Burnt Skin

"My skin turned black and four days ago, it rolled away."

"That is to be expected with radiotherapy," said Dr Nicholas. "How long had the cycle been?"

"I've completed all twenty. Look at the area where the skin peeled off.  They're weeping. Maybe it's turning gangrene?"

"Nah.... it's looking good."

I slept better that night.  The skin under my armpit rolled away like a Persian carpet that evening after my last treatment.  The exposed skin beneath looked like they were rudely awaken from an unpleasant sleep. They probably were.

Dr Nicholas, bless his soul, assured me that my skin is looking good.  All I had to do was to cleanse the treated area with Cetaphil liquid soap which is mildly antiseptic and then moisturise with aqueous cream. (prescribed by the oncologist)

I just took another look.  It is no longer weeping.

It is done.

I had my breakfast at eight this morning.  By this time for the past twenty days, I would have arrived at the hospital and be greeted by the other patients in Radiotherapy.  We would have asked each other what number each had in order to see the order of treatment, not that it would make a difference.  Few things excite us these days and it is pathetic to suggest that one gets any form of thrill from comparing numbers with the others.  For an introvert, that would be horrifying but I was beginning to look forward to it.  Why, even Miss Chatterbox was beginning to grow on me.

Yes, I've completed the treatment.  All twenty of them.  So relieved was I that I bought the radiotherapy team a chocolate cheese cake from Secret Recipe just yesterday. They had been kind to me and I appreciated it.

You see an interesting cross-section of humanity at a hospital.  An aura of despair enshrouds each. When you bumped into them for twenty consecutive days, some form of fellowship emerges. A short-term support group, if you will. Behind each face, the despair is replaced by a story and I dwell on stories. I don't delight in another's despair but knowing their story helped me deal with the occasional bout of self-pity which besieges me.

The youngest patient is a Kuantan boy of seven.  His adrenal gland was compromised.

At nine every morning, a little girl gets wheeled into Radiotherapy.  Gas cylinders presumably filled with oxygen followed her into the room.  She was always asleep while they wheeled her in.

Yesterday an old loud man with a hideous growth on his nose joined us.  The growth was brown and black with convoluted folds.  I was afraid to look at him but from his conversation with the others, I gathered that in his case, the growth came back after his previous surgery and treatment was completed.  In his opinion it was the pork knuckles which did it.

An Indian lady in my age group accompanied her frail husband to the hospital everyday. While waiting in line to pay the cashier, we struck up a conversation.  Her husband had three different cancer in his lungs, adrenal gland and stomach.  He had to go through three different chemotherapies to address each.  A total of 30!  I barely made it to the 6th but he needed 30 of those.  I'm just basically glad I made it.

Here's to Moving On ... one step at a time.

"I don't have $50."

The first time she walked into Radiotherapy, she stared at me in a sizing-me-up kind of way.  I was uncomfortable with it.  The young man beside her, presumably her son, had a caddish look about him.  My instincts told me to steer clear.

She made her second appearance yesterday with a loud "I don't have $50. What should I do?"

Everyone looked away. She approached me.

"Can I borrow your phone? I want to call my son to bring $50 so I can have my treatment."

I helped her dial the son's number which went unanswered.  Then she plucked out her mobile phone to check if the number she gave me was correct.  I was flabbergasted.

"I don't have $50," she continued.

Everyone looked away. I didn't know what to do.  Should I help her? $50 isn't a lot of money and she'll probably never return it but the bigger question was ... to give or not to give.  Yet what if her case was genuine?

I made a decision.  I'll give it to her if she asked me directly.  She did not.  She just kept on staring at all the others.  My number was called so I went in for the treatment.

God's will, I guess.  If my number hadn't been called I would have given her the money had she asked.

Yesterday's treatment was my last and I was glad I'll never bump into her again.  She gave me the creeps.

The Cab Driver

"This song sounds like it came from the P-Ramlee era," I said not long after stepping into the cab.

"Oh this one is an old classic." beamed the cab driver, delighted with my show of interest.

On the trip home, we reminisced, he and I, two strangers inside a cab drifting nonchalantly along the busy highway.

Back then, pontianaks have legs and weren't quite as scary.

We talked about Bawang Putih, Bawang Merah, an old Malay classic. A young girl's mother died. His father remarried. For reasons I have never quite understood, the dead mother became a fish. The evil stepmother caught the fish, fried it and served it to the young girl.  She ate the fish and broke down in tears when she found out that the fish was her mother.  She buried the fish bone in the ground and a tree grew out of it.  She sat on a swing attached to the tree and sang sad songs. I remembered no more.

