I realized I have yet to write about radiation. This feels significant, because it is almost over. I only have one more full treatment. After that, they just radiate my left mastectomy scar five times. Then I’m done. With every other part of my treatment, I write and write about every move, getting my worries, concerns, fears off of my chest. But with radiation? It’s barely gotten a mention.

This is a case of No News is Good News. Basically, if some doctor says to you, “You have cancer, but can pick your treatment (assume they all have the best success rate): chemotherapy, surgery, or radiation,” ALWAYS CHOOSE THE RADIATION. (This will never happen, I’m pretty sure. But just in case it does.)

Here’s what happens, every day:

I go into the office. I don’t even check in, because one of the receptionists says, “Good morning, Lauri! I have you all checked in!” (Okay, so they always pronounce it “Lori,” but whatevs.) Then I sit down for a minute max, until one of the techs comes out, and smiles at me as if I’m the bright spot in his/her day. They take me back to the changing rooms, where I take off my shirt, put on a gown, and head back to the radiation room. Here, I’m given a warmed-up blanket, and lie down on a bench with my head comfortably supported. I hold onto bars above my head, and allow the techs to push and pull me into the exact right position. As they are doing this, they ask me about my new puppy, my classes, if I’ve been hiking that week. They tell me about what they did over the weekend, and maybe we discuss Downton Abbey. It’s all very pleasant and congenial. At some point someone says, “88.4,” and someone else says, “.5 to the left.” I’m not sure why, I’ve never been concerned enough to ask. Then they leave the room, and I suppose the machine over me zaps radiation onto the exact dimensions they have specified, making the skin on the upper left quadrant of my torso, in an exact rectangle, a little darker shade of pink. Then it rotates around and zaps my back. I’m sure that’s pink, too, but I can’t see it. Once that’s over, they come in, and make some readjustments, so they can zap me more superficially, I think to protect my heart, but still get my scar, where the cancer cells can hide. I’m not really sure. Then I’m done, and I unwillingly give up my warm blanket. The whole thing lasts about 15 minutes, including the time it takes to change my clothes.

I keep meaning to look up exactly what is going on, so I can explain it better, but here’s the thing: I don’t really feel a need to. This is huge for me. If I am looking something up in as many sources as possible, that means I’m anxious. Maybe I’m not feeling well, maybe I’m afraid I’ll be feeling horribly soon. Maybe I’m afraid for my life. I research to try and comfort myself, arm myself with as much knowledge as I can. But I’m not this time. I’m blissfully ignorant. I’m skating through radiation with very few worries. And in fact, I’ve had it pretty easy. Some people get such bad burns that they blister. Some people get really raw skin. Some people get really fatigued. In the last week or so, I’ve started to get this weird burn/rash thing that feels like a combination of a sunburn that extends down into my muscle, and an itchy rash that feels like it would hurt to scratch, and has random bouts of a stinging sensation. It hurts a little more every day to lift my left arm above my head, because the tissue underneath the skin is pretty swollen and irritated. I also get tired pretty easily, which is poorly timed with the beginning of the semester. But compared to chemotherapy? Or recovery from surgery? I am fully functional. I am not throwing up. I am not highly emotional, or so tired that walking to the living room is a task. In fact, I go hiking pretty frequently, and even tried snowshoeing recently. I feel better than I have in a year and a half, when I started feeling so tired, when I’m convinced my cancer started to grow.

This feeling was validated by my  medical oncologist last week. I went in to talk to her about the anti-hormone therapy I will be starting in a few weeks. My type of cancer responds to estrogen, so for 5-10 years, I will take a pill that will block my estrogen receptors. This will reduce my chance of recurrence to one that is almost equivalent to that of the general public. I asked her when the  clock started for me to be able to say I’m cured. She said that unfortunately, with my type of breast cancer, I can never really say that. Recurrence can happen 20+ years later. BUT, I can say that for now, I have no cancer. My PET scan in the summer showed that the cancer had not spread beyond the lymph nodes. Since then, I’ve had chemotherapy, which took care of all of the cancer, except for the small bit that was found at surgery — and that’s been removed. So there is no reason, no indication, to say anymore that I have cancer. I had cancer. I do not have cancer anymore.

I don’t have cancer. Now it’s not just a feeling. Now it’s a fact. I think I need to repeat it a few more times to let it sink in.