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This morning at 9 am, I find myself lying on a raised table, my underwear pulled down 5" or so with a small towel covering that area. On the table underneath me is much larger towel. The radiologist and 2 assistants use this towel to move my lower torso to align my 3 tattoos with light beams that are shining down from above and on either side. This insures that the radiation beam doses the correct area. Above me is a contraption that rotates from side to side containing not only the zap beam but also a CT scanner. The CT scan enables them to see how full my bladder is. A full bladder helps protect the rest of my innards and so each morning, I juggle taking enough fluids in a timely manner while dealing with the urgent need to pee. Lying there, holding onto a rubber ring which helps keep my hands on my chest, it is a curious futuresque experience. In the ceiling, above the rotating equipment, one of the panels has been replaced with a screen displaying changing imagery: flowers, grasses, clouds. Music is playing: today is New Wave day and I hear The Pretenders, pre-Buckingham/Nicks Fleetwood Mac, The B-52's, Squeeze and The Smiths. The machine rotates, stops, makes a series of clicks, moves again, buzzes, moves, clicks. The air is cool and dry. Finally, the crew comes out and I am finished. I'm congratulated on my birthday and the success of having a full enough bladder. Cya tomorrow they say as I dress and head for the bathroom. The process takes around 15 minutes. Three zaps down, 25 to go.
I am so very lucky. It could be so much worse. Like a brain tumor, where you wait and wonder what part will get invaded and which functions are switched off in your head like a circuit breaker box. At least, that is how I am feeling now, before the promised side-effects rear their ugly heads in a couple weeks or so. Like everything else in this world, individual results may vary.
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