Man, oh man, the last couple weeks of radiation sure tested my resilience. That not-so-bad light pink radiation burn from the first 20 treatments started to peel in spots, turning most of my left chest wall various shades of painful red.
I stayed on top of my ultra-diligent moisturizing routine, got crafty with patches of non-stick gauze, did lots of whining that nobody ever seemed to hold against me. And now ... I'm done! Thirty radiation treatments, check! My awesome radiation therapists shouted "Woo hoooooo!!!!" over the intercom after I got my last dose of electrons this morning. Then they gave me a certificate congratulating me for completing radiation therapy and for "my proficiency in the art of being CHEERFUL, COURAGEOUS, TOLERANT AND DETERMINED." They chuckled good and hard when I played them F*ck That: An Honest Meditation. "Breathe in strength ... breathe out bullshit." Sean and I took the day off, had an indulgent breakfast, lounged around watching TV and napping, watching TV and napping, then took the kids out to an indulgent dinner. Felt great to be celebrating this milestone. My skin should start healing up good in about two weeks, when I start the next phase of my treatment: hormone therapy for the next five (plus?) years. I've heard Tamoxifen can be a bitch. But it's kept a lot of breast cancer bitches like me alive over the years, so I'll suck it up, deal with whatever unpleasant side effects I get and keep on keepin' on. At least it's just a pill, and I won't have to go to the dang hospital day after day after day after day. I am not going to miss one damn thing about the commute to and from and to and from and to and from Group Health. So glad to be moving on ...