Thursday, March 26, 2015
RIP Lisa
Lisa Bonchek Adams lost her fight against metastatic cancer on March 7, 2015.
I didn't know Lisa personally, but I loved her sense of humor and the courage and encouragement that she conveyed through her posts, blogs and tweeter.
Lisa spoke out and got peoples attention about mets. She was ridiculed by her outspokenness, and yet she was strong and did not flinch from the ugly truth that was destroying her body. A while back a cancer-shaming op-ed was posted about Lisa in the New York Times, this event got a lot of people talking and even angered many, but because of Lisa's charisma and charm she was able to educate many about this ugly disease.
Metastatic cancer takes everything, and now it has take a wonderful women from this world.
My heart goes out to her and her family. She is and was a courageous and inspiring woman who will be missed. Anyone who got to know Lisa from her posts as well as in person, is better for having known her.
RIP Lisa, you will be remembered and missed.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Cancer is a Roller-coaster
Everyone reacts differently to hearing the words "you have cancer", but for most people it is a crazy mix of emotions. These emotions seem to happen in waves, at other times the emotions seem to come all at once, but one thought seems to always stick with you, "Am I going to die?" This thought is the one that rushes to the fore-front of your brain. The worst possible scenarios crash through your mind, followed by horror stories of people who have had cancer or died from cancer. Fear and loneliness seem to take you to a spiraling drop towards the unknown.
A second thought, is the constant worry . . . not so much worrying about yourself, but for your family.
The unknown terrifies all of us. The cure for this is knowledge. Knowledge is power, it also brings a crest of ease, but sometimes it brings fear.
In order to find true peace, one must come to the fact that all of us will die at some point. Nobody knows when, or how they are going to leave this world.
The best way to cope with the emotional roller-coaster ride is to make goals, and then take each day, minute by minute, hour by hour.
Friday, March 20, 2015
And on that Note
I thought I would let anyone know who is reading my
blog, that as strange as it may seem, Leslie Jensen (from my previous post) has
a brother that has thyroid cancer. It has spread to his lungs and other parts
of his body, and yet he pushes forward in life every day with a positive
attitude. In fact, he recently married and is continuing his education at USU.
He knows he will not live a long life, because the cancer has metastasized
beyond medical help, but he is thankful to be alive. I bring this subject up
again, because I am continually in awe at the positive outlook most cancer
patients have. Here is a family that has been knocked down by cancer twice,
once by the very real disease and another by fraudulent actions.
Leslie went to court on Tuesday, and was sentenced for
her crimes. I hope and pray that she will get the help that she needs, and sees
the error of her ways.
A few people have asked me how I feel about Leslie’s
sentencing and if I am angry that she did not get a severe sentencing.
My answer is no.
I know there have been a lot of mean things posted
about Leslie since this has all come to light. I don’t read the comments,
because trashing somebody good or bad is wrong. I do hope people will one day
understand that this young lady needs mental help, and not judge her as harshly
as she is currently judging herself. If you really consider it, she has now
lost everything.
So why am I not angry? Well, for starters I think when
you experience something like cancer, it allows you to be less judgmental of
those around you. That doesn’t make what Leslie did was right, but I hope that
she will finally be able to get the help that she needs. Everyone has problems,
but what we do and how we act to solve those problems is what defines us. I can
only hope that anyone who might be doing a fraudulent act or might be
considering doing something this dishonorable in the future, will be caught and
brought to justice, but if not, karma will catchup to them in the end.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Faking Cancer
Can you imagine
someone faking cancer? Well it happens all the time.
In fact right
here in Logan Utah, Leslie Jensen began a GoFundMe fundraiser page, in November
claiming that she was suffering from an aggressive brain cancer and was unable
to provide for her 6-year-old daughter due to radiation treatments.
The cancer
Jensen said she had was the same stage 4 glioblastoma brain cancer as national right-to-die activist Brittany Maynard had.
Leslie was arrested in December
and booked on fraud. Much to the shock of family and friends, Leslie had been
lying about her cancer.
It is still somewhat of a shock
that this sweet loving young mother could do this.
I am a friend of Leslie. I have
watched her with her daughter and her family and she has always been a very
loving and compassionate young woman. To learn of her deception has been very
disturbing to all of her family and friends.
As a former cancer patient, one
might think that I would be furious that she manipulated people’s emotions in
order to get money. Ironically, I’m not mad at Leslie, I pity her.
I feel bad that because of her
actions she might cause future harm to real cancer patients that will need help
from the public, and know one will reach out to them.
