point into a metal fitting, they really battled to click it in. I just felt my lips getting squashed through the opening. Eventually they got it right and I lay there waiting for the material to set. It was released and I thought to myself that it was pretty intense. Little did I know what was coming.

[the green mask with an inquisitive beast]

Senior lady takes the contraption and off we go to the main hospital, wheeled over bumps as major construction was taking place, jackhammers pounding the air and intense blue sky are vivid in my memories. Into a lift where a small child/patient is also in the lift, the senior lady showers affection on her, the lift is crowded and part of the contraption falls off but is picked up. I think nothing of it at the time but what a disaster was looming as a result! Out lift and the journey resumes. Into a large room where a CTC machine dominates the room; quite different to the MRI beast. The contraption brought along is clicked into the narrow bed, I lie down, face down on the contraption and the green plastic shield is placed over my head and they start to lock it but something seems different, I panic as my face is jammed into the foam, I writhe around as claustrophobia grabs me. The device is unclicked, I look at it but it seems fine, the senior radiographer is puzzled but also can’t see anything funny. I am persuaded to try again. The crushing sensation as device locked into place. My face is so tight but I must endure. My mouth I must open slightly or I feel my teeth will cut through my lower lip into the foam. I am panting by the time all the locks have been secured. I feel the rolling motion as I go forward into the machine. It can’t last forever, only ten minutes! I think about sailors who have been trapped inside doomed submarines, if they could endure their horror, what little comparison there is between me and them. Time drags, wheeled backward, needle inserted into a trapped arm, feel the hot sensation in my groin as the iodine flows into my vein. Forward the bed rolls, I must be halfway now. More time passes, I endure because I must. The bed rolls back and the contraption is loosed. Free, I just lie there exhausted. It is over. As the contraption is loosed from the bed, the radiographer realises that the T-piece was the wrong way round. She is appalled, even mortified, how could she have not seen it? It has never occurred in her entire career, she can’t stop apologising, I am just relieved the ordeal is over.

Wheeled back to Michele, she sees that something is horribly wrong. I just lie there, numb. She wheels me to the hospital cafeteria to share a sandwich and have something to drink. I cannot open my eyes, I take over an hour to eat my half sandwich and drink my juice. I am wheeled back to the oncology area. More measurements, more discussions on the route to follow between senior medical staff. I am locked back in but not bad at all as the T-piece is placed properly. Permission is given to put a small tattoo on my back to align the beam into the tumour. The words from the medical personnel seem like mist that I can’t quite grasp. Back to the lounge and I want to go home. We are advised that they have spoken to the “flying” oncologist. I must wait, he is coming to see me directly from the airport and he will be there in two hours.
He arrives in a rush and he speaks to us in the reception lounge. He has consulted with his partner (my neurosurgeon) and they have decided on the best course of action. We are told that an aggressive approach is required, my daily cortisone is quadrupled. We can only use the radiation treatment once, it must be the maximum within safety margins, dare not go above that limit or my spinal cord will collapse. I will have 24 radiation treatments that will target the tumour (which is located in the C5 to C7 area of my neck). It will be a precise narrow beam and only for half a minute from the top and half a minute from the side. The meeting is over and homeward bound, a slow journey as it is peak traffic time in Johannesburg.

What a day, it is over, I had stuck it out, I have emerged from the other side. Even now, several years later, I still feel the intensity and claustrophobia. My mind was rushing with so many thoughts. Will the treatment work, will I survive?

My willpower is my strength, I will be positive, I will have faith, I will fight. My family, my wife, my girls, I must be there for them…