Radiation: Six Weeks of Fire

I can’t begin to express what those six weeks and thirty radiation sessions felt like for us. Every single day, we took the GO train from Burlington to Toronto, transferred onto the subway, then walked to the hospital, only to spend twenty minutes there before making the long journey all the way back home again.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/f2ba7f_72f3f8b283ad41d1871bd3ff1a654dc3/720p/mp4/file.mp4

I took photos every single day of our trips back and forth to Toronto. Here's a snippet of what it looked like.

From the beginning, we tried very hard to approach everything with a positive mindset because we understood how deeply connected the body and mind are, and constantly repeating how awful everything was did not feel productive or healing. On that first day, I watched Kevin smile as he greeted everyone around him, because that was simply who he was — kind, polite, and thoughtful toward everyone from the hospital greeters to the cleaners and radiologists. I felt my role was to support him and keep his spirits lifted however I could, because as the saying goes, laughter is the best medicine. I joked around, sang songs, acted silly, and constantly reassured him that although this journey would be difficult, he had made this decision and his body would carry him through it.

We stayed focused on doing what needed to be done and kept our minds on simply getting through each day. Once we returned home, we would prepare nourishing meals together and embrace the calm of being back in our own space.

Every morning brought uncertainty about what the day ahead might hold, but we consciously avoided negative conversations as much as possible and instead focused entirely on moving forward one step at a time. We joked often that we were living by the Nike motto, “Just Do It,” because that mindset carried us through many difficult moments along the way.

By the end of the second week, Kevin began feeling the burn deep inside his throat. He described it as feeling like an intense case of strep throat, where every swallow became painful, and as we would later learn, that soreness would continue for nearly six months...

It was horrible to witness because we had no idea how to help him. The doctors reassured us that this was “normal” and prescribed a thick pink numbing gargle to coat his throat, but unfortunately the relief it provided was only temporary (about 15 minutes). That was the point when we began supplementing his meals with smoothies as well, because even chewing became painful.

By week three, the pain had become almost unbearable, yet we were still only halfway through treatment... His salivary glands felt as though they were burning alive and began producing excessive amounts of thick phlegm in an attempt to protect themselves from the damage being done. The saliva became so excessive and heavy that it would collect in large masses, sometimes seemingly the size of oranges, making it nearly impossible for him to lie down comfortably. At that point, Kevin was going through an entire box of tissues every single day because he constantly had to spit into them before throwing them away. There was simply no way around it, and the overwhelming reality was that we still had another three weeks left of this hell to endure.

His skin turned pale and yellowish, his eyes looked hollow from exhaustion, and he became incredibly weak from the lack of sleep. Even his voice changed, becoming scratchy and muted because speaking itself was painful. Although visits from family and friends lifted his spirits, he still felt obligated to carry conversations, and I constantly reminded him to conserve his energy and avoid talking whenever possible.

By week four, Kevin had transitioned entirely to smoothies because swallowing solid food had become impossible. Even the smoothies caused pain. Warm foods were unbearable, cold foods were unbearable, and every swallow hurt no matter what he tried. The phlegm never stopped. Nights became endless cycles of coughing, spitting, sitting upright, and trying to sip water. He could barely sleep, and neither could I. I stayed awake beside him changing pillowcases, emptying garbage bins, and bringing him fresh water throughout the night. Many times I thought he was choking in his sleep, so I would just stay up and sleep on the train, or when we returned back home.

Around this time, I created a throat spray for him that seemed to soothe his throat more effectively than the prescription mixture the hospital had given him. I made it with aloe vera water, hyaluronic acid for its intense humectant properties, and slippery elm because of its soothing mucilage content. He carried that spray bottle everywhere with him, he loved it, although the truth was that nothing could truly relieve the pain or soothe the rawness in his throat. It was simply raw beyond words.

The doctors prescribed morphine, but Kevin only took it once before refusing it because he did not want more drugs in his system. We encouraged him to take whatever he needed to manage the pain, and he did try several alternatives including Tylenol 2s, Tylenol 3s, and Naproxen, yet nothing provided meaningful relief. He pushed through the pain as best he could, although there were moments when he broke down crying because it became too overwhelming. As his primary caregiver and support system, I tried desperately to remain strong for him, but there were times I could no longer hold back my own tears. I remember telling him honestly that if he needed to cry, then he should cry and let it all out, because sometimes surviving meant simply allowing yourself to feel everything fully and then continuing forward however you could.

By week five, Kevin was emotionally and physically exhausted. He questioned how anyone could possibly endure radiation alongside chemotherapy and wondered how he ever could have managed both had he chosen that route as well. I told him that if he truly felt he could not continue, then we would stop and figure things out another way because he was still following other supportive protocols alongside the radiation.

By that point, we could no longer see or feel the lump in his neck or throat, which gave him reassurance and surprised the doctors by how quickly things had changed. What they did not know, however, was that Kevin was also taking ivermectin and mebendazole while rinsing his throat with DMSO and colloidal silver (which were also added to his 6-7 daily water bottles).

The final week was excruciating. Kevin had lost weight, his body was weak, and he felt as though he had nothing left to give. The throat spray I had created became one of the only things that brought him any type of comfort, alongside the three or four smoothies a day he could barely swallow anymore.

The last treatment day was a Thursday and involved a “double shot” session. I will never forget sitting in that meeting with the radiologist in training and telling him I genuinely believed Kevin should skip the final treatment because he was simply too weak to continue. The doctor dismissed my concerns entirely and insisted that missing the session would compromise his treatment, something I still disagree with to this day. In fact, he pushed the concern that Kevin had lost weight and even brought me to tears, suggesting "Ensure" would be a better choice for his diet (even though our home-made smoothies were way healthier, higher in caloric content, and more digestible as well).

That final day, two of our three daughters travelled with us so Kevin could ring the gong marking the end of treatment. The moment felt bittersweet because although he was proud to have made it through, he was also completely depleted, emotionally and physically spent, and desperately ready to go home and rest, whatever that would mean now.

Despite everything he had endured, Kevin still hugged the entire radiation team goodbye and scanned his barcode card one final time. When they asked if he wanted to take the radiation mask home with him, I immediately stepped in and said - no friggin' way - because I never wanted to see that thing again.

The treatments were finally over, and now it was time to focus entirely on healing. The daily trips had ended, but the difficult part of the journey was far from over.