With that being said, I am not
going to get on the band wagon to crucify Leslie or others like her. I believe
that what goes around comes around. Because of her actions, Leslie will suffer
the stigma of her deception for the rest of her life. She has lost her parental
privileges and cannot have contact with her daughter, I think that in itself is
a crime far worse than cancer. When you have cancer or know someone who has
cancer, you go through a loss and a healing process. Leslie and others like her
will never have that healing redemption that is found in a true cancer victim,
and that is what I call karma.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Helpful Blog Sites
There has been a lot of progress in cancer detection and treatments over the years. One of the most important things you can do is find reputable sources to help you understand all you can about cancer. Another way to cope is to connect with others who've been there.
I thought I would share some of the top blog sites that bring information, laughter and help when going through any type of cancer. Because cancer is more than a physical diagnosis, it's a emotional one too. Without the right support, it can become overwhelming. Addressing both the physical and emotional sides of the disease is very important.
Here are blog's sites that might help someone you know going through cancer.
-The Cancer Treatment Centers of America (CTCA) provides practical information about diet and lifestyle, tips for caregivers, quality of life issues, and much, much more. (CTCA Blog)
-Cure Magazine Blog
-Stand up 2 cancer
-Blog for a cure
-I had Cancer
- Cancer in Context
- But doctor I hate Pink
Monday, March 9, 2015
Let me know if I can help is really no help at all!
If you come upon a person who is drowning, would you ask if they need help-or would it be better o just jump in and help them? Many people mean well by saying "let me know if I can help," but in reality that isn't helping.
I know when I was going through chemo, I would be dog tired to the point I couldn't even make dinner for my family. A dear friend of mine who had gone through chemo and radiation a few years before, understood what I was experiencing. She didn't ask what she could do for me, she would find out what day I had chemo, then when I got home from my treatments, a hot meal would be waiting that she had prepared.
It is the people who have experienced cancer and are now living life after cancer, that are most often the one's who become a safe harbor for those going through the journey of cancer.
So here's my advice on helping someone going through a tough time. If you want to help, but you're unsure how to help, here is a solution. Call that person up and give them three options: maybe, you'll do their laundry, make a meal or you will come clean their home. By giving them choices they can pick from you are not only helping them, but you are making it easier on you on how to help. If they still say no, tell them to pick one of the three choices or you will pick one for them. Chances are your friend will appreciate you picking a choice for him/her.
Sometimes helping someone else is as simple as offering a prayer. Don't say, "I'll keep you in my prayer's" and then don't do it. That is as bad as saying what can I do to help you and expect them to tell you!
Prayer helps!
The individual you are praying for WILL feel your prayer's! I can attest to that!
Not only did I know people were praying for me, but I felt their prayers!
So if you feel like you are being intrusive by just showing up and doing your friends laundry, or you think they will feel uncomfortable with that idea, then just pray for your friend.
Every prayer helps.
I know when I was going through chemo, I would be dog tired to the point I couldn't even make dinner for my family. A dear friend of mine who had gone through chemo and radiation a few years before, understood what I was experiencing. She didn't ask what she could do for me, she would find out what day I had chemo, then when I got home from my treatments, a hot meal would be waiting that she had prepared.
It is the people who have experienced cancer and are now living life after cancer, that are most often the one's who become a safe harbor for those going through the journey of cancer.
So here's my advice on helping someone going through a tough time. If you want to help, but you're unsure how to help, here is a solution. Call that person up and give them three options: maybe, you'll do their laundry, make a meal or you will come clean their home. By giving them choices they can pick from you are not only helping them, but you are making it easier on you on how to help. If they still say no, tell them to pick one of the three choices or you will pick one for them. Chances are your friend will appreciate you picking a choice for him/her.
Sometimes helping someone else is as simple as offering a prayer. Don't say, "I'll keep you in my prayer's" and then don't do it. That is as bad as saying what can I do to help you and expect them to tell you!
Prayer helps!
The individual you are praying for WILL feel your prayer's! I can attest to that!
Not only did I know people were praying for me, but I felt their prayers!
So if you feel like you are being intrusive by just showing up and doing your friends laundry, or you think they will feel uncomfortable with that idea, then just pray for your friend.
Every prayer helps.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Dancing With Death
Dancing With Death
Once again, it was time to come face-to-face with Death.
It was with a new feeling of vulnerability that I pushed open the large wooden
door. My jaw clenched. “Show time,” I muttered, determined to put on a happy
smile despite the fact that I was exhausted.
