(See Pts. 1-3)
“The Big C” is no respecter of persons. There isn’t a country, state, metropolis or village in the world upon which it hasn’t laid its vile hand. Bartow, Florida. Gomel, Belarus. Paris, France. Podunk, West Virginia.
Our beloved Shih Tzu, Buddy, had been acting strangely the past few days. (He was actually a she, since the moniker seemed to fit and we’d given her a male name). Buddy wouldn’t let my wife out of her sight. Where Jean went, well, she went. If she walked into the living room, Buddy was right behind her. If she needed something out of the refrigerator, the little pooch was underfoot. If she decided to take a nap, the little Shih Tzu curled up at the end of the bed, and followed her lead.
Jean hadn’t felt well, physically or emotionally, and one day as she chose the latter activity, above, she had the sense that some invisible weight was pressing her into the bedstead. Oppressive and suffocating, it seemed like Death, itself.
My wife’s physical and emotional symptoms were indicative of a problem which could not be ignored, and I knew dogs possessed an acute sense of smell, and were able to detect the presence of any number of organic maladies and substances. I encouraged Jean to make an appointment with her physician, and as the result of a mammogram a lump was discovered in one breast. At this point, ‘Dr. Scott’ referred her to a surgical oncologist, and a biopsy was performed.
When the tests ‘came back’ the lump was found to be malignant. Thankfully, the malignancy was still contained within the duct, and a lumpectomy was scheduled.
When Jean awoke from the scheduled lumpectomy she learned the lead wire had dislodged, and the surgery could not be completed. ‘Dr. Andrews,’ a renowned female surgeon, was not a ‘happy camper.’ Ultimately, the surgical technician was released for not having properly positioned the wire. Later that week the lumpectomy was performed successfully.
As it fell together, the three surgical procedures which had thus far transpired proved to be the least of it.
Jean was scheduled for a consult, and Dr. Andrews recommended she submit to a follow up regimen. And thus, over the course of the next several weeks my wife submitted to (drum roll)
…33 installments of radiation.
(Readers, that final word in the previous sentence should ‘ring a bell’ for you).
At this writing we are thankful that Jean has been cancer free for well over a decade, and she can rightly be called a ‘Survivor.’
An unusual series of coincidences which when taken together are among the most unusual circumstances to which I have ever personally been privy.
A father exposed to the radioactive cloud generated by the atomic blasts of WWII.
A hometown which exudes gamma rays from the ground upon which it was constructed.
A short term missions trip located right ‘next door’ to the site of the infamous Chernobyl disaster.
‘The Big C’ and its aftermath. Almost three dozen episodes involving the administration of radiation.
Almost seven (count ‘em 7) decades of exposure to radiation of one kind or another.
As a nurse my wife’s patients always remarked that her hands were ‘as soft as a baby’s butt’ and ‘as warm as a summer breeze.’
I can only guess why.
My Radioactive Wife
By
William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 46. Copyright pending
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