Every day at 4 pm, I would drive myself over to our closest hospital, leave the car with the valet, and then scan my id card to let the technicians know I had arrived.
Push through the double doors, grab 2 uber-used blue gowns and head to the dressing rooms.
|gown de abington|
Hear my name called and mosey on over to the treatment room with the green dot over the door. Lean mean green machine. Enter through the bomb shelter-esque doorway.
|the long hