The confidence that I carried in with me to the follow-up appointment after vaginal surgery was sharply eroded during the consultation with Dr. Miller. She advised me that I was a good candidate for radiation therapy. Reeling in shock, I question what constitutes a "good candidate"?

Gently, she followed my request to be fully honest with me at all times; I am advised that radiation is recommended to address any cancerous lesions that may have penetrated the vaginal wall and invaded the pelvic region. If I agree, she will order the procedure scheduled as soon as possible.

In a very short time, I am making reservations at the cancer lodge across from the cancer clinic and determining the best method of traveling back and forth to home from the lodge for weekends. The schedule for the radiation treatments is Monday to Friday. I will be receiving 4 "shots" per day for 5 weeks. That folks is 100 "shots" of radiation to a very small specific area.

We make jokes about my becoming the tattooed lady; the 4 radiation sites will be marked with ink dots. We make jokes about my glowing blue in the night.

The staff is incredibly helpful and compassionate. In no time, I am installed in my room then escorted on a tour of the premises; introduced to the cafeteria and advised of rules and regulations. Memories of dorm living make me smile.

Not knowing what to expect, I report to the first treatment racked with anxiety. The reality is grimmer than I had imaged. Nearly nude I am positioned on a narrow metal grate-like bed and draped with lead shielding protectors exposing the 3 inch square over my pubis to radiation. The huge revolving drum of the linac is positioned to the ink spot tattoo and everyone retreats behind shielded walls. The room is almost totally dark.

The hum of machinery heightens; the feeling of the radiation is a subtle tingling on my skin then the technicians return and reposition the drum to my right hip. The procedure is repeated to both hips then again under my backside in direct line with the pubis. The picture in my head is myself on a metal tongue as a sacrifice to the machine gods.

My secret mantra whispered repeatedly helps me protect my inner being from this assault upon my body.

"Earth is my body, water is my blood, air is my breath and fire is my spirit." I visualize the trees, the ocean, the moon and the grass under my feet. It helps.

After dressing, a female medical someone approaches me and asks if I will participate in a survey to track the responses to radiation treatment both emotionally and physically. She tells me that gathering specific data will be of benefit to research and developing therapies. This touches me. If what I am experiencing can be of use in helping another woman through this ordeal I want to do it.

My roommate is very sick, everyone is sick. Dorm living at boarding school didn't prepare me for the assortment of ages, genders, personalities, stages of illness, the visual assault of cancer of the throat or eye or skin or nose or brain. Other cancers are decently hidden under our clothing.

Standing in line at the cafeteria, the awareness of the others I am sharing this experience with overwhelms me. I feel I am in a zoo. The keepers are awaiting us at the clinic everyday. Anxiety bordering into panic makes it difficult to breath. I smile and gather smiles. Everyone here is the same, old or young, tall or thin, man or woman. We are in terrified, in fear of our lives.

Not at any previous time, not the cervical cancer and resultant hysterectomy 9 years ago; not the vaginal cancer and both the laser or radical surgeries have I felt this threatened.

Day 3 - my roommate is gone and another woman is sick in my room. Her breathing is labored; she spends most of her awake time in the bathroom. I wander the halls, join in cards and board games, look into the various recreation areas, glance at TV, exchange wan smiles with my fellow inmates.

Day 5 - Friday's appointment with the machine god of radiation is over.

Here comes the survey team reminding me of that moment of humanitarianism when I volunteered. Every Friday for 5 weeks they will meet me here to donate body fluids; I label it the "spit, bleed & pee pack".

Fielding questions about my emotional being is more difficult than I thought, as is the physical exam. It seems like a herd of excited medical students are scheduled to see a rare vaginal cancer surgery site and with attending radiation results. They are a bewildering variety of young faces over hospital whites. Their comments reflect their age. I forgive them, calling them "subway inspectors".

Escaping, I pack and leave immediately to begin the odyssey of wending my way through the unfamiliar city on a variety of buses to the ferry. Exhausting hours later I reach out to the familiar arms and cling almost desperately. I am home.

The weekend was a puff of time, I must return. Not since my pre-school days have 4 weeks seemed to stretch into the infinity of time.

The desperation of isolation among so many is so disconnecting from any reality. Gratefully, I am alone for now. Treatment number 7 puts me into immediate total menopause, hot flashes, mental confusion, nausea and insomnia. I am developing skin tenderness at the four radiation sites and diarrhea. My room becomes my refuge, with hoarded food I can avoid seeing or talking to anyone.

The afternoon of Day 8, my door slams open and a woman with wild silver hair dressed all in swirling black carrying enough luggage for a journey around the world including what looks like a mattress bursts in. She announces that she'll be right back with the rest of her stuff and then we can introduce ourselves. I flee and find a hidden corner to huddle in misery.

Some time later, she finds me. My new roommate, Shirley, is uncharacteristically gentle as she asks if I am disturbed by her presence. This seemly larger than life exuberant woman is reaching out to me. I unfold and reach towards her and we connect. We talk and talk and talk, we talk most of the night away. She feels inconvenienced by this bout with breast cancer. Surgery and radiation are but steps on the path she is determined to take. She has an enormous amount of living to do yet.

We determine to organize our schedules for first treatment early every morning and then use the day to explore the city, to lunch in different ethic restaurants, to enjoy everything we can. We research, we talk, we play tourist, we play games, we laugh, we tease, we cheer the entire lodge.

We applaud the dedication of the staff and the volunteers. Oh the volunteers, without them, the morale would plummet. Those cheerful ladies giving so much of themselves.

Ours is a relationship forged in fire. With the march of treatments, we too sicken, we suffer radiation burns, clothes are painful, we sometimes weaken. When necessary, we rest. We share a room, we share remedies, there are no secrets here.

With her help, my friend, I call her an angel, I survive this too.

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