It took 35 days of radiation and chemotherapy to be able to ring the bell marking a successful end to the treatments.

While worthy of rejoicing as a merciful end to that process, the sound of that bell finally clanging was a far cry from actually recovering from the ordeal.

Judging from all the congratulations and positive expectations from well-wishers across our state, I haven't explained this final (and grueling in its own right) phase of the treatment.

As I write, 13 days have passed since my final radiation treatment and a roomful of us celebrating together at the Claude Parrish Cancer Center in Harrison.

It was a lifelong memory.

Then Jeanetta and I went home, where real life patently waited.

Naturally, everyone's recovery experiences will be different. I speak for myself.

Thus far, nothing has changed from the fitful, near-sleepless nights I endured while treatments were underway. The same relentless, strangling mucus triggered by irritation caused by the treatment has pretty much continued, requiring having to resort to my godsend suction machine on average of every 20 minutes.

The phlegm constantly catches in the back of my throat, requiring me to try and clear it every other minute. How can anyone sleep like that?

And it creates one of those maddening tickles back there that prompts painful coughs almost as often as it causes gagging that causes dreaded reflux. I try my best to stifle those, but it's just not possible.

I still have no appetite, even if I could still wolf down a No. 2 Sonic burger just at the thought of it. Yet even if I could, I couldn't taste it since my sense of taste likely is gone for at least a few months, and the treatment has left me with only one saliva gland to moisturize food.

While my once-burning sore throat has eased enough for me to thankfully swallow when necessary, I remains a ways from actually drinking water for fear it could veer off along the wrong passageway down there and trigger another painful coughing jag. Those often lead to reflexive gag reflexes that do nothing good for a raw throat.

It's not uncommon for those in my position to require speech therapy to learn how to swallow again, as strange as that sounds.

My voice alternates between either gone or pretty much inaudible at this point, either muffled by the mucus, the swelling, or both. Try making a simple phone call under those conditions.

My mouth quickly fills with the nasty, stringy, gooey stuff and prevents me from talking. As a result conversations between Jeanetta and I have come to a frustrating halt, so I've resorted of late to using a pen and paper to express my thoughts.

The final treatment was unexpectedly brutal on both sides of my outer neck, but especially painful on the raw left side where the cancer was lodged. Skin continues to peel from those sites.

Knowing Phillip Dixon, my brother in squamous cell neck cancer lodged in the same lymph node (and about whom I'd recently written) was supposed to ring his bell at the same time, I checked on the Eureka Springs resident last week.

After beginning treatments identical to my own at Highlands Oncology in Fayetteville, he finished a few days before I did.

It sounded as if he wasn't doing much better in recovery than I had been thus far. "I'm doing as well as can be expected," he said.

"My throat is starting to feel a bit better and I seem to have shaken the effects of the chemo but eating is still a chore. My sense of taste is not one bit better and I'm still not producing the saliva I need to effectively swallow. Congratulations on finishing phase one!"

So valued readers, while I am deeply thankful just to still be among you, I'm also still waiting for the "betterness" resulting from this experience to begin anytime.

This is miserable as you can see for myriad reasons, even though it sounds good to say the therapy is completed.

When you consider, at 75-plus, the number of things people are left to enjoy usually revolve around verbally communicating with each other, eating foods we favor and sharing them with friends, sleeping well and breathing freely, this experience has left me thus far with not one of those.

While I'm thankful for the tube in my stomach that provides (through six 3-ounce daily feedings of high-protein Glucerna) the calories I need to stay alive, I also long for this time last year when I could have a steak or any real food.

Even at three tube feedings daily, I continue to lose weight on little exercise.

The good folks at the North Arkansas Regional Medical Center Home Health Department have been helpful with the advice and some outpatient home physical therapy.

But those appreciated efforts still leave me fighting within to overcome the challenges.

When it's all said and done, that doesn't change. All any of us is left to rely upon in these conditions is ourselves and the depth of our personal inner strength, faith and determination.

Certainly no amount of advice will gloriously emerge from over the hill to fight the battle for us. And the only bell to be rung when this phase winds down at some point in the unknown future will be inside my head.

I'm told by those who made it through this treatment in years past how they are changed but are faring well and they are glad they did it. They advise patience and understanding as the process unfolds in the coming months.

I can only hope to believe them 13 days into recovery.

Now go out into the world and treat everyone you meet exactly like you want them to treat you.

Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist, was editor of three Arkansas dailies and headed the master's journalism program at Ohio State University. Email him at mmasterson@arkansasonline.com.

Print Headline: No bell for recovery

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