A Face In Time

Of all the significant events that have taken place in my life over the past twenty-six years, the oncology conference remains on the top of the list.  It was an important milestone, like the senior prom -- had I been able to attend just a week earlier. It was the day I was informed of the course of treatment that would end one long nightmare, but start another. The decisions made and shared with my family that afternoon impacted the rest of my life with good and bad results.

Gratefully, standing in front of a room of doctors was not as bad as I had imagined.  I was asked to remove my cap so that Dr. Russell could point out the parameters of the tumor.  Measuring three inches wide and five inches long, the mass extended from my temple to chin.  Imparting all kinds of technical terminology and references to his audience, the doctor’s language was as foreign to me as speaking in tongues.  The entire experience was a bit of a blur and ended very quickly.  Dr. Russell thanked me for my participation and asked that I wait outside.  Mom and I were then escorted to another examining room where Dr. Russell would later join us to share his conclusions.

Sitting and waiting had become a very familiar routine.  After months of turmoil, I was numb – the entire experience--surreal.  I could have sat there for hours and never noticed the passing of time.  I wasn’t in denial, but as I tried to weigh the facts, I couldn’t believe that I actually had cancer.  “No one has cancer of the face.  Nothing has ever been wrong with me before.  I’m always the last one to get a cold. I’ve never been seriously ill.  If I had cancer wouldn’t I have been sick?” My thoughts were racing as I tried to make sense of it all.  Before my mind could wander a minute more, Dr. Russell burst into the examining room.  There would be no surgery after all – the tumor was too large and inoperable.  I was jumping up and down with joy inside. I couldn’t bear the thought of being scarred by surgery.  It was all the talk about drastic surgery in the early development stages of the tumor that set my family in a tailspin, and away from conventional medicine.  Instead, an aggressive course of radiation and chemotherapy was recommended.  There was no time to waste.  Radiation would begin in two days and would be administered five days a week for six weeks, ending July 1.  It didn’t look like I would be attending graduation after all.  Friends, school, my violin – how quickly it all became a part of my past.

Communication with friends was non-existent.   I was afraid to call them in fear of their reaction, and I am certain they were reluctant to call me, in fear of the truth – afraid that I wasn’t well.  Fear can sometimes be such an overwhelming and paralyzing emotion.  For myself, the silence left me feeling very alone.  There was however one source of communication that connected me back to my school life in a very bittersweet way – the signing of my high school yearbook.  One good friend, Jurate Raulinaitis, carried my album with her during those last two weeks before graduation, and another longtime friend, Debbie Carson, delivered it to my home.  Although the comments and well wishes from friends was touching, I was sadly reminded of all the social interaction I was deprived of, and contributed to.  As much as I wanted to invite friends over, I couldn’t bear for them to see me in this “altered” state.  I had to be “fixed,” restored to my former self before I could start pulling people back into my life.

A travel routine was soon established as I began radiation. My father drove my mother, Joal, Ryan, and I out to UCLA every day for treatment. While Mom and I reported to radiology, Dad would sit outside with Joal and Ryan in a courtyard area -- a peaceful, remote section of the hospital grounds where Dad would write and Joal and Ryan would play.  You could have plopped Joal and Ryan in the middle of the desert and they still would have found a way to entertain themselves--and argue.  Thank goodness for their creative spirit.

Before I would begin treatment, I needed to meet with the radiology team.  The day following the conference, Mom and I met Drs. Cameron and Moore.  They reviewed my case and proceeded to inform us of what the process would involve, including a discussion covering the immediate side effects and potential short- and long-term complications. Cataract formation on my left eye, permanent hair loss to the left side of my scalp, and possible brain damage were the primary hazards set before me.  Yet, at the time, I had no concern about any of these.  I felt immune.  I felt that after everything I had already gone through, nothing more could possibly happen.   In my mind, these doctors were simply imparting the facts -- statistics that had nothing to do with me.  Here was one circumstance I completely misjudged.  Radiation was about to become both my savior and nemesis.