Si Bongkok was a story about a hunchback who found a statue by a pond.  He carried the statue home.  The statue heard his sad lamentations and transformed itself into a beautiful woman. (Some sort of  fairy/goddess.)  From thereon, Si Bongkok prospered. He lost his hunchback and was transformed into a good looking young man.  The years went by.  I'm not sure if a second woman entered the scene but Si Bongkok began to ill-treat his wife.  Deep in despair, the weeping wife uttered some magical words and was transformed back into the statue.  Thunder and lightning was all over this last scene for the dramatic effect.  Si Bongkok lost his good looks and his fortune and once again became the poor hunchback, despised by the people around him.

Batu Belah, Batu Bertangkup was a story about a cave which swallowed a widow.  This cave is said to be located in Klang. It was blasted away by the developers who cleared the area.

Between the cab-driver and me, we couldn't recall the name of this next movie. It told the story of a poor young fisherman who went out to sea one morning and never returned to his poor mother. The young fisherman was lost at sea when a thick fog appeared out of nowhere.  When the fog cleared, he found himself near an island.  From within the island, a young lady sang.  The fisherman followed this sound and came upon a princess.  They fell in love, married and lived happily ever after.  Several years later, they went on a boat trip.  The boat was shrouded in a fog and when it cleared, the couple found themselves back on the island where the fisherman once lived. His mother, now old and gnarled called out to him.  When his beautiful wife asked him who the old woman was, he said he did not know her.  In despair, the old woman turned to the heavens and cried.  Heaven in his mercy transformed the fisherman into a block of stone.

Some memories they were ...

"What happened to P Ramlee's wife?"

"Oh, she's no longer around, a lot of them are gone by now," answered the cabdriver.

And we shook our heads mesmerised by the passage of time.

Grandma had a beard.

She bit her tongue. Literally. Accidentally. The ulcers came. Antibiotics didn't help. Neither did Bonjela and a host of other medication.  They gave her hell so she consulted a specialist at Gleneagles. A biopsy confirmed the dreadful diagnosis.  Cancer.

"How serious is it?" asked Madam Grandma. (Not her real name.)

"Oh, this is only the initial stages. Nothing to worry about. We'll just take you through the treatment," said the good doctor.  "We can't operate on your tongue for two reasons. First, there's too many blood vessels in the tongue so it's high risk. Second, you have a heart condition and at your age, an operation is out of the question.  As far as treatment goes, I'll recommend radiotherapy. 35 sessions."

"How much will that cost?"

"In the region of $17000."

"If that's the case, can you please write me a reference letter addressed to a public hospital?  I am a retired civil servant so I'll get free treatment there."

"Public Hospital? They'll put you on a two months waiting list. You mustn't wait that long. This thing could kill you."

"You just told me that mine is only at the initial stages, that I have nothing to worry about. You mean, I can't wait two months?"

The long and short of this story is that a reference letter was finally written.  Madam Grandma went for the radiotherapy at the public hospital.  She was asked to wear a mask before the machine fired its ray into her tongue/neck region.  The affected area turned black so she had a black chin and neck.

Her grandchildren laughed at her.  "Grandma had a beard! Grandma had a beard!"

After the 30th treatment, the skin on her neck started to degenerate.  Red angry patches appeared and the prescribed cream did not help.  In desperation, she applied "Bao Fu Ling".  (China's sensational compound camphor cream)  It eased her pain.

"I will advise you not to use Bao Fu Ling," said Madam Know-It-all. (not her real name) Madam Know-It-all is a Chinese physician wannabe so she knows stuff.  She's 56.  Her mother is seeking treatment for ovarian cancer.  Her brother to whom she donated one of her kidneys, is on the kidney dialysis list. Her sister had an issue with her hip bone. With so many of her family members in trouble, she started studying Chinese medicine.

"Why? What's wrong with Bao Fu Ling?" asked Madam Grandma.

"It contains steroid," answered Madam Know-It-All.

After this sensational news died down, Madam Know-It-All, bless her soul, taught me a few basic exercises to reduce the numbness in my finger tips.  I'll share them with you, bless my soul, for what use is this knowledge if I kept it to myself?

You begin by locking all the fingers  in both hands together and holding them in a tight grip just under your chin.  Count to ten.  Release.  Grip it tight again. Extend the clasped hands forward until it's straight at the elbow.  Slowly move the clasped hands to your left.  Then move it to your right.  Back to the centre.  Slowly lift it up above your head. Release your fingers.

I tried it yesterday.  My finger tips started to throb.  It felt good.

The first of 5 Boosts!

My 15 radiotherapy sessions concluded yesterday.  I was sent to the Simulation Room where new lines were measured out, this time, a smaller rectangle measuring approximately 4" X 6".

