Radiation patients must hold tight to their thoughts. Especially when being radiated. If one thinks too hard about what is happening, thoughts surely float toward the grim.
Could my head actually blow up in here? What a mess that would be. How will the nurses explain that to the YaYa in the waiting room? You better hope it’s not Sisterella or Bean out there. The Goddess is the only one who might handle news of an errant head blow with any aplomb.
What about light on fire? Could a person burst into flame? Makes sense. My skin crisps more each an every day and hair falls out by the fistfuls in spots where radiation has done its best work.
Point being, a girl has to be careful what she allows into her head while she glides in and out of a tube manufactured to damage DNA in hopes only the bad guys die.
Patients get two passes into the tube—the first for checking things out, making sure bodies are in alignment—wouldn’t want to radiate an ear when aiming for a foot right? The second pass is the radiation beaming into the head, neck, throat, breasts or wherever DNA needs death to somehow keep the rest of you alive.
Of course, there is the countdown. From about half way through, the days are marked on the calendar. Some days that’s helpful–others not so much. The last week does indeed take forever. And the following Monday, after it’s all over, you wake panicked that you slept through treatment. Instead you go back to sleep for a whole day and then another. WTF? I thought this was over?
I obsess over work, what isn’t getting done, how I’m going to make up the difference. I also know I would pay the devil himself to get my energy back. Evidently, he’s not taking meetings. Asshat.
I count my blessings for all I’ve learned including who does and doesn’t belong at the friendship table. There is shock at who cares and who doesn’t. But there is astounding wonder at the quality of friends that surround us, help us, care for us and love us beyond measure. Surrounded by warriors—we are indeed.
Other gems creep into the cranium while trapped in a hockey mask, eyes closed tightly asgainst beams that could gouge out one’s eyeballs.
If you have to start your life over again at a certain age, how do you know what to wear to the office? What if you are overdressed? Pfft. That won’t happen. What if they are underdressed? Do you get a new job?
I should have learned to cook-really cook. Like delicious, healthy food. Maybe even dessert. Why did I never think that was a necessary skill? It just never took hold.
What will you do to change the world after this? That is if you ever get out of bed again. What will you do to reach out to someone else? How will you make a difference in even one person’s life? There must a a reason for this. That reason has to be helping others.
All I know for sure is that I need another nap.
The Duchess Diaries 