Hell’s hallway is
elegantly tiled, and I can feel the guard dog’s eyes on me as I click and clack
my way to be received into Deaths den. Our courtship is becoming more of a
love/hate relationship. I would love to tell him to shove it up his ass, while
he hates that I am adamantly denying him my mortality, but then Death is a
fickle S.O.B.
Wondering what type of mood Death will be in today, I
slip into the inner most sanctum of his receiving room to find a multi-colored
robe laid out for me. My mouth feels suddenly parched, and I wish that I had
thought to bring my bottled water.
Fingering the
delicate material laid before me, I frown when I realize the robe is three
sizes too large. Knowing the circus size gown will come well pasts my ankles, I
consider donning a sheet in the Greek style fashion, but seeing no other
material around, I shrug out of my clothes and begin to dress. The fabric is
surprisingly soft against my skin as I slip it on, one arm at a time, tying it
tightly about my waist.
With my footsteps
whispering across the carpeted floor, I trek a small path past the overstuffed
couch and head towards the mini-fridge tucked in the corner. Withdrawing a
bottle of ice-cold water, I find that I’m suddenly extremely thirsty. Cracking
the seal on the sweating bottle, I down half of it in one gulp and then spy a
3-D puzzle laying on a table.
Someone new
must be in charge of Hell’s entertainment, I think as I pass the puzzle and
move back towards the couch. Either that
or they think they can bore me to death.
Glancing back
at the puzzle I give a humorless chuckle. Yep, not only would it bore me to
death, but it would certainly be my idea of hell. Then again, Hell has many connotations, each one as unique as the
individual who defines it. To some it might be the idea of being stuck in
hundred degree temperatures during rush hour traffic, while at the same time being
forced to listen to Hank Williams music blaring from the car radio next to you,
and not being able to ram that person’s bumper for their rudeness. To another,
the idea of being trapped in an elevator with someone with bad breath might be
the epitome of horror. In other words, Hell is whatever you choose to make of
it.
Today, Hell was
the uncertainty of death, that haunting terror that most people never want to
talk about and think they are immune to. Unfortunately, I do not have that luxury,
because death is just a few feet away. . . The time has come for our daily
dance.
Death’s
assistant is wearing black today, his outfit suggesting a uniform, but its
design supple enough for ease of motion and comfort. Moving slowly ahead of me
as we make our way along the tiled floor he glance’s back, his smile hesitant
almost bashful.
“You okay,” he
asks, and I nod like a bobble headed doll as we enter Deaths lair. Today the
chamber feels cool, the confined space almost suffocating in the dimly lit
area. I find myself mentally tuning out the white washed walls and sparsely
furnished decor so I can concentrate on the soothing music playing on a small
boom box.
Averting my
gaze from the table and metal pole where I will soon be strapped down, I slip
free of my shoes and begin to unwind the gowns long cotton roped cord.
“I’ve got
something for you,” the assistant mumbles, his voice soft and irritatingly
embarrassing.
Why is he acting so awkward all of a sudden? It isn’t like he hasn’t seen me naked before. After all, he’s been
meeting and prepping me like a sacrificial lamb every day for the last six
weeks. Still, as he withdraws a small white box from his pocket and holds it
out to me, I find myself unconsciously pulling the lapels of my robe closed.
Hopping I don’t
look as confused as I suddenly feel, I wrap my arms around my middle, mentally
bracing myself. This break in our daily routine makes me feel uncomfortable, but
Death is not here right now I silently reminded myself. Even as I think this I
can feel his presence and morbid curiosity in my humanity.
His angular
face showing a bit of strain, the tension in the technician’s hands increases
as he extends the gift to me. “Umm, I know this is going to sound bizarre, but
is it okay if I have someone watch today?”
Taking the
small jewelry box from his hand, I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to
laugh at his obvious embarrassment. “The more the merrier,” I say giving him a
wink, and trying to act like it’s no big deal. He seems instantly relieved at
my words, and I can’t help wondering if it’s hard having Death as his master.
Clearing his
throat the technician jams his hands behind his back and I find myself smiling.
“I’d hoped
you’d say that,” he responds. “Because, well . . . it’s not like I’d ask just
anyone, but you have an easy manner that makes it both relaxing and comforting
to be around you, especially under these circumstances. I also wouldn’t want
anyone to get the wrong impression,” he says.
“I don’t know
about that,” I reply. “I’m beginning to wonder about our relationship myself,”
I joke as I slip the fragile piece of jewelry out of its box and find myself
blinking back tears.
