Following my final treatment, I rang the bell in the radiation waiting room. There’s a video of this moment at the end of this post.
I put a lot of thought into choosing the title for this story.
“Painful memories are in my past” are lyrics from my song “In the Past.” That line worked really well for two distinct stories intersecting. One was about my cancer treatment. The other related to reconnecting with the cardiologist who treated my deceased son at this same hospital 32 years earlier.
I loved the waiting room, especially because the music was soothing and meditative. There was even a piano.
The final step of my breast cancer treatment was receiving radiation daily for one week. I knew exactly where I was going, since two weeks earlier I had been prepped.
The first day was unexpectedly challenging. I was used to lying still on a hard table, but I had a sore shoulder. Putting my arms high up over my head in a stirrup was immediately uncomfortable. After ten minutes, I felt a gnawing pain pulsing through me. I stayed still, but as the pain intensified I broke out in a sweat. I asked the technician when I could move, but he kept telling me I had to wait. Even when I was able to stretch briefly, it didn’t help. There wasn’t any position that was comfortable and I couldn’t get up.
This went on for almost two hours and I had to hold my breath consistently when I was instructed. I used visualization techniques to help myself through the pain.
With positivity, I found the level of perfectionism impressive. The radiologist wanted to target exactly where the radiation would go. The technician told me that the equipment in this room cost seven million dollars. And there were seven rooms!
On that Monday, I received more tattoo markings and my first treatment. I drove home exhausted and made a mental note to take ibuprofen ahead of time.
Tuesday was another difficult day. I had to be there by 6:15 am. It was dark and I was driving carefully in my lane, when a loud thwack shocked me. Another car had just changed lanes right into my door!
I couldn’t make out the license plate while driving. My heart was pounding as the vehicle that hit me sped off. I made a snap decision to continue onward to my appointment.
Thankfully, I wasn’t hurt. My car was drivable and not too badly damaged. But this was certainly an annoyance. I sure didn’t need a hit and run to deal with!
I was so relieved that I had made it to my appointment. As I put on my gown, I told a technician what had happened. He said, “Hey, even if you missed it – never worry. We would fit you in.”
The week flew by and the treatments became easier each day. They lasted approximately 15 minutes. I would gown up and lie down in the correct position. I even remembered the instructions to turn my head sideways, so my head would be further away from the radiation beam.
When instructed, I held my breath as the machine hummed. I imagined I was swimming underwater or preparing to sing a really high note.
Finally, Friday arrived and it was my last day. As I got off the table, the technician congratulated me and I was given the clear plastic breast cup strapped on during those treatments.
A memento that I’m not saving.
It was quite an honor to ring the bell in the waiting room. I was so thrilled that this chapter was now over. And when the room erupted in applause, I was incredibly moved.
As far as painful memories went, I had already put it behind me. All of this was now in the past.
Link to more about my song “In the Past:”
Now it was time for me to address other painful memories from my past.
The night before, I wrote a two-page letter to Jason’s former cardiologist, Doctor R. I planned to find his office and deliver it with a book on my last day of radiation.
Unfortunately, I was disappointed. After walking almost a mile to a distant building from where I was parked, a receptionist told me he had retired.
But I was determined. I was on a mission and would find him another way.
The next day, I awoke with a wonderful feeling of freedom. It was rare, but I didn’t have any chronic pain. I had finally healed from the many things I’d gone through over the past six months.
I was ready to find a way to contact this special doctor.
It didn’t take long. I went on Google and there was an option to have his address and phone number “unlocked” for $5.
Once I had his number, it was harder. I could just mail the book and letter, but what if it wasn’t the correct address? Making this cold call required courage.
I took a deep breath and a woman answered. I introduced myself and told her my son was a former patient of Dr. R. I waited as she called him to the phone.
His voice was very recognizable. Our conversation began by him saying he had received my phone message and certainly did remember me.
He asked how I found his number, and I told him. “Do you have my social security number, too?” he said with a slight chuckle. I nervously laughed and assured him I didn’t have it.
I couldn’t help but wonder if he would have ever called me and felt badly that I had “stalked him.” I decided to let those feelings go.
I told him that I appreciated how caring he was during the five years of Jason’s life. The fact that he spoke at Jason’s funeral was something I’d never forget. He mentioned that the painting I gave him hung in his office for years and I was touched to hear that.
He talked about how doctors today don’t understand the level of dedication involved. They only looked forward to leaving work and getting to retirement.
It turned out he was not retired. At the age of 79, he still worked part-time at two other facilities. Currently, he had a long commute filling in for another cardiologist that was out sick.
We talked for about fifteen minutes. It was interesting to hear that he had kept up with all the medical advancements through the years. He said he sometimes heard from former patients that were in their forties now. I shared with him that I had a blogging friend close to my age with Jason’s same heart defect. She had contacted me after reading Jason’s story. He was amazed.
Whenever I mentioned Jason, my throat closed up and I couldn’t speak. It was an exercise in swallowing tears and forcing myself to get the words out. In between tearful pauses, I shared about my focus on healing and grief. But most importantly, this was how Jason lived on for me.
I let him know I was mailing him a copy of my book and profusely thanked him for taking my call.
I felt strangely calm after our conversation. I actually wasn’t sure what I was feeling.
I rewrote my letter and put the book in an envelope. I might hear back from him after he received it, but I had no expectations.
I thought about how choked up I had been on that call. After so many years, I still cried remembering my son.
But I was thankful that I had healed – and especially proud that I was able to address those painful memories from my past.
I realized then that my tears weren’t about sadness – they were about my gratefulness.
Things that made me cry, gave me wings to fly.
