Vacationing While The Hair On My Legs Stands Straight Up

I didn’t feel sick.  But the doctor held up a piece of paper, pointed to some figures, and told me I was sick.

Cancer.

Prognosis = good: prostate cancer caught early.  

Treatment = radiation: every day for 8 weeks.

I tested the doctor, to see if he had a holistic view of treatment: I asked what foods I should eat to combat my cancer.  The doctor passed the test: he listed foods rich in lycopene – the pigment that turns watermelon red and turns grapefruit pink.

Before radiation, I got implanted with 3 gold transponders to help guide the radiation machine.  They make me feel very science-fiction.  I also got 8 tattoos.  They do not make me feel very trendy since they consist of a simple x-marks-the-spot to help guide laser beams.

It quickly became apparent that everyone involved with my radiation really cares about killing off my cancer.  They position me on the radiation table; I feel like I am being tucked in.  Then they give me a rubber ring to hold so my hands stay steady; the ring looks like a dog toy purchased at PetSmart. 

Final step: I set my earphones on my head, make sure my iPod volume is loud enough, and then relax for 12 minutes of radiation.  I decided to view this time as being on vacation.  Except, of course, the hair on my legs does not stand straight up while I am on vacation.

I know my treatment is not arduous compared to what many people with cancer have to go through.  My side effects consist of surprisingly frequent and very urgent trips to the restroom.  I go to bed an hour earlier than usual --- but this does not result in an extra hour of sleep due to the number of times I make my way to the bathroom at night.

The most difficult part is prepping for radiation.  I am required to drink 38 oz. of water to fill up my bladder.  This feels like 8 oz. more than what my bladder can actually hold.  I must sit in the waiting room without squirming.  When I lie on the table, things calm down --- except for the day I decided to play soothing massage music on my iPod.

On that day, I lay on the table listening to music that was supposed to relax me: it turned out to be gentle piano music being played over the sound of a rushing mountain stream.  For my bursting bladder, that was a long 12 minutes.

I am now halfway through the 8-week treatment.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com