This morning, the first of 5 boosts was administered.  

The huge disc measuring approximately 2 feet in diameter positioned itself above me just inches away from my chest.  The machine went "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek" then stopped.

And that was that, except that if I were to tell you I wasn't scared, I'd be lying through my teeth.

Madam Seremban

She's sixty going seventy, a bubbly character with a smile for everyone. Five years ago, Madam Seremban (not her real name but of course not her real name!) had both her breasts surgically removed.  She went for the Chemotherapy and Hormone Treatment. Radiotherapy wasn't recommended.

She became a vegetarian.

Five years down the road, a new lump appeared on her chest.  This time, she had the lump removed followed by radiotherapy.

This essentially means that going vegetarian will not keep the disease at bay.

Girls talk too much.

"Girls talk too much," said Peter Pan when Wendy went ballistic.

I am apt to agree. Really.  Girls, women, ladies, they DO talk too much.  Was it Thomas Jefferson who said that the most valuable of all talents is to never use two words when one will do?  Then again, he's a man.  What does a man know about using twenty words to give credence to one?

Its the same with canines. I have raised three dogs and three bitches up till now. Canines are social animals too. They participate in neighbourly chats once in a while.  All it took was just for one to start the ball rolling. Sleep is impossible at the height of their argument. Yet I've noticed that my dogs have fewer barks than the bitches.  They listened to the barks but they kept their responses to the minimum while the bitches only wanted to be heard whether or not there is any substance in what they say.

I've been to the radiotherapy room daily for the past three weeks. It was relatively quiet. Most of us waited patiently and minded our own business.  If any chatter started, they never rose beyond a discreet murmur.

The tranquillity was broken this week. Miss Chatterbox, of whom I wrote extensively in previous posts had arrived.  There she is with that pinched expression as brazen as before, asking personal questions of anyone who crossed her path.  I found her inordinately inquisitive and invasive so I sat as far away from her as possible.  Still, her annoying voice intrude upon my space and I knew that it was impossible to continue reading my book, SPACE by Michener, which by the way, is an interesting read.

Yesterday on the way home after the radiotherapy, I struck up a conversation with the cab driver. He was telling me about his two menantu, adding that he got along fine with both of them unlike his wife.  "Women talked too much," he complained. 

I had to agree.

5 X BOOST

Just to recap.  I went for the CT Simulation last December.  This simulation was important because it helped demarcate the treatment area for the subsequent radiotherapy.  Since my tumour went into the Deep Margin, the Radiation Oncologist told me that I will require a 5 X Boost.

At the time, my mind went blank. The term "5 X Boost" sounded nasty. I imagined a machine firing a beam of hot searing ray into my chest and quivered at the prospect. I've heard tales, all sorts of tales.  There was one told by a woman who claimed that the ray left burnt scars on her chest, then passed through her and burned the skin at the back. Then there's that other one whose face turned black from exposure to the radiation. The one which stole the show was the story from a woman whose skin degenerated after the radiotherapy.  The surgeon cut off some skin from her back shoulder and flipped them to the front.  It was called The Back Flip.  As far as scary tales go, I'm sure nothing beats the Back Flip story.

Like I said, my mind went blank. "5 X Boost"?  What could that possibly mean?  It didn't occur to me to ask the Radiation Oncologist what that meant.  I could have but you see, my mind went blank.  Not blank enough to obliterate all thoughts, it would appear.  My mind was filled with images of Back Flips and burnt scars on my back and face.  I couldn't imagine myself walking around with my back on my front.  It was just too mind-blowing.

Later, I would ponder over the "5 X Boost".

It could only mean one thing.  Intensity.  The rays they're going to fire into me will be 5 times the intensity of the normal ray. That's what "5 X Boost" meant.  I mean - really!

Today, I saw the Radiation Oncologist again.

As far as good news go, I have two.

The "5 X Boost" meant that I will get five additional treatment on top of the normal 15. In total, I will get 20 treatments.  Originally, I was scheduled for 15 + 8, the 8 being the boost which fluctuates depending on individual needs.  If they cut down my booster from 8 to 5, this should augur well, me thinks.

Now for the second piece of good news.  Remember that cluster they found in my liver during the initial CT Scan?  They confirmed its Hemangioma.

Liver hemangioma is a non-cancerous (benign) mass that occurs in the liver. A liver hemangioma is made up of a tangle of blood vessels.

Yup!  I'm in better spirit today.

O-Wait!

At the end of today's treatment (i.e. the fourth) the Radiotherapist warned that my skin is turning red.  I was advised to be vigilant.

I don't want my back on my front, so folks, pray for me.  No Back Flips, dear God, please!  No Back Flips!