It's true that radiation is easier in comparison to chemo.
Of course I'm only on day two but you know, it's easier.
There is no port involved. No tubes of blood. No nausea.
But I'll be damned, they still offer the grahams on the way out.
So as I lie there, non boob exposed, scarf off, not moving my arms which are over my head in stirrups- my hand starts to go numb. Don't move they tell me. I wiggle my fingers and try to think of anything else other than blood draining from my hand.
Above me they have stars. Well not really stars but think planetarium-like. I suppose they want us to picture a serene night sky. Maybe they want me to wish on a star and then the cancer will be beamed out of my body. I do neither. I count the stars. Until they say "okay, take a deep breath. And hold" Green laser lights which are mapped out on my body (which I can see through the machine moving over my non breast) takes a picture. "And breathe" comes the voice from behind the wall. "And breathe in". More pictures. More beams of radiation. More reminders that I am cancer girl.
My nose runs because my nose hairs are non existent and all that happens now is ..your nose runs. Apparently nose hairs really do have a purpose. I have maybe 10 lashes left and a few eyebrows. God bless DH who tells me no one can tell. Who looks at eyelashes anyways? Point is. Your face changes. You now look like the cancer patient (because the scarf never gave it away!)
And speaking of the scarf....the woman in the pizza place loved my scarf. I didn't mean to freak her out when I replied "I wish I didn't need to wear it but thank you. " She didn't know I had cancer. She just thought I was rocking the scarf. So thank you pizza place woman.
Anyway, in comes the radiation team like clockwork. 4 of them. They move me ever so slightly and mention numbers to each other "94.1" or something which was way too low to be my weight. Machine moves. They measure my deep breath and continue to tell me not to move my numb arm. The team moves back behind the wall and continues to talk to me through the microphone.
Breathing.
And holding the breath.
And there, village peeps, is cancer in a nutshell.
Holding your breath...waiting to exhale.
#alwayswaitingfortheshoetodrop
Of course I'm only on day two but you know, it's easier.
There is no port involved. No tubes of blood. No nausea.
But I'll be damned, they still offer the grahams on the way out.
So as I lie there, non boob exposed, scarf off, not moving my arms which are over my head in stirrups- my hand starts to go numb. Don't move they tell me. I wiggle my fingers and try to think of anything else other than blood draining from my hand.
Above me they have stars. Well not really stars but think planetarium-like. I suppose they want us to picture a serene night sky. Maybe they want me to wish on a star and then the cancer will be beamed out of my body. I do neither. I count the stars. Until they say "okay, take a deep breath. And hold" Green laser lights which are mapped out on my body (which I can see through the machine moving over my non breast) takes a picture. "And breathe" comes the voice from behind the wall. "And breathe in". More pictures. More beams of radiation. More reminders that I am cancer girl.
My nose runs because my nose hairs are non existent and all that happens now is ..your nose runs. Apparently nose hairs really do have a purpose. I have maybe 10 lashes left and a few eyebrows. God bless DH who tells me no one can tell. Who looks at eyelashes anyways? Point is. Your face changes. You now look like the cancer patient (because the scarf never gave it away!)
And speaking of the scarf....the woman in the pizza place loved my scarf. I didn't mean to freak her out when I replied "I wish I didn't need to wear it but thank you. " She didn't know I had cancer. She just thought I was rocking the scarf. So thank you pizza place woman.
Anyway, in comes the radiation team like clockwork. 4 of them. They move me ever so slightly and mention numbers to each other "94.1" or something which was way too low to be my weight. Machine moves. They measure my deep breath and continue to tell me not to move my numb arm. The team moves back behind the wall and continues to talk to me through the microphone.
Breathing.
And holding the breath.
And there, village peeps, is cancer in a nutshell.
Holding your breath...waiting to exhale.
#alwayswaitingfortheshoetodrop
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