All I could think about when they told me I had a "mapping" appointment was the little map from Dora the Explorer. I wish mapping was that "simple".
Apparently mapping means mapping out your body- finding the exact points where they are going to beam radiation into your body. They don't want to over-radiate you so they give you tiny pin point tattoos (I have 7) so the beams find the tattoos.
Genius I suppose.
I walked into my mapping appointment and was immediately shown the changing room. You know the one women- similar to your mammogram waiting rooms. Everything off from the waist up- tie a gown around you that is 6x your size, put your belongings into the tiny locker and grab the key with the bungee cord that fits around your wrist, go into waiting room with other cancer patients and sit without talking to anyone. Pretend you are reading the latest article from People but really you are sitting thinking "cancer sucks. cancer really sucks".
I'm greeted by Jill or Joanne or some nice person with a J name who shows me the CT machine (which sadly im familiar with). Any kind of modesty goes out the window when you have cancer. I immediately had to take out my left arm from massive size gown and expose my no breast side so they could place 25 stickers all over me. As I climbed into the machine- my head had to fit into the donut size head piece and my hands into "stirrups" so I looked like I was ready for a stick up yet lying down (and non boob exposed). Apparently non boob wasn't enough exposure, the scarf I was wearing was interfering where my chin needed to be (at some awkward 65 degree angle) and I had to take it off.
My heart sunk.
It was so stupid I know. I have cancer and just finished chemo and this was not J's first rodeo. She, I'm sure, could care less if I had a white scalp and gray wisps on my head but I was feeling sickened.To date, three people have seen me exposed and that would be the three loves of my life who live with me. Ok, this was it. All cards on the table. There is no privacy in my life anymore and what you see is what you get. In this case what you see is a 49 year old woman with so many scars on her no boob side you would think she had more than a few surgeries. You see a woman with possibly a few tears hidden behind the blues because she is just....just...drained.
The scarf came off and J and fellow helper didn't give me a second glance. I knew they wouldn't and it really wasn't about them. It was just about the fact that I am a cancer patient and there's really no hiding it. Anywhere. Wherever I go I might as well be walking around with the gown half open and the key ring hanging off my wrist and the scarf off my head because that's how I feel.
The mapping wasn't bad. The worse part was having to hold my breath and count to 15 so if that's the worst- I'll take it. The tiny pin tattoos felt like a quick prick. I met with a nurse after to discuss the "potentials". Potential skin issues, dryness, burning, itching, peeling. Potential lymphedema (look it up if you don't know about lymphedema in breast cancer patients. It's not pleasant and I'm afraid to jinx myself by even talking about it so let's move on). Potential fatigue (HA! Is there a part of this process that does not include the F word). Lotions. Hydrate. Try acupuncture. You should do yoga. Reiki may help. Resource room. Social workers. Yada yada.
Of course on the way out were graham crackers because nothing screams cancer like grahams. I made me 33 appointments (yes a bit over 6 weeks. daily) and went into the pouring rain to go home and snuggle with the dog.
Next time we discuss a map it better be of a caribbean island.
Apparently mapping means mapping out your body- finding the exact points where they are going to beam radiation into your body. They don't want to over-radiate you so they give you tiny pin point tattoos (I have 7) so the beams find the tattoos.
Genius I suppose.
I walked into my mapping appointment and was immediately shown the changing room. You know the one women- similar to your mammogram waiting rooms. Everything off from the waist up- tie a gown around you that is 6x your size, put your belongings into the tiny locker and grab the key with the bungee cord that fits around your wrist, go into waiting room with other cancer patients and sit without talking to anyone. Pretend you are reading the latest article from People but really you are sitting thinking "cancer sucks. cancer really sucks".
I'm greeted by Jill or Joanne or some nice person with a J name who shows me the CT machine (which sadly im familiar with). Any kind of modesty goes out the window when you have cancer. I immediately had to take out my left arm from massive size gown and expose my no breast side so they could place 25 stickers all over me. As I climbed into the machine- my head had to fit into the donut size head piece and my hands into "stirrups" so I looked like I was ready for a stick up yet lying down (and non boob exposed). Apparently non boob wasn't enough exposure, the scarf I was wearing was interfering where my chin needed to be (at some awkward 65 degree angle) and I had to take it off.
My heart sunk.
It was so stupid I know. I have cancer and just finished chemo and this was not J's first rodeo. She, I'm sure, could care less if I had a white scalp and gray wisps on my head but I was feeling sickened.To date, three people have seen me exposed and that would be the three loves of my life who live with me. Ok, this was it. All cards on the table. There is no privacy in my life anymore and what you see is what you get. In this case what you see is a 49 year old woman with so many scars on her no boob side you would think she had more than a few surgeries. You see a woman with possibly a few tears hidden behind the blues because she is just....just...drained.
The scarf came off and J and fellow helper didn't give me a second glance. I knew they wouldn't and it really wasn't about them. It was just about the fact that I am a cancer patient and there's really no hiding it. Anywhere. Wherever I go I might as well be walking around with the gown half open and the key ring hanging off my wrist and the scarf off my head because that's how I feel.
The mapping wasn't bad. The worse part was having to hold my breath and count to 15 so if that's the worst- I'll take it. The tiny pin tattoos felt like a quick prick. I met with a nurse after to discuss the "potentials". Potential skin issues, dryness, burning, itching, peeling. Potential lymphedema (look it up if you don't know about lymphedema in breast cancer patients. It's not pleasant and I'm afraid to jinx myself by even talking about it so let's move on). Potential fatigue (HA! Is there a part of this process that does not include the F word). Lotions. Hydrate. Try acupuncture. You should do yoga. Reiki may help. Resource room. Social workers. Yada yada.
Of course on the way out were graham crackers because nothing screams cancer like grahams. I made me 33 appointments (yes a bit over 6 weeks. daily) and went into the pouring rain to go home and snuggle with the dog.
Next time we discuss a map it better be of a caribbean island.
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