Being nuked

Being Nuked So the nuking has started. It is much easier than the whole chemotherapy thing and I managed to get a really good time slot. Ten in the morning so I can drop off the kids at nine and then pick them up after school at one and still have an hour to myself in between to recover from the traffic. I am glad that I am not working, as it does seem to take up a huge chunk of the day. I have left my class in the capable hands of a wonderful teacher who thought she was going to retire last July! The unit I have left them doing is called “Going to School is my Job.” I feel as if, “Going to Radiotherapy is my Job,” at the moment and I hope that is going to be the last leg of my treatment. Last week the doctor gave me my instructions. No bra. I felt a sinking feeling as I changed my newly acquired fillets and real bra for a comfy top and a sock… again. No deodorant on that side or any creams or potions to be used. No shaving. Why is it that the only hair on my body is a small patch under my operated armpit? I will feel like a singing 99 Red Balloons every time I lift my arm to be zapped. At least I am saving on cosmetics. I no longer need shampoo or razors; I use the kid’s mild baby soap; no deodorant and still pretty much no mascara either. I am not using deodorant on my operated side and it doesn’t seem to be sweating at all, however, I think the ok side is sweating double to make up for it. It makes sense as where else would it go? Or maybe that little patch of hair is doing something. The doctor also said that I would need to blow up balloons (red or otherwise) or blow throw a straw to make bubbles twice a day. Is this normal or is he having me on? He said it was so that the mucus membranes of my lung don’t stick together. Is he joking or are my powers of translation in need of help? So everyday finds me blowing up balloons or mucking around with a glass of water. The kids love it and feel very involved in my treatment. Helping mummy means making the kitchen awash with water or popping balloons. I expected the whole thing to be much more stressful than it is and I feel as if I am in some way skiving off work. However, I am enjoying spending time with my children and for them I think that is more important than other people’s little ones. I got my new tattoos but they weren’t as big or as interesting as I expected. Nothing that will merit the excuse of covering them up with something such as a heart or a butterfly. I find being covered in marker pen each day amusing and I am as yet not too burnt. I found the seatbelt cover that I bought for my oldest child and he refused to have anything to do with. It provides a cushion against my skin and I have gotten over the fact that it has Mothercare emblazoned over it. After all is mother care. I have now chalked up eight sessions and am getting into the swing of it. I know my route and I have favourite parking spaces I use. The man in the parking lot knows that I only have my car washed once a week and just says good morning every other day. He expects a tip each time he “helps,” me to back my car out of the space everyday but I so long as pay up I am confident he makes sure it will not be scratched or bumped by anyone else while I am in the hospital. The receptionist hands me my key and I go and get changed into my hospital robe. I wear trousers everyday (I don’t want to flash as I hop onto the slab) and I only have to get undressed waist up. The cubicles have environmentally friendly lights. The respond to movement and go off quite quickly if you stop moving. I was plunged into darkness whilst looking in the mirror prodding my expanding mid-rift. (Hormones or treating myself to chocolate biscuits when I get back from the hospital) I wonder what would happen if someone fainted. I guess they would be found in darkness. The environmentally friendly lights are countered by piles of freshly laundered robes. There is a basket to put the one you have been using when you have finished. I keep hanging mine over the chair. I want to put a little sign on it to saying, “Worn only once for 20 minutes tops and I don’t sweat much, well, only on one side.” Yesterday there were no fresh ones piled up so I snuck one out of the basket and sniffed it. Fine, I guess another 15 minute; one side sweating person had worn it before me. However, I did mention the lack of robes to the receptionist as I left because I don’t think Mexican ladies who pay for health insurance would be happy with recycling. I carefully cover up my good side before I slip out of the robe on the operated side and climb up. I wonder about my prudishness and need to keep my one boob under wraps. As I go into treatment I check that my name is flashing on the computer screen beside the machine. It is of course. My friendly radiotherapist person is called Jesus. Really. He is about 16 I think but very sweet. He asked me the other day why I was in Mexico and I told him my husband was Mexican. “Ah, those Mexican boys, you have to be careful of them” he said. “You should have warned me 15 years ago,” I chided him, thinking that really he was probably still in nappies 15 years ago. The other day he was arriving as I was leaving. I told him off for being late and he said that he had just been having his breakfast. At 10 o’clock. I guess in the UK it would be called a coffee break. Today as I lay there, face turned towards the wall trying not to move as my other radiotherapy machine operating person Ruben tried to line me up with the red laser lines, in came Jesus. I knew he was in the room, he smells of hair gel and strong aftershave as all good Mexican boys should. I snuck a look at the red laser lights as the lined me up today. They are just like the pointer pens you can buy. I keep trying to lie in the right position but never get it quite right. I then lift myself up to “help” them position me. “Don’t move yourself, we will move you,” they remind me. I stare at the inside of the machine and read what is says about the lamp. It is in English, the machine must be imported, and this makes me feel better. The bulb must be changed without anyone on the bed as bits of broken glass could fall out when it is opened. Should I inform the lads of this just incase they don’t read English? I think I should just wait to see if anyone does try to change a bulb whilst I am lying here. I count the seconds that I am nuked for. They seem to vary each time. I think I should stop counting. Afterwards I head for the door and just check once more that it was my name blinking on the computer screen beside the machine.