A long time ago, I thought of writing an essay about radiation. That was prior to my first cancer diagnosis, (Hodgkins Lymphoma) and prior to receiving radiation therapy which, at first, saved my life and is now killing me. It’s not really fair to say radiation snuck up on me; I have always been aware of it.

Although I was not part of the generation that had to practice “duck and cover” in case of nuclear war, I was a kid who thought a lot about radiation. I knew too much about what time it was on the Doomsday Clock. The Three Mile Island nuclear disaster happened in 1979 when I was sixteen years old, and it haunted me. I wondered how far the fallout would spread, how it might change with the wind. Harrisburg, Pennsylvania was about 315 miles from Toronto, as the crow flies. I went to the Atlas in my classroom with a ruler and figured it out. I wondered where the other nuclear reactors were. I saw photos of people after Hiroshima, their skin falling off in ribbons. In 1982, like so many others, I saw the film, “If You Love This Planet,” a plea by Dr. Helen Caldicott to end the insanity of the arms race and nuclear proliferation. I don’t know how many times I have thought of the movie “Silkwood” since I first saw it. Then, Chernobyl happened in 1986.

In the 90’s, I got the opportunity to interview Helen Caldicott for a small local newspaper. She was visiting Alberta to oppose efforts to build a nuclear power plant in Peace country which, rather inconveniently, sits on fault lines. It seemed like a bad idea to me. Caldicott was brilliant and inspiring.

That was when I first thought of the radiation essay. I wondered what my own personal exposure to radiation had been. Could a person somehow tally up their dental x-rays and other x-rays, their exposure to all kinds of environmental radiation and know anything valuable? I realized soon enough I did not have the scientific knowledge I needed to write such an essay and dropped it. Dr. Ursula Franklin and others had brilliantly proven that nuclear tests were leaving their trace in humans, finding strontium-90 in the baby teeth that mothers had saved. Other much more knowledgeable people were on it.

Years later, one of my few “viral” moments on social media occurred after being awakened by a public alert about a situation at the Pickering Nuclear Plant which sits on the shore of Lake Ontario. I can’t remember exactly what happened anymore (or more likely, what almost happened). I posted something in the darkness about how it seemed a lot people had just been reminded that there’s a huge and aging nuclear power plant on one of the largest bodies of fresh water in the world. A literal wake-up call.

I had been to a protest at the Pickering plant before with a group of Raging Grannies who were opposed to efforts to continue its operation past its best-before date. There was a meeting of fat cats and regulators going on that day and the Grannies tried to get in. We were not successful. I had to de-escalate a situation which may very well have resulted in the arrest of one of my compatriots who was well into her 80’s at the time. I saw first-hand how opposition would not be tolerated. They were scared of a frail 80 year old. Take from that what you will.

Somewhere between Helen Caldicott and Pickering came the radiation therapy that helped to save my life. I remember being nervous about them radiating my heart. I wondered how it would affect me both literally and metaphorically. I couldn’t have asked my doctors such a question. There are some things you just keep to yourself. But now I know the answer.

And now I also know, finally, what the radiation essay is really about. It’s not an essay I would have needed a big background in science to write. It’s about me and my own personal Chernobyl. It’s about how I will die.

I likely will never write it. I don’t want to spend my time right now alone and writing, especially about my own death. But maybe you can imagine I wrote it. Maybe this IS the essay.

The damage in my body from radiation will never heal. It will continue. Radiation has a half life. It keeps working. It will keep doing its damage until that damage can’t be fixed anymore. I try to be sanguine about my situation. I see no other route that allows me to carry on.

Very recently, a doctor was looking at my file, shaking his head. He told me in an offhand way that radiation therapy of the mediastinum is no longer part of the treatment for Hodgkins Lymphoma. It isn’t necessary. The doctor added that no one follows up on patients who had radiation when it was the standard of care. People like me.

And how could they follow up? Who would do that work? How would they track us down? I’ve moved five times since then, including to two other provinces and even to another country.  Although it sounds like follow up would be a good idea, it’s not practical. They can hardly issue a recall on a cancer treatment. Or can they?

But I digress. The real point of this information is that radiation therapy didn’t help me. It didn’t save my life after all. There is no justification. But who knew? At the time, it was the standard of care. At the time, I would have done whatever they said needed to be done. I had an eleven year old.

The tally of it has been dizzying. A lifetime of thyroid treatment, two open heart surgeries, a third open chest surgery, another open chest surgery to remove part of a lung. And now I’m waiting on another heart procedure which, fingers crossed, might repair another valve.

I try to retain some sanguinity. I realize that there is no part of the word “sanguinity” that means “relaxed,” but the word sanguine itself seems relaxed. It’s the “s” sound, the way the word feels loose when spoken. The sounds are soft, and I have to stay soft. So I’ll write an essay about not writing an essay. So much easier.