billwixey.com

Before my final radiation treatment, I stopped by the supermarket bakery, to pick up some cookies for the technicians who have been meticulously going over every square inch of my body for the past month, making sure that I am getting zapped properly.  They had mentioned something about a "party" for my final treatment, so I didn't want to show up empty-handed.

When I arrived at the office, one of the techs informed me that they were running late.  She noticed the cookies on my lap and took them from me. 

""Thank you very much", she said, and disappeared into the back.  I never saw my cookies again.  Wouldn't be the first time I lost my cookies at this facility, but this time it was literal. 

Once the techs were ready to receive me, I received a few handshakes and congratulations on completing my treatment.  After I got zapped for the final time, a round of applause, and a few more handshakes.  I was beaming.  And not just because I happened to be nuclear at that particular moment.  As I walked out, One of the techs said, "See you later", to which I replied, "Hopefully not."

I didn't say anything about the cookies.  I had another party to attend. 
                                             
                                                            
When you finish radiation, they give you the form-fitted plastic immobilization mask to keep.  I had special plans for my mask.  The first thing I did was take a baseball bat from the back of our news truck and start beating the mask repeatedly.  More damage was done to the bat than the mask.

I then ran over the mask repeatedly with the truck.  Over and over, I crushed the mask into the pavement, and it came out looking a little crumpled, but still operational.  Not good enough.  I wouldn't be satisfied until that mask was obliterated. 

My photographer, Walker Anderson, who has shot all 15 of the news stories that I have done on my treatment, had a brilliant idea.  He took me to Wade's Shooting Range in Bellevue, where they armed me with the artillery to do some real damage to that mask. 

           
I had never fired a weapon of any kind in my life, but I received a crash course.  I started with a couple of different kinds of pistols, and burned many holes into the mask, but I wasn't satisfied.  They pulled out a machine gun, and I let it rip, ripping several more holes into the mask, but it was apparent that I needed something larger to really destroy it.

They pulled out a 12-gauge shotgun.  A few of those blasts and the mask was toast. 

                          

I have heard from cancer survivors who have saved their masks.  Some say they had theirs bronzed.  I couldn't get rid of mine quickly enough.  I couldn't wait to decimate the thing.  Just like my cancer.  And it felt good.  Exacting a little symbolic revenge was exciting, exhilarating and cathartic.  

I'm done with treatment, but I still have to go back in to make sure everything is okay.  Doc will check me out once a month for the first six months, and then every three months after that.  I may have beaten cancer, but I will always have to look over my shoulder to make sure it isn't rising from the dead, chasing me down again.