The Dreaded Mark of Amifostine

Just like one of my favorite fictional protagonists, Hester Prenn, I now bear a brand beginning with the word A: the dreaded mark of Amifostine. For those who are fortunate enough to be unacquainted with the drug, it is a potent antioxidant given to those undergoing radiation or chemo in order to protect healthy tissues from the therapy. In Medicalese, this is a "radiation-protectant" or "chemo-protectant." Theoretically, this is supposed to reduce my risk of a secondary malignancy (getting another stupid cancer) and to preserve the function of my salivary glands. This means that if all goes according to plan, I should be able to hock a loogie after treatment just as well as before. Charming, I know. Let us keep our fingers crossed that this is the case. So what is this dreaded mark, may you ask?

The dreaded mark of Amifostine (aka a really crappy bruise)

For a medication that is supposed to be helping me, it sure doesn't feel like it. This is the story with most cancer drugs, unfortunately. So anyway, getting this shot is an entire production in itself. Firstly, the nurse comes in and takes your blood pressure. If you get the A-OK, the nurse then returns with an evil-looking 10 cc syringe (most syringes are only 1 cc!!) and a 4 inch needle, which she uses to extract the potion from a vial. Of course from the horror stories that I had heard from other cancer patients, I assumed that this needle would be jammed into my stomach via the 4 inch needle. So I decided to brace for the inevitable. When I saw the needle, I told Nurse L***, "I have had a spinal tap, a pelvic bone marrow biopsy done with a foot-long drill, and have been cut up more times than Frankenstein. You don't scare me." She laughed. "Honey, this is what I use to draw up the drug from the vial. This doesn't go into you." And with that she popped off the 4-inch monster and snapped on a little 18-guager, much to my admitted relief. Oh thank you Gosh! But not really. That little stinger really burns going in; it's like liquid fire!! (sigh)

A famous hand model poses with the scary needle.

Addendum: I gave a copy of my last post to my radiotherapist, and he did not seem to be overly amused. I was only joking when I called him Dr. Evil. I really think that he is quite nice! Perhaps it is not in my best interest to annoy people who have access to high-powered lasers and regularly point them at me. Always thinking ahead, I am.

I has been microwaved in the head - what's your excuse?

It's 2:45PM on a Monday afternoon. Deep in the cavernous bowels of the James Graham Brown Cancer center in Louisville, I am lying on a cold table directly underneath a gigantic multi-ton machine that hangs from the ceiling, intended to blast my cancer cells into oblivion. My feet wiggle back and forth as the touching love ballad “Smack That” plays over the intercom for my listening pleasure.

My mom called me elf-girl when she saw this picture. Hmph.

The technician comes in and lowers a mask strangely reminiscent of a horror movie serial-killer hockey mask over my face, and bolts it to the table so that I can’t move. When I reflect that Kentucky is geographically near an active fault line, I regret being bolted down to a table with something the size of a Cadillac dangling over my head. Only about a month ago, there had been a minor earthquake in the area. Nice.

This will be the photo that I put on Match.com for internet dating. What guy can resist a bald girl in a demented hockey mask?

I immediately regret my decision of two weeks earlier, when the radiotherapist had given me a choice: the Halloween mask or blue tattoo dots on my face. The claustrophobia induced by the mask makes me contemplate ways that blue tattoo dots could be incorporated into some sort of Samoan facial tattoo, which I try to convince myself really could be attractive. Maybe with just the right tribal design I could distract attention away from my Yoda ears...

Serial-killer mask time! Yee!

A hydraulic drone begins, and the table lifts itself six feet into the air, inching slowly upward so that it is proximal to the Cobalt source. The technician leaves. I want to leave too! I think as my head approaches what looks like a huge camera lens. The lights dim and a laser begins criss-crossing my face, as it pin-points the desired location for the radiation beam. The large machine begins to click, and then with a buzz it bombards the right side of my face with photons for 30 seconds. Poof! Poof! Poof! The little cancer cells are yelling AHH!!! and then going Poof! into a puff of cartoon smoke. At least they are in my head.

My highly scientific rendering of electrons irradiating cancer cells. I'm sure it will be in a medical textbook someday so that future radiotherapists can learn about poof-ification.

More clicking. A loud buzz emanates from the machine and then a beam of electrons hits my face. Electrons taste funny – kind of like chlorine (really). With a final click, the treatment is over, and I am aware that the table is lowering. The technician comes in and lifts the mask off of my face, which from my perspective feels very much like the unmasking in “Iron Mask.” I want to take a nap and am really sick of writing now, so this is THE END of my melodramatic radiation account!!!

My radiotherapist is Dr. Evil, and he uses Lay-ZURs. For my treatment, I am surrounded by sharks with lay-ZUR beams on their heads. They're outside the photo.