Today was my port film and dry run for the radiation therapy that I’ll begin next week. It’s a strange thing- every time I went in for chemo, I felt positive. I felt strong. I brought my computer with me and began working as soon as I sat down. Preparing for radiation has felt much different.
Last week, I was measured while laying on my back and then on my front. The technicians and nurses drew 16 black “Xs” all over my chest and back to mark their measurements. Today, after de-robing, I laid on the table, put my arms over my head, and turned my head to the left. The cushion supporting my back, neck, and head had already been shaped to my body last week. As instructed, I laid perfectly still as “Africa” played softly through the overhead speakers. I consciously reminded myself not to air-drum before the chorus.
The technicians and nurses began to check my measurements again, then slid the table under the linear accelerator. I had imagined the radiation machine as a black screen with a thin laser beam. In reality, I found myself staring into a circle containing a mechanism that reminded me of the grooves in an escalator step. After a series of beeps, the step opened like a robot’s mouth, revealing the mechanism that will beam ionizing radiation into my body next week.
In that moment, all I could think was, I don’t want to be here.
I don’t remember thinking that during chemotherapy. To be fair, I am a working mom and we are a year into a pandemic, so I (semi-)jokingly referred to chemo as my “office hours.” But this felt different.
I tried to focus my thoughts as the technicians passed the paint pen back and forth, continuing to mark their measurements. A nurse gently explained that I was almost done- I just needed three small dots tattooed onto my body. She started in the middle of my chest, pressing down hard with the needle and placing a drop of ink in the tiny hole. She continued on my left side, then placed the final tattoo on the right side.
After my new ink, I was allowed to hop off the table and walk back to the changing area. I closed and locked the door, then took off my gown and stared at myself in the mirror. The three tattooed pinpoints were red and angry-looking, with a tiny drop of black bubbled up in the center of each. A purple paint marker had been used to draw a crooked box around my right breast, the faint remnants of my previous “Xs” peeking through. The scar from my port stood out prominently, a small pink worm on my otherwise pale chest. I shifted my line of sight up to my lashless eyes and my barely-there eyebrows.
Again, I thought, I don’t want to be here.
Today was laying exposed on the table and feeling like an art project. It was experiencing the permanence of three tattoos, as small as they are, that I didn’t choose to get. It was dealing with the mental and physical exhaustion of going through cancer treatment while also having to be a mom, wife, worker, daughter, sister, and friend. It was too much. Just a little too much.
katie miller dunn 