I put on a slightly too-small hospital gown and wait in the waiting room to be summoned. There are three people waiting for me: Mike, who used to be a merchant marine (he's in charge); another woman tech who changes all the time; and Mekdem, the very sweet Ethiopian girl intern.
They help me up onto a hard table, position my left arm over my head, and I grasp a handle put there for the purpose. This exposes — and I mean exposes — my left "chest" and underarm. They cover the naughty bits with a warmed towel but it's always pretty precariously balanced and I worry it will slide off. The right hand gets tucked up under my right hip. Then they line up a laser light with the two pin-point tatoos on my sternum and the one on my left torso. This takes a bit of adjusting so that things line up exactly.
Then everyone but me leaves the room and I start telling myself: "There is only one Good: omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent; there is only one Good: omniscient, etc." while a big, long zzzzzzzzzzt! goes off. They all come back and turn the table a bit so they can zap from another angle, leave the room, and zzzzzzzzzt! again. During all this, I am obsessed with that damned towel. I can't move to see if it's actually slipped into my armpit but it sure feels that way, so between praying I neurose about being exposed.I pick up parking coupons, get dressed, and leave, except on Thursday when I meet with Dr. Cutie Pie about anything that's bugging me or him. We've become quite chummy. I'd like to take him home and tie him up in my yard.
So far, the side effects are a nasty radiation burn that covers my whole left armpit and folliculitis (don't ask) across my chest. They all assure me that both things will go away after the radiation ends, but I find that hard to believe.
On the upside, the "reconstructive surgery" (boob job) is an outpatient procedure paid for by insurance, and I will go to my death with the perky hooters of a teenager.
No comments:
Post a Comment