Carefully
reading the words HOPE etched along
the top of the gold charm, I hide the shame of my tears behind a cheeky toned
voice. “You do realize what this means don’t you . . . in a weird sort of way,
you’re kinda’ like my pimp.”
He gives me a
blank stare of confusion until I explain that every day for the last six weeks
we’ve been meeting in what some might perceive as a scandalous routine.
Whenever I come
into this room he has me undress. I climb up on the exam table and place my
hands above my head and hold onto a metal pole while he straps my feet together
so I cannot move. He then proceeds to have his way with me by drawing on my
exposed chest before starting the laser show of death-by-radiation.
“—and now
you’re giving me jewelry and asking if someone can come watch me do the dirty
deed,” I tease.
His ears flush
a slight shade of red. “I guess it does sound risqué when put in that context,”
he laughs. “The thing is, we give all our cancer patient’s a HOPE charm, when they reach the halfway
mark of their radiation treatments, and like I said, not all our patients are comfortable
being exposed around new technicians who are, um . . . undergoing part of the personal
hands on training process.”
For the first
time, the room feels awkwardly silent.
“Thank you,” I
whisper, and I mean it. His posture relaxes, and the uncomfortable feeling is
instantly broken.
Pocketing my
new charm, I disrobe. The room is freezing cold, and my breath comes quick and
ragged. My skin becomes riddled with goose bumps as I climb upon the ice cold
table and lay down. Placing my hands above my head, I reach for the pole. My
nostrils flare as I take in the scent of the technician’s woodsy-spice
aftershave, and I concentrate on the earthy smell as he straps my ankles
together and I am tethered to the table.
My focus soon
turns to the lighted mural on the ceiling as another radiation technician
enters the room and proceeds to draw lines upon my raw blistered flesh. In just
a few minutes these markings will be the guide lines for the rays of death.
It is time.
The door closes
with a whoosh.
I am alone.
The soothing
lull of the radio hums in the background as the machine clicks to life with a
soft hiss. I must not move, for to do so will be extremely detrimental.
Instead, I stare up at the lighted mural above me and contemplate the artist’s
thoughts with a new perspective on life and ignore the deadly rays of radiation
entering my body.
As I scrutinize
the picture, I like to think that the majestic mountains carved in granite
reflect the beauty of God’s almighty hand. They are a testament to the jagged
lines and deep slopes of life’s tolls and trials. My eyes squint to take in the
rugged beauty of the changing colors etched throughout the landscape, for I
have come to believe these vibrant shades represent the synopsis of my life. Each
season is but a small granule of time that is ever constant and changing, and
yet, it is here that I find hope, peace and life.
I know it will
not last. It never does, for death has found a way to mock me.
Like the charm
in my pocket, the fragile hope we all grasp on to and call mortality is just
that . . . hope, and much like Death,
it can be a fickle bitch. I know this for a fact because reflected behind the
lighted mural is the glaring reality of death mirrored in the lifeless corpse
of a trapped fly.
“You will die. Everyone dies.”
The voice is
silent, but all the same, it is there, accompanied by Death’s mocking laughter.
It taunts me, trying to make me feel used, cheap and worthless as I lay
helpless to his ministering attentions.
I repress a
shudder and feel Deaths arms sweep around to encircle my back. His killer eyes scan
my exposed flesh, the metallic stench of his antiseptic breath whispering
across my face.
One, two,
three.
Breathe in.
Four, five,
six.
Breathe out.
He sighs
dramatically before drawing back two steps, turns, than pivots back once more
to face me. In this deadly dance I recognize him for the master that he is, for
his movements are gracefully poetic as he circles, spins and twirls.
“Embrace me,” he softly whispers, “for you are mine.”
My fingers curl
into fists around the metal rod. His words causing a fresh wave of terror to smother
me like a blanket. My pulse hammers, the fear suffocating as it nearly
overtakes me. Damn it, my life isn’t
supposed to be like this!
With each round
I face off with Death, he seems to take a piece of me until I hardly recognize
myself.
I hate him!
My eyes sting
with unshed tears, but I refuse to let them fall. He swings back to face me,
and I won’t look him in the eye. The bastard has taunted me repeatedly with
fears of the cancer. It wasn’t enough that he took my breasts, my uterus, my
hair, my confidence? No! It still isn’t enough for him. The worst part is that
I know he won’t be satisfied with me just feeling ugly and worthless. Knowing
Death as well as I do, I know he won’t be content until he has all of me.
