The Ordeal

Trigger warning: Graphic images of medical procedures

After cervical cancer, what of life and sex? To say I was filled with trepidation is no exaggeration. The reproductive system is at the most foundational chakra, the root, the source of survival, the furnace. Mine had been burned in order to heal, and as I recovered from the physical trauma, I wondered if I'd ever be brave enough to risk intimacy again. Had my relationship lasted through treatment, we might have used an existing connection to gradually explore my new limits. But I was on my own. The doctors couldn't tell me anything, couldn't predict how I'd move forward with this terribly private moment in my life. They could only do what they could do. 

What they did was irradiate my cervix both from the outside, and later, the inside of my body. The internal radiation was an ordeal hard to describe in words. They positioned a tiny pellet of radioactive material in my vagina, held in place by what seemed to me a combination speculum and locking wrench. That sounds horrible, I know. It was. It was packed in with layers of gauze while I was under sedation, and the plan was for it to remain there for 48 hours. But because the external radiation had changed the shape of things around the cervix, they couldn't place it in an ideal position, so that 48 turned into 55 hours of me lying nearly perfectly still and waiting. I was so afraid it would burn through the surrounding organs. The room I was in had a big radiation sign on the door, a terrible warning: danger. 

Most of the women who cared for me had to be over the age of childbearing, and none could stay in the room for more than a few moments. I remember being so grateful to the woman who genty rolled me on my side and rubbed lotion onto my back. She told me it would be OK to cry, but I told her it hurt too much to cry. I stared at the roses my (still) girlfriend had sent instead. One young nurse who did happen to tend me admired them wistfully, as though she'd never been given roses. I told her she'd have plenty someday. She told me it was unusual for flowers to survive in this room. I can only assume the vase was made of lead glass. Or it was one of my spirit guides watching over.

I listened to cassette tapes of guided meditations and visualizations, a lifeline, a hope. This was back when we listened to cassette tapes.

When the 55 hours was over, they gave me an even larger dose of the pain killers they'd had me on, and Dr. Bornstein brought in a heavy little metal canister, like a small garbage can on casters. She began removing the gauze packing the way clowns pull out endless bright scarves from their pockets. A minute, maybe only half a minute into this, I begged her to stop, but she continued, saying it was best to get it over with. Then she told me to say a few Hail Marys. I was too shocked by the whole thing, but remember thinking it was inappropriate to tell me to talk about Mary...Blessed be the fruit of thy womb, Jesus... Mine had been fried, thank you very much. But as I said, too overwhelmed, I didn't tell her so. Finally she took the whole thing out, and, in a truly frightening move practically threw it into this canister and slammed the lid shut. As if she were handling hot coals or a venomous snake.

Finally, I was allowed to get out of the bed, use the toilet, wash myself a little. Gingerly. I'd survived, and my bladder still worked.

One week later at our follow-up exam (ouch), I broached the subject of the Hail Marys with the doctor, saying I'd had some trouble with that. She looked at me quizzically and asked what a Hail Mary was. She told me she was Jewish and had never heard of such a prayer. I distinctly heard her, in her voice, but she couldn't have said it. I can only believe someone was speaking through her. On my way back to Provincetown that afternoon, I did say a few Hail Marys.


When the time came for me to take a lover again, I explained to her as much as I could, and somehow we managed. Though our time together was a summer romance, she'll always have a special place in my heart.