The scene: The lobby at the local Cancer Center 8:40 a.m.

My appointment is at 9:00 a.m. I always try and arrive at least 20 minutes early. The time you are given for treatment is your “table time” so you need to allow some time before to get undressed. This is a busy time of day at the center. There appears to be around 15 to 20 individuals in the building, a mixture of patients and caregivers.  Four people are in front of me in this single file sick line of cancer patients. Some have caregivers with them. You wonder what stories they have. The people in this line could be in the checkout line at your public grocery store if you didn’t know this is a cancer center. There are three windows, one of which is closed. At the far-left check in counter is a figure slumped in a wheelchair. It appears to be an elderly lady. She appears to be alone. She has a Trump sticker on the back of her wheelchair. I close my eyes and shiver. The window on the right is occupied by a couple who have questions about their bill.  I am in no hurry. Lucky me!

Receptionist: “It’s your lucky day. You get all your stickers.”

Me: “Lucky me again!”  

One sticker is for radiation, one sticker for blood work, and one for chemotherapy. I make sure I keep track of my stickers.

Radiation patients are directed to the door on the left, chemotherapy to the right. I go left today only because I receive both therapies and radiation comes first. I use my key card and the door opens to admit me to the radiation area. Every day on my way to the radiation dressing room I pass a lady at her workstation. In my two weeks taking this path she has never once looked up from her computer screen.

The scene: The Radiation Dressing room 8:50 a.m.

 The minuscule men’s dressing room consist of six lockers with removable keys, two dressing rooms, and three chairs. On a shelf there is a bible and a hand sanitizer bottle. I wonder what version of the Bible they use. The sanitizer bottle is empty. I enter one of the dressing rooms and select a gown. They all are either pale blue or maroon color. I like blue. I learned a trick from a fellow patient my last session. You tie the neck straps FIRST and then pull the gown over your head and then tie the side straps.

I put my clothes in locker number 4. For whatever reason I use number 4 locker if it is available. Now I sit in my light blue plastic chair and wait until they call my name. We watch television. You don’t have a choice.  There is no remote controI in sight. think they have lost the remote control or have it stored out of sight. We watch 1970 sit com’s. Today it is the Price is Right. “Come on Down”, yells Bob Baker.  Some of my fellow travelers on this journey are big fans of this show. They shout and hoot at the contestants. Somehow all the contestants have excellent white teeth.

I hear my name being called. As I approach the checkpoint to the radiation room I have to say my name and birthdate to the nurse. Funny how many times you here dates of birth around here. Of course, you always look and see how old they look. Patients in this restricted area have no name tags on their gowns. Radiation caution signs flash as I enter.

Scene: Radiation Room 9:00 a.m.

As I enter, I see these two signs above the entrance.

Two radiation technicians greet me by name. One is Austin, a huge black man who looks like Mr. T., and Tasha, who I have no problem in identifying as the person in charge. I resist a temptation to salute.  I scoot up on my personalized table and snuggle down like an egg being placed into its cardboard cup. On my first “simulation treatment” I had a foam cast made to use for every treatment.  They fine tune the radiation beams during this session, so you are in the same fixed position for each treatment.

As I settle in Tasha yells from the control room “don’t move”.  I now am lying flat with my arms folded behind my back in a fixed “V” position. Amazing how the urge to scratch comes out of nowhere. I laugh to myself because as the radiation machine starts up. The song that comes over the sound system is James Brown singing “Pappas got a brand-new bag”. Having been raised in Detroit in the late 60’s it’s hard to “be still”.

Can you picture the spaceship Enterprise . Now image that shape suddenly appearing on your right side and slowing moving over your body moving right to left, hovering over your chest momentarily and then disappearing under the table. You maintain this way for the next ten minutes, your head fixed in place, eyes constantly moving up and down, left to right, right to left. Not moving an inch.  

Austin helps me off the table. I need a little stool to assist me. Tasha helps tie my gown back on. She makes sure I know where to go next: blood work, doctor visit or straight to chemotherapy. Today it’s off to get bloodwork done.

I touch the horseshoe above the door exiting the radiation room. Another session complete.