Halfway There

As a kid, when we went on a road trip, my sister or I would invariably ask our parents,
“Where are we?” Or “How long till we get there?”

Just as predictably, our parents would answer “Closer than we ever were.” At some point, we set those five words to a little tune, and we’d sing the answer.

I haven’t broken out in song at radiation, though I came close one day when someone was playing hymns on the piano in the lobby. But it is still true that I am closer to completion than I ever was.

Yesterday I hit the half-way point in my radiation treatments. Jerry and I have talked about the day when I will ring the bell, signaling my treatment has ended. I’m not there yet, but I am closer.

I began my treatments, feeling energetic and ready to take this on. As the days trudge along, I ask God for the courage and strength to make that drive one more time, walk through those doors again, and move through the now familiar process of allowing the beam to do its work.

The beam is not visible during my treatment. I hear the buzz of the machine rotating around me. But I have no tangible proof it is going where it is needed and doing its unseen job. I have to take that on faith and trust that the years of experience the techs have which lead them to position it correctly.

And then there’s today. While my doctor mentioned I was now on the “downhill side” of radiation, we hit a speed bump. I was on the table, prepared for the pre-beam scan, when there was a power surge. The techs came in and told me it would be about 12 minutes to reset the system. Several minutes later, they came in and said they were going to get me off the table. They were having trouble resetting the system.

Back to the waiting room.

A short time later, someone came out and told all of us waiting for that vault (what the room is labeled) that they had to call in a tech. He would arrive in 45-60 minutes and then need perhaps another 60 minutes to restart the system. We each had the choice to wait and see if he could or reschedule, which really means tack an extra day to the end of our treatment.

Two hours to sit in the waiting room for a possibility it could get fixed? No, thank you. When I started, the other vault was down for three days.

Oh well, I am still half-way through, just with a day break in-between.