A growing doubt
begins to swamp me with the fear that I’m not sure I can beat him in this
deadly dance. Even as the words flash into my consciousness, my mind is racing with
the statistics and the odds of winning the battle against the cancerous demon
inside of me. Suddenly I want to howl and scream, because I don’t want to be
another number or data figure added to Deaths growing list of conquests.
Please God, I
can’t die. I can’t die, I silently chant. Praying if I recite the words enough
times, I can make them my reality. I only stop when I hear Death chuckling at
my feeble efforts. Self-doubt crawls along my spine and I realize that he sees
my words for what they are . . . useless.
His mocking laughter
causes a stab of pain to spike through me, but utter panic gives me strength.
Thinking of my children, I conjure up their beautiful faces. I relive some of
the scenes of their lives that I have shared as their mother from walking and talking
to learning how to ride a bike. Suddenly I cannot picture me not being with them. The music on the
boom box shifts to a different tune, and I close my eyes as the sound builds in
crescendo. Within me, I feel the beat of the music and hear Death chanting, “Give
up. Quit the fight.” His words echo
in my thoughts as my hands tighten around the pole. Tears prick my eyes, and I
find the cool metal I am holding on to grounds me with both a promise and a
desire. Give up? Quit fighting for my life? It is then that fear shifts to
anger as I take a deep breath and force myself to remain calm. Gathering my
will, I give a mental push at Death’s mocking awareness. Not only is it just
wrong of him to try and make me feel cheap and worthless, but it is despicable!
Never, I answer myself, my elbows tingling with pain, my fingers growing numb.
I will live! I
will beat you and the cancer, I silently scream at him.
It is then I
feel the slightest brush of his confusion as he retreats, or maybe it’s just my
imagination as the deadly machine finishes with its latest round and final rotation
of radiation.
With pained
determination I release my hold on the metal rod. Shifting my shoulders I take
a breath, but I am aware that Death has suddenly grown strangely silent as our
daily dance comes to an end.
Another round over and done with.
Another day to spend with those that I love.
Another day to live, hope, breathe and be thankful that I
am alive!
Yes I am alive,
and with that thought in mind a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. I think
of the HOPE charm in my pocket, and I
am at peace for the first time in a long while as I wait for Death’s assistant
to come release me from his ties of bondage.
Yes, one day I
will surely die, but not today! Today it is I who am the victor in our deadly
dance. Taking a breath, I relax my muscles, extend my middle finger and salute
Death.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Fist Part of my Dancing with Death Experience:
Dancing With Death
Once again, it was time to come face-to-face with Death.
It was with a new feeling of vulnerability that I pushed open the large wooden
door. My jaw clenched. “Show time,” I muttered, determined to put on a happy
smile despite the fact that I was exhausted.
Hell’s hallway is
elegantly tiled, and I can feel the guard dog’s eyes on me as I click and clack
my way to be received into Deaths den. Our courtship is becoming more of a
love/hate relationship. I would love to tell him to shove it up his ass, while
he hates that I am adamantly denying him my mortality, but then Death is a
fickle S.O.B.
Wondering what type of mood Death will be in today, I
slip into the inner most sanctum of his receiving room to find a multi-colored
robe laid out for me. My mouth feels suddenly parched, and I wish that I had
thought to bring my bottled water.
Fingering the
delicate material laid before me, I frown when I realize the robe is three
sizes too large. Knowing the circus size gown will come well pasts my ankles, I
consider donning a sheet in the Greek style fashion, but seeing no other
material around, I shrug out of my clothes and begin to dress. The fabric is
surprisingly soft against my skin as I slip it on, one arm at a time, tying it
tightly about my waist.
With my footsteps
whispering across the carpeted floor, I trek a small path past the overstuffed
couch and head towards the mini-fridge tucked in the corner. Withdrawing a
bottle of ice-cold water, I find that I’m suddenly extremely thirsty. Cracking
the seal on the sweating bottle, I down half of it in one gulp and then spy a
3-D puzzle laying on a table.
Someone new
must be in charge of Hell’s entertainment, I think as I pass the puzzle and
move back towards the couch. Either that
or they think they can bore me to death.
Glancing back
at the puzzle I give a humorless chuckle. Yep, not only would it bore me to
death, but it would certainly be my idea of hell. Then again, Hell has many connotations, each one as unique as the
individual who defines it. To some it might be the idea of being stuck in
hundred degree temperatures during rush hour traffic, while at the same time being
forced to listen to Hank Williams music blaring from the car radio next to you,
and not being able to ram that person’s bumper for their rudeness. To another,
the idea of being trapped in an elevator with someone with bad breath might be
the epitome of horror. In other words, Hell is whatever you choose to make of
it.
