Connect the dots

I went in last Tuesday for the CT planning session, but after lying on the table for 45 minutes totally still, not moving a muscle, arms above my head, exceedingly uncomfortable but trying to "breathe lightly," they told me that the CT had broken after the first scan, and we would have to reschedule. So Friday I went in again to be blasted with more x-rays, and this time they were successful and tattooed me as a kind of "we were here" legacy for any possible future radiation oncologist to know about. I am now the proud wearer of seven tiny blue dots.

Anyway, the funniest part about all of this is the pretense of privacy that exists in each doctor visit. The CT room is connected to another room where everyone else goes to hide from the x-rays, and a window with a venetian blind allows them to see in. When they brought me into the CT room, the two male techs left me alone and went into the attached room, closed the blinds, and allowed me some privacy to change into my flimsy hospital gown. After a few minutes, they came back in, had me lie down on the gurney, and then the two techs and two radiation oncologists did all sorts of measurements and markings all over my exposed breasts, while I lay motionless, wishing for the first time in my life for a mirror on the ceiling so I could see what they were doing to me. It was as if I wasn't even there, and they were working on someone else's body, because there seemed to be a clear separation between me as a person and me as a patient. When it was over, they all again went into the little room and closed the blinds, so that I could change into my clothes with modesty.

Cancer has done the same thing to me. It has taken my body away from me for a little while and coldly and clincially made me a statistic (I am that ONE out of seven women, after all). And after it's over, it will step out of the room, close the blinds, and give it back to me again.