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Last Day at the Radiation Clinic
or Let Them Eat Cake!
by Cindy Buranek
 My
42-year-old gravity-challenged right breast had morphed into this trophy
sized-perky tower of flesh after only eight weeks of radiation treatments.
Sitting in the Oncology Center waiting for my daily beaming, I glanced
impatiently through the September Travel magazine. On page 53 in glorious pinks
and browns, a mountainous replica of my breast stood regally guarding the
tropical landscape of Costa Rica. I didn?t know the official name of this
mountain, but it came to be known as Buranek Mountain to my nurse buddies in
radiology. I brazenly ripped the page from the magazine. It now hangs above my
desk subtitled, "Cindy Buranek ? self-portrait ? age 42".
If you think I am exaggerating
about the mass of flesh my breast had become, then why was I serenaded by the
nurses with "Go Tell it on the Mountain" upon my disrobing? Why did
Dr. Vigliotti mumble "big, so big" whenever he was in my general
vicinity? I never let this unexpected "development" affect my
perspective on this life-altering event. I had survived breast cancer with
nothing more to show than one permanently tanned, firm mound of flesh that
easily could pass for a perky 16-year-old breast. I had noticed that my husband
had transferred his loyalties to my right side. My flabby left breast hid under
my armpit with chagrin and neglect.
Whatever was happening inside me
on a cellular level to kill this sneaky invader I didn?t much want to know.
Not that I hadn?t read every book in the library and surfed every web page
once I was diagnosed. I had, but now armed with the facts my credo became
"Let?s beam the little suckers and move on. Beam and book! However the
metallic gray cancer annihilator that had cost Genesis Hospital over 1.5 million
dollars had its own agenda. This revolutionary super beam had sporadic
breakdowns as I lay on that cold metal table. The nurses swore it mostly
happened when my pound of flesh lay back for my permanent tanning session. Some
type of mammary overload was my guess. The software geeks flown in from
California dismissed this feeble explanation and tweaked away at the code. I don?t
know a thing about programming, but it seemed that each time they emerged from
the metal cave of technology their heads appeared bigger. So, hey - why not my
breast?
Now, a year later, my prognosis
is as optimistic as anyone could hope for. I have a 1% chance of the C word
returning in the next five years and only a 15% chance in the next ten. Sadly,
official statistics don?t go much beyond ten years, but that too is changing
as more and more women are detecting their lumps earlier, listening to their gut
feelings and acting on them. If you feel there is something wrong, trust
yourself first; reason with your Doctor second. Women know their bodies; they
live with them each and every day. Our bodies talk to us in a quiet but
insistent way if we take the time to listen. I have heard too many stories from
women who stifled their inner voices and followed their doctor?s advice to
wait and see. Breast cancer is not a wait and see disease. It is a devious,
cunning, sneaky bastard that can kill you just by the passing of time.
I was lucky: I had a Stage 1,
grade one, slow-growing breast cancer. It did not run in my family. I was in
good physical shape, but something on a molecular level decided to choose me. As
I stood in the bathroom one morning, my mother?s voice told me rather rudely
to "check my breast." I always did what my mother told me, even if she
had gone to God over ten years before. I wasn?t about to argue with anyone
that had the power to reach down to me from so far away. She was right. I
listened and I am alive.
Now after 38 radiation
treatments I feel wonderful. I played racquetball until my seventh week and
never stopped working. Your mind is a powerful tool. Let it work for you. I did
decline the drug tamoxifen
because ovarian and cervical cancer runs in my family. I had beaten breast
cancer and my internal spiritual voice had guided me so well in the past that I
had decided not to argue with it now. This is an individual decision.
If I have learned anything it is
this. Trust yourself and listen to your body. If you are tired, sleep. If you
are surrounded by friends that aren?t comfortable talking about cancer, find
different friends. Close the door on negative energy-sucking people. Now is the
time for souls with positive, uplifting beliefs. The others will drain your
remaining strength and your body can?t tolerate them right now.
On my last day of radiation I
had written "Bye Bye" with a permanent blue pen on my breast.
(Anything to break the monotony.) The nurses allowed me to use my twisted humor
to save myself and at times laughed harder than I. They saved me from dwelling
on the negative and forced me to concentrate on the battle.
My last day was like leaving
girls? camp. I would miss these kind, warm women. I had grown close to them in
eight short weeks. I left them with something I knew they would never forget. I
had baked a beautiful chocolate breast cake, a replica of my enormous brown
breast. The identical grid pattern that they had drawn on me each week to align
the beam was now in blue frosting instead of that hideous ink that wrecked every
bra I owned. Flying proudly from the nipple peak was a little red flag, "Buranek?s
Mountain, Highest Peak this side of the Mississippi".
I left my radiation friends with
chocolate kisses and tears in my eyes and a deep hope that I would never have to
climb that mountain again.
 Recommended
book:
"The Power
of Miracles: Stories of God in the Everyday?
by Joan
Wester Anderson
Info/Order book
About The
Author
Cindy
Buranek is a forty-three year old aspiring writer. She has been
published in a college magazine twice and won first prize on her first
entry. She is presently writing her first novel called "Pretend for
a Moment" about her 8 brothers and sisters and hopes to finish it
before she needs bifocals. She can be reached at
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.
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