A radiotherapy machine is properly called a ‘linear accelerator’, but I’m not too keen on that name.
For me, those two words immediately bring to mind flat-lining, possibly at high speed.
(I must squash that thought.)
Almost as fast as the speed of light, radiotherapy frequency waves will be fired at me.
I think that’s what some people might call a Fun Fact.
And it is indeed impressive, yes.
I would just feel so much happier if those waves were not aimed directly at me.
And in the direction of my heart, no less.
I realise that this treatment is meant to be for the benefit of my health, but at times it all feels rather counter-intuitive.
The linear accelerator, sometimes referred to chirpily as ‘LINAC’, is absolutely massive.
It seems to loom over a patient.
With purely good intentions - and good outcomes - I hope.
I have watched some YouTube videos, so that I could have a clearer idea of what to expect.
The barely visible outline of a body in these represents the cancer patient.
It’s like the body has been drawn on the air with chalk, or it’s made of glass.
He or she or it could be anyone.
Maybe this helps a person to visualise themselves in that position, in a safely impersonal manner.
If I will be in a sort of 30-second trance, on and off, for much of this process, then I suppose I will be only partially present anyway?
Like a lady made of chalk lines? Or glass?
Or even a ghost?
Oh.
Another sad thought has crept in there.
Well, things are what they are.
I am going to have to work on my meditation skills.
So far, the plan is this: to imagine myself moving with infinite slowness, underwater, in a world that is green and more peaceful than this one.
But a world that is not better than here because I absolutely must come back.
Then afterwards I will be able to tell people about my 30-second adventures.
It’s not every day that a person turns into a chalk outline or glass or a ghost.
