She Thinks She is Funny

Friday afternoon I went in for my "dry run" to prep for radiation tomorrow. The dry run is basically an assimilation of what daily radiation will be like without the actual delivery of radioactive particles to my body. The radiation therapists use the dry run to take some x-rays and get my body lined up with the images on the screen in order to cut down on prep time when it is time for the actual zapping.

When I entered the radiation section of the cancer center, I was immediately greeted by a radiation therapist that took me back to the waiting area. I changed into a hospital gown-like top and headed to the radiation room. As we turned the corner I was greeted by not one, but two more radiation therapists. With a total of three radiation therapists, I began to wonder if someone had warned them of the PET scan incident, or maybe they just caught wind of my mischievous ways. Either way, I was slightly surprised at the number of people that this operation would require so I exclaimed, "Wow, a whole entourage!" Expecting at least a smile or small chuckle, I looked back only to find three stoic faces staring back at me. Their only response was a dry, "You will always have at least two radiation therapists for your treatments."

As we entered the room, my eyes took in the futuristic machine that will deliver the radiation. They had me lay down on the table and instructed me that I would need to expose the top part of my chest. Since I barely knew these people, and two of them were males, I simply pulled the straps of my sports bra down over my shoulders. The female therapist looked at me and said I would need to just pull the bra all the way down. Holding up a tiny cloth, she said she would keep me covered. Okay, but that doesn't help shield me from the guy behind me that is practically breathing down my neck. So I began the awkward maneuvering to get my chest completely bare while still doing my best to maintain modesty in front of these humorless strangers. Once I was sufficiently naked from the waist up, they put the blue mask on me. I am becoming more and more aware that many medical practices should be considered hazing. After securing the blue mask to the table, they were very worried at how loose it was fitting; I was enjoying the roomy comfort. After calling in another person, they got it tightened down and said, "There we go, much better." Barely able to move my lips, I jokingly muttered, "Much.Worse." They didn't find that funny and just left the room without responding.

I lied on the table for a few minutes, then the female therapist came in and moved my elbow by half an inch. I lied there for a few more minutes, then she came back and pushed my shoulders down on the table. Then I lied there for a few more minutes and she came back and pulled the sheet that was underneath me, so by that point I was practically hanging off the table. Once I was finally adjusted correctly, they took some pictures with an x-ray and some other fancy machine. At least I think that is what they were doing. The whole time they were all very silent and secretive about what they were doing.

After about 20 minutes of laying there by myself, I began to think they had either forgotten about me, or gotten tired of my attempts at humor. Just as I was about to go into the early stages of panic, they came in wielding permanent markers. Without my permission, they began drawing on my chest and mask as if I was some sort of children's coloring book. They also put several stickers on my chest and stomach. Once they were finally done and I was unhooked, I looked down at their handy work. "Whoa! What did you guys do to me? Draw a map of Africa on my chest?!" The therapist, Eric, once again did not find me amusing. He just told me I had some marker on my chin that I might want to take care of. Excuse me, you put it there, how about you take care of it, Eric! He brought me a tiny alcohol swab and after I wiped around aimlessly, I asked for a mirror. What does he bring me? A tiny, 1"x1" dental mirror! Now who isn't amusing, Eric?

Wrapping up the appointment, Eric told me to leave the stickers on and try not to wash off the permanent marker. With a smug grin I responded, "Well, I will do my best, but I can't make any promises. I am going to shower." Once again not finding me amusing, he repeated his directions with a much firmer tone of voice. Then he handed me my schedule for the next three weeks. Quickly scanning the times, I noticed that they weren't going to line up with my work schedule very well. As I followed Eric back to the computer to reschedule my times he warned me that they were pretty booked and there wouldn't be much flexibility. After getting only two days changed, Eric suggested that I check back every week as some spots would open up. Knowing what that was code for, I looked at him, nudged his elbow and said, "Some people will die off?" Not finding me humous, Eric shot me a stern look and said, "Rarely. Usually people choose to discontinue treatment or go to hospice." I could still crack his code, and did the whole wink-wink, nudge-nudge bit as I repeated, "...to die." Ignoring me, Eric simply led me to the waiting room, thankful to be getting rid of me and my sense of humor, and handed me off to Shane. Shane gave him an apologetic glance that seemed to imply, "Sorry, she thinks she is funny..." and took me back to work for the afternoon.