Armed with an access card bearing my photo, a bag of long-sleeve clothes because it's freezing in there in the middle of summer, and the excitement of a first day at a new job.
Standing in front of the camera, holding my new card at every possible angle at the entrance to the radiation center itself — and the number of negative beeps screaming at me just wouldn't stop.
From the front desk, a polite young man emerged at a pace that can only be described as aggressively slow — very on-brand for Americans — and with ice-cold composure re-entered my details into the computer. At that same speed he took my card, swiped it once, got a positive beep and a green light. He opened the door for me, handed the card back, and returned to his seat.
It took us a few moments to realize we were already inside the patient area. Sharon was beside me, and of course within less than a second a nurse had pounced on me with a stack of papers and launched into the "morning interrogation" — with her favorite questions: age, weight, blood tests, X-ray, this test and that test. Fun stuff for a Monday morning.
After about an hour, the long-awaited moment finally arrived: the changing rooms, the special gown, and — most importantly — the hook on the wall specifically for my walking stick. From there I moved to a small waiting room that usually holds at most two patients waiting for their turn. Sharon waited with the kids in the main waiting room — first time, after all.
The nurse called my name and I shuffled over at a pace befitting a tortoise, stopping at the entrance while three diligent staff members dismantled the entire setup from the previous patient, brought in the cast made specifically for me, connected it, loaded my treatment plan into the system, asked me twice for my full name including ID number, and then of course also scanned the tag.
Not forgetting to hang my walking stick on the hook designated specifically for that purpose.
Even though I'm perfectly capable of climbing onto the table myself, they set up stairs and had someone standing by to support me, making sure I was as comfortable as possible.
I've been through plenty of procedures in my life, surgeries too — and yet, for some reason, staring up at the enormous wheel surrounding me as it calibrated itself several times before it was ready to start, watching the entire staff flee the room when the bell rang, and finding myself alone — gave me a strange feeling. For the first time since the whole process began, I felt a combination of tension and calm at once. A quiet laced with anxiety about what the rest of the treatment would bring.
The whole time on the table went somewhere between five minutes and a quarter of an hour at most, and still felt like half a day. Between beeps: "now take a deep breath, hold, don't move, breathe out" — a range of commands that reminded me of training our dogs. Done. The stairs returned on the way off, along with the person making sure I didn't go flying.
Leaving the room, while they dismantled the table and prepared it for the next patient, they went through the questions again, scanned the card, made sure I wouldn't forget my stick, and told me what time to come tomorrow.
I walked past the waiting room with a slight sense of superiority, on my way back to the changing room — stopped for a moment by a girl who I couldn't help but feel a chill for, knowing she too had to go through the same process.
From there I headed to the outer waiting room — the one with the Coke fridge and the crackers, which I surprisingly needed. Rested a bit, and we went grocery shopping for the first time. My very first time in a Walmart — love at first sight. A supermarket and everything else all in one. I only stood at attention in front of the wall of jerky and cured meats. Alongside sorting out things we were missing, we also tried to figure out something for the kids. It was July-August after all, and we had two and a half months of full treatment ahead — assuming no complications.
Aside from discovering a group of incredible Israelis who just wanted to help, we were pointed toward the Jewish Community Center to ask about a day camp. But like in Israel, only until 4pm. The concept of a sleepaway camp — sending your child away for a month without seeing them — is still beyond me.
Every morning, usually by 10am, I'd show up at the institute, and most days I was done within an hour. Every so often I'd walk out to find Sharon and the kids sprawled on the couches waiting to go carry on with the day, or they'd be returning from a short walk nearby to pick me up.
By the end of the first week, the kids had a camp sorted too, with enormous help from the JCC.
As the days went on, I occasionally managed to walk to the treatment center — while Sharon dropped the kids at summer camp — surrounded by flocks of ducks and not nearly enough sidewalks beside me... (everyone drives everywhere there). Though let's say those walks accounted for no more than 10% of treatment days, for many reasons, the main one being: the fatigue and weakness that set in about two weeks after radiation began
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