March 4, 2009. Dry run

My husband and I sit in the waiting room – waiting. I laugh as I ponder this. More accurately we are being kept waiting. We always arrive early so we won’t be late. Okay, now this is really amusing me. Finally, at 12:20, I am called for my 11;45 appointment for which we arrived at 11:30. “Are you ready?” the assistant asks. “Oh, I’ve been ready for a while,” I say a bit sarcastically and immediately I regret it noting her tired eyes. (Sarcasm – the cutting of flesh – I’m sorry). They open at 4AM.

My husband tries to accompany me. The front desk girl told us he could, but this nurse seems unsure, too tired to decide actually. After a long hesitation she reluctantly allows him to follow us. I’m led to the women’s dressing area to change and he takes a seat. A female patient returns from treatment, notes my husband’s presence and comments “men in the women’s dressing area? I guess there are curtains,” and she ducks into a changing room. When she emerges, he admires her coif. “Looks familiar,” he says. “Who knew I was a curly gray head?” she replies. We are one big family – this breast cancer club.

The radiology technician, a sweet young black woman named Marjorie, comes for me and leads us to the treatment room where a large intimidating machine fills the space. We meet Alex, a stunning Indian woman 8 months pregnant, and Raphael, a young Hispanic man. Besides their youth, all in their late twenties, I notice something else they have in common. They are all the same height, till I notice Alex who, despite her condition, is wearing heels! Chunky, not spikes, I note with relief. They briefly explain the plan and then, much to his disappointment, ask my husband to leave. “It’s too distracting for us,” Alex says.

I’m told to stretch my right arm because, once positioned, I will have to hold very still. I’m unconcerned, confident in my limberness. I am asked to lie down on the table, my head held in an armrest of sorts. I’m perfectly comfortable although they fuss over this for several minutes making sure. Then they position my left arm at my side which doesn’t really fit on the narrow table. A good amount of time is spent and I end up anchoring my hand under my hip comfortably. They keep reminding me that I will need to lie perfectly still for a long time. They’ve allowed an hour. This is your long appointment, they remind me. I think back to 5 hour chemo sessions. But here I have to lie still.

I make a few comments but they ignore me. They are intent on their measurements. One measures, two confirm, one writes it down repeating the numbers. Alex draws and writes on my exposed torso. She calls for her instruments, “purple”, “green”. The ink colors differentiate the 5 fields they will radiate. They are using the data from last week’s CAT scan, determining the angles which will avoid my heart and minimize exposure to my right lung. The bed is moved under the giant arm of the machine. They are careful to explain to me what to expect – clicking, whirring, the bed jerking positions. Then they exit, telling me they can see and hear me the whole time.

I concentrate on being still. “Be still and know that I am God.” Once, when I was going through a difficult time of deep sorrow and heartache for my son, a counsellor challenged me to be still, doing absolutely nothing for one hour, just listening to music. I sat in our glider on the deck. It was peaceful and warm, Aaron Copland’s “Appalachian Spring” playing. My eyes were closed. But the music yanked and tugged until it pulled from my heart precious memories of rocking my babies to this music and I was overcome with melancholy. I’m not good at being still.

I’m better at distracting myself. I recite scripture for a while and then move to poems. I found this one untitled in our parking garage in Honolulu. It was also unsigned, handwritten on a piece of ruled paper. I was quickly intrigued and put it to memory:

“Isn’t it funny how princes and kings
And clowns who caper in sawdust rings,
And simple folk like you and me
Are builders of eternity.

And each is given a set of tools,
A block of stone, a book of rules,
And each must build ‘ere the time has flown
A stumbling block or a stepping stone.”

My right hand is numb. My team reenters, new lines, more numbers, new x-ray film positioned. Continuously they confer and discuss the best positions and angles to achieve the numbers they need. “Can I scratch my eye?” I ask. “No,” Alex responds. “It’s freezing in here,” I say from my half naked position. “What’d she say?” asks Alex. Marjorie answers, “she’s cold”. They’re not unsympathetic, just busy. They concentrate on accuracy. I contribute my part – remaining motionless – except for the rapid brain activity. I try to relax but minutes later realize I’m tensed up again from the cold. My right hand is freezing. Marjorie tries to rub it but her hands are cold, too. She enlists Raphael whose warm hands gently massage mine while Alex draws another line in “blue”. Another film place and they leave again. I’m glad Alex’s baby is protected for the deadly rays.

“The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all it’s might.
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright,
And this was off because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun,
Had got no business to be there,
After the day was done.
“It’s very rude of him,” she said
“To come and spoil the fun.”………

I run through the rest of this Lewis Carrol poem I memorized in college while I waited for my roommates to finish their finals.

“Once upon a midnight dreary,
While I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious
Volume of forgotten lore.

While I nodded nearly napping,
Suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping,
Rapping at my chamber door……….”

The Raven, always a favorite.

The three techies return. “How much longer?” I ask, a child on a long journey.
“15 minutes,” says Raphael. But for these last minutes they stay with me and are suddenly warm and friendly. The last measurement seems unattainable without the machine crushing my ribs. They are trying to achieve “100” whatever that means. They confer and decide to consult a physicist on staff. Alex disappears and returns victorious. “Reset to 103,” she says and they all cheer. Perfect. We are done.