The mask

Getting lined up for cancer treatment seemingly involves approximately as many people and resources as it took to build the Saturn V rocket.

My initial day at the cancer center was a learning experience. Among the first things they requested was permission to take my photo.

“Is that really necessary?” I asked. “Has anyone ever tried to impersonate their way into cancer treatment?”

I was told that this has never happened except for that one time, when a guy who had an identical twin brother thought it would be funny to try a switcheroo. I got the impression that staff at the cancer center didn’t think it was the least bit funny.

Among the questions routinely asked during medical exams is, “Do you feel safe at home?”

“Absolutely!” I replied. “Bella, our dog, barks anytime a strange car pulls onto our farmstead. Although she would hand over the keys to the house for a tummy rub.”

My wife and I met nearly a dozen new people that day. They included a nurse navigator, a social worker, and a nutritionist.

“I want you to eat,” the nutritionist urged. “I’m never going to tell you not to eat. It would even be OK if you put on a few pounds before your chemoradiation therapy begins.”

This was great news! A healthcare professional was telling me that I can eat anything I want, whenever I want it, without the least bit of guilt. The sense of freedom was exhilarating.

The social worker — a very nice young lady, but I have socks older than she is — asked how my wife and I were coping with my oropharyngeal cancer diagnosis.

I listed just a few of the things that we’ve endured over the decades: nearly losing our farm during the mid-80s farm crisis; nearly losing my life in a manure pit accident; a devastating barn fire; my father suddenly passing away; dealing with droughts, floods, and derechos.

“This is just another bump in the road,” I concluded. “We’ll simply muscle through it as best as we can and keep on moving.” This seemed to satisfy her.

The nurse navigator handed me a small box that I was to take to the lab. The box contained a spiffy new blood test that can measure the DNA of the particular kind of cancer I have. I was impressed. This is futuristic stuff!

Then we met with my radiologist. I asked him for a frank assessment of my odds.

“We have a very good understanding of how this cancer behaves,” he said. “It has a 90% cure rate.”

I could have kissed him when he stated that number, but I had just met the guy and it didn’t seem appropriate. Maybe some other time.

I was handed over to a quartet of ladies in the radiation department. They told me that they were going to make a customized plastic mask that reaches from the top of the shoulders to the top of the head. During my radiation treatments the mask will be used to fasten me to the table, ensuring that I don’t move.

I told the ladies that I’d heard that radiation patients are often given tattoos and that I would have liked one that depicts an eagle fighting a snake. They said that they are going to stick with the mask.

A lattice of warm, stretchy plastic was draped over my head and shoulders. It was not unpleasant. I’ve never had a professional shave at a barbershop, but maybe that is how a hot towel feels.

After the mask had hardened, I was given a CT scan. The resulting images will be used to plan my radiation therapy. I was informed that the planning would be done by a team that includes a nuclear physicist. There’s no end to the cutting-edge stuff!

The ladies took off the mask and showed it to me: It didn’t look like anyone I knew. I asked if it could be customized with some artwork, that it would be nifty if it could be made to look like Darth Vader. I was told that I could do anything I liked with the mask after I’ve finished my treatments. Halloween won’t be far away, and I like to repurpose things.

Our family’s 1947 John Deere “A” tractor has long had an issue with low oil pressure. It took some doing, but I finally diagnosed and repaired the problem. The “A” now has oil pressure to spare.

I’m looking forward to taking the “A” out for a spin after my wife and I get to the other side of this thing. People who see me might ask, “Who was that masked man?”

Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.