Nuke that armpit

Just finished radiation treatment number 4 (of 25). It’s going much more smoothly than I remember it going five years ago. I’m in and out in 15 minutes; so far no waiting. Last time I recall a lot of difficulty positioning me on the table, perhaps because they were doing a different part of my body, my breast. Because of my stiff spine, I believe the technicians had trouble aiming the radiation beam at my breast from the side without catching my underarm. As it was, they did manage to fry a little of the surface of my armpit (hence the current lack of hair follicles and sweat glands there). Considering that now the problem is in my underarm, maybe it would have been just as well if they had fried it. Anyway, maybe doing the armpit is easier, because so far the treatments are as simple as ordering a cup of tea. It is a little uncomfortable having to hold still in one position with my head tilted up, but it’s not for more than about 7 minutes. Meanwhile, I visualize a beam of pink energy zapping cancer cells and shredding them to atoms. A lot of good that did me five years ago, but I guess it beats lying there and thinking about the garbage strike or Iran or my dad’s health.

The people who give me the treatments are very cheerful young men and women, with the emphasis on young. They look like they just had their high school proms last week. I know I’m being bombarded with green laser-like beams that make the whole room look like Star Trek – I know because last time around a friend came into the treatment room with me and convinced me that the setup was bizarre-looking enough to warrant taking photos. Eager to do anything that would make us laugh, I agreed, and I have a whole roll of pictures taken with a LOMO camera of my half-naked body crisscrossed with green lines. Later one of my brothers took some photos, too; I apologized in case he felt embarrassed seeing my surgery-ravaged body. “I’ve seen worse scars on some strippers,” he said encouragingly.

I have promised myself that I will not pay a visit to a hospital without a load of magazines to place in waiting rooms, with a view to ridding my house of the stacks and stacks of them I’ve hung on to for years. Twenty-five trips to Princess Margaret should make a small dent.

Off to Kitchener to see my dad in his new home and then go to Stratford with Mom to see Cyrano de Bergerac and West Side Story. The shoulder blade pain has now spread to my breast, which aches terribly. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but I think I’m a little less out of breath this week, though I have dizzy spells whenever I lie down.