On to the boring routine of having Pancho zapped every day for the next four weeks. An hour drive for a five minute event. Not that I want it to last longer!

On my first day, they gave me an appropriately prison-orange colored tote bag that has the name of the facility, which has the words “Cancer Center” on it.  In it was a silky wrap-around “gown” to use instead of the dismal-ass standard hospital gown, with a totally tolerable Pucci-like print on it.

I like the print better than any of the ones that these sassy tit-rot models are wearing on the website.

It’s nicer than most of my clothing. I mean, I might trot it out for a job interview later.

There was also a tube of Jean’s Cream, which in my mind sounds more like a cellulite treatment, you use the cream to look better in your jeans. But it’s a “burn cream” for treating your radiation blasted skin.

I appreciate the lotion, and it works well so far, but for some reason the sunflower offends me with its tweeness. I have an irrational desire to shove that sunflower up someone’s ass.

The doctor on duty (not my regular doctor) said he didn’t like it because he thought the texture was greasy, and it was expensive. I told him that I saw the big box of tubes in the closet there and that they totally tipped their hand by letting me see the bounty of expensive lotion and I would be using it with abandon. I looked it up when I got home, and he wasn’t kidding, the two ounce bottle is $22 on Amazon.  That’s some sweet tit-rot swag.

Then the main event. Everytime The Machines eye passes over me, I feel like I’m in a sci-fi movie, like the machine is an evil robot like the sentinels in The Matrix.

I have to lie really still so the sentinel doesn’t see me.

Or like Ripley in Alien.

This would have been enhanced by the jazzy starry ceiling that was in the facility I didn’t go to because of Dr. Dick, but this ceiling has panels with blue sky and leafy branches, like you’re lying on your back in the clearing in Twilight with Edward Cullen.

Just, you know, with your boobs exposed and a machine beaming radiation into one of them. And no vampires lying with you. There are also two handles above my head that I have to hold on to, which is more Fifty Shades of Grey than Twilight. I think I’ve thoroughly hashed my metaphor. But I think of the damndest things while I’m lying there.

I wish I could share some jokes that I have told in radiation therapy that killed, but although the techs are very pleasant, they don’t get my humor like the madcap surgery staff did. So we pretty much talk about the weather while they arrange me on the zap table.

So, buzz buzz buzz and click click click, then I’m done and get dressed and I’m out the door. I found a cool diner nearby that is tidy and adorable, and has the little juke boxes at the tables. I eat lunch there sometimes, sometimes go poke around Walmart or go squeaker hunting at an antique store, trying to make it a little fun and worth the drive.

Then all that same shit the next day. I have almost two weeks down. Maybe at the two week mark I can score some more Jean’s Cream so I can sell it on the black market…

 

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