Today, Hell was
the uncertainty of death, that haunting terror that most people never want to
talk about and think they are immune to. Unfortunately, I do not have that luxury,
because death is just a few feet away. . . The time has come for our daily
dance.
Death’s
assistant is wearing black today, his outfit suggesting a uniform, but its
design supple enough for ease of motion and comfort. Moving slowly ahead of me
as we make our way along the tiled floor he glance’s back, his smile hesitant
almost bashful.
“You okay,” he
asks, and I nod like a bobble headed doll as we enter Deaths lair. Today the
chamber feels cool, the confined space almost suffocating in the dimly lit
area. I find myself mentally tuning out the white washed walls and sparsely
furnished decor so I can concentrate on the soothing music playing on a small
boom box.
Averting my
gaze from the table and metal pole where I will soon be strapped down, I slip
free of my shoes and begin to unwind the gowns long cotton roped cord.
“I’ve got
something for you,” the assistant mumbles, his voice soft and irritatingly
embarrassing.
Why is he acting so awkward all of a sudden? It isn’t like he hasn’t seen me naked before. After all, he’s been
meeting and prepping me like a sacrificial lamb every day for the last six
weeks. Still, as he withdraws a small white box from his pocket and holds it
out to me, I find myself unconsciously pulling the lapels of my robe closed.
Hopping I don’t
look as confused as I suddenly feel, I wrap my arms around my middle, mentally
bracing myself. This break in our daily routine makes me feel uncomfortable, but
Death is not here right now I silently reminded myself. Even as I think this I
can feel his presence and morbid curiosity in my humanity.
His angular
face showing a bit of strain, the tension in the technician’s hands increases
as he extends the gift to me. “Umm, I know this is going to sound bizarre, but
is it okay if I have someone watch today?”
Taking the
small jewelry box from his hand, I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to
laugh at his obvious embarrassment. “The more the merrier,” I say giving him a
wink, and trying to act like it’s no big deal. He seems instantly relieved at
my words, and I can’t help wondering if it’s hard having Death as his master.
Clearing his
throat the technician jams his hands behind his back and I find myself smiling.
“I’d hoped
you’d say that,” he responds. “Because, well . . . it’s not like I’d ask just
anyone, but you have an easy manner that makes it both relaxing and comforting
to be around you, especially under these circumstances. I also wouldn’t want
anyone to get the wrong impression,” he says.
“I don’t know
about that,” I reply. “I’m beginning to wonder about our relationship myself,”
I joke as I slip the fragile piece of jewelry out of its box and find myself
blinking back tears.
Carefully
reading the words HOPE etched along
the top of the gold charm, I hide the shame of my tears behind a cheeky toned
voice. “You do realize what this means don’t you . . . in a weird sort of way,
you’re kinda’ like my pimp.”
He gives me a
blank stare of confusion until I explain that every day for the last six weeks
we’ve been meeting in what some might perceive as a scandalous routine.
Whenever I come
into this room he has me undress. I climb up on the exam table and place my
hands above my head and hold onto a metal pole while he straps my feet together
so I cannot move. He then proceeds to have his way with me by drawing on my
exposed chest before starting the laser show of death-by-radiation.
“—and now
you’re giving me jewelry and asking if someone can come watch me do the dirty
deed,” I tease.
His ears flush
a slight shade of red. “I guess it does sound risqué when put in that context,”
he laughs. “The thing is, we give all our cancer patient’s a HOPE charm, when they reach the halfway
mark of their radiation treatments, and like I said, not all our patients are comfortable
being exposed around new technicians who are, um . . . undergoing part of the personal
hands on training process.”
For the first
time, the room feels awkwardly silent.
“Thank you,” I
whisper, and I mean it. His posture relaxes, and the uncomfortable feeling is
instantly broken.
Pocketing my
new charm, I disrobe. The room is freezing cold, and my breath comes quick and
ragged. My skin becomes riddled with goose bumps as I climb upon the ice cold
table and lay down. Placing my hands above my head, I reach for the pole. My
nostrils flare as I take in the scent of the technician’s woodsy-spice
aftershave, and I concentrate on the earthy smell as he straps my ankles
together and I am tethered to the table.
My focus soon
turns to the lighted mural on the ceiling as another radiation technician
enters the room and proceeds to draw lines upon my raw blistered flesh. In just
a few minutes these markings will be the guide lines for the rays of death.
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