March 6, 2026 – On the Table

My machine, "Versa 2"

Today was my third daily radiation treatment – out of 30 or so yet to come. Already there’s a familiarity to it – even as I lie on the table with my head and neck immobilized by a custom-made plastic-mesh mask. Even listening to the nurses and technicians cheerily say “see you tomorrow” when it's over. (Well, they didn’t say it today, because all of us in radiation-land take the weekend off.)

Lots of people, I’m told, dread the mask, but I’ve found it to be OK – once you get used to the idea that the purpose is to keep you from moving while the radiation-beam emitting device is slowly circling your body. I do want to stay absolutely still, believe me – so nothing gets irradiated that’s not meant to get irradiated. The mask is a comfort in that sense. It’s a benevolent imprisonment. It takes the pressure off. All I need do is lie there. The fit is so accurate, it makes me feel enfolded and protected. By what, I’m not quite sure. Maybe God.

Today I found the radiation table to be an excellent place to pray. There are no distractions during those several minutes, other than the whirring and beeping of the machine. You can see the machine going through its motions through the holes in the plastic mesh – kind of like a fencer’s mask, I expect. And once you’re bolted down to the table, there’s nothing you can do about it anyhow.

I just prayed a simple prayer for healing. Because that’s what this is all about. I felt love beaming towards me, along with the protons or whatever else is coming my way, directed at the little sharpied “X” marks on the neck portion of the mask. The technicians in the control room are also using a CT scan built into the machine to image the structures of my neck in real time, so they can precisely direct the beam.

My mask

I’m alone during the 5 minutes or so of therapy, as the nurses or technicians or whoever they are have taken refuge behind thick layers of lead lining the walls of the treatment room. As I entered the room, I noticed a sliding door that’s about the width of five ordinary doors layered together – no doubt, also lined with lead. Once that ponderous door’s slid shut, they can see me through a camera and converse with me by microphone.

Earlier today I had a teleconference appointment with Dr. Douglas Ball, my endocrinologist. Most of my recent consultations have been with people from the fields of surgery or oncology, but I realized Dr. Ball has been closely tracking it all. It’s a team effort. He told me a few things I hadn’t fully comprehended from earlier conversations.

He told me that Dr. Lelia Mady, my surgeon, had interrupted the operation to consult with him by phone. She explained to him how difficult it was to remove all the thyroid-cancer tissue. The only way to be sure of removing it all, she told him, would be to remove a portion of my trachea and esophagus, then pull up on the remaining part of the esophagus to re-attach it. That would result in my stomach being pulled upwards as well. They agreed that this radical approach was not called for, and that it would be better to stop where she was, sew me up and pursue radiation therapy directed at the surface of the trachea and esophagus. The goal, of course, is to irradiate the cancer cells, both those in close proximity to those structures and those that may have infiltrated their upper layers, while not going so deep that the radiation damages healthy tissue. Making sure that doesn’t happen is Dr. Harry Quon’s (my radiation oncologist’s) department – and I feel confident that, in him, I’ve got one of the best in the world looking after that.

Something else Dr. Ball told me also instilled confidence. The meeting of the tumor board that signed off on my neck-surgery plan – in which he participated –  consisted of no fewer than 20 Johns Hopkins doctors. That’s a lot of brain power gathered in one place. I’m glad to get the benefit of it.

So now I’ve got a little sabbath ahead of me – Saturday and Sunday without the short daily drive to the Weinberg Building of the Sidney Kimmel Cancer Center at Johns Hopkins. But Monday will come soon enough. And I'll be looking out for the radiation side effects soon to come.