Attachments

It's kind of weird what you can get attached to.

Today I got a phone call that the machine that radiates me every day was down, so could I come in earlier so they could radiate me on the Other One?

I agreed without thinking too much of it, but I've been radiated on the same machine for 24 days, and this "Other One" was not mine. The dimness in the room in which I am usually microwaved is kind of bluish; the dimness in this other room was more yellow, and everything in there looked older and the buzzing radiating noise was louder and the movable pins within the machine grated somewhat. I felt like I was in a Dharma station on the island in Lost. (This might have something to do with having just watched the season premier on Wednesday, though. You think?)

Then I found out that, because today was my last day of general-area radiation (my last seven days entailing a concentrated "boost" of radiation just to the immediate former location of the tumour), I was going to have been moved to the Other One next time anyway. So yesterday was my last day on "my" machine, and I didn't even know it. I didn't even get to say goodbye . . .

Stupid, isn't it?

The up-side is that I only have seven days left of radiation, and with the more specified focus of treatment, I can now shave again. Over the next month, I will stop looking like a victim of a strange tanning mishap. I can, if I want to, start using normal deodorant again (although if no one finally tells me that I stink more than usual, I might stick with the aluminum-free, breast-cancer-safe stuff I've been introduced to in this process). And . . . well, let's just say I never expected to look forward to certain heretofore taken-for-granted self-care habits.