Traditional Treatment?
After all of the tests were done, my parents and I were sent directly to the
cancer specialist heading the department in Victoria at the time. The cancer
clinic, at this point, was in the Royal Jubilee Hospital. It’s limitations
consisted of the one doctors office, dark professional; no window. A small,
panel-wall room, separated from the hall by three partitions, decorated with
four deluxe aluminium chairs with plastic seat coverings for the waiting room;
no window. The whole body of the Victoria Cancer clinic culminated within all
of one measly hallway, or portion of hallway to do treatment in; with a window.
As uninspiring as the setting was, the specialist seemed confident and well
informed; he gave us all the facts that we could think of to ask about. He consulted
with us about what he knew of the type of cancer I had been diagnosed with,
according to his statistics.
Sitting there in this cold little dark room, sitting on orange pseudo leather
seats, across from a paltry little desk from an educated man who knew enough
about cancer to be head of the whole department, telling us that he really knew
very little, trying to inspire us to keep our hopes high with facts about the
advancements that were being made every day.
He informed us that due to the advanced stage of my lymphosarcoma, I would be
considered to have about a two- percent chance of living through this, that
is, according to the previous case histories and fact and figures of what they
had seen previously. He was adamant that we look past the statistics, that they
were only numbers that would mean nothing if I was in the 2 percent portion
that lived through this. The percentages meant nothing, yet it was just those
percentages that kept pounding in my head.
He informed us that there were no standard recommendation of any form of chemotherapy
at this point; still they did have the cobalt that might help buy time, something
I was in short supply of. From there he went on to explain what we could expect
from the cobalt treatments. I would lose my voice and teeth permanently, (permanently
being a relative term), as well as my hair, possibly only temporarily. He may
have told us more, something about sick to my stomach, I had zoned out by this
time. My face pale, my skin clammy, I didn’t like what he was saying,
which to any normal pubescence teenager transferred to; ‘I most certainly
didn’t like him’.
So according to his facts, I had about a miniscule chance of making it to my
next birthday, and really only about 1 to 3 months longer to live, of course
this could be extended somewhat with the cobalt treatment. Treatment as I said
earlier didn’t look too appealing to a sixteen-year-old. I could live
with wigs; I might even be able to put up with false teeth but permanent loss
of my vocal cords! This of course was the clincher, not being able to talk,
not being able to tell anyone how things should be done! This was a personal
attack on who I was! At least that is how I saw it at the time.
1977, this was back in the early stages of radiation, where the only form of
radiation available was ‘cobalt’: dinosaur technology, radiating
whole areas at a time. What they, have today and had, within a year of my diagnosis,
was explained to me as radiation so defined, that they could pin point it to
the exact spot where they wanted it. But for me, there was this wide ray of
cobalt they wanted to zap me with, to make my life last a little bit longer.
I looked at the options I was being given, and thought ‘what life?”
And said ‘Thank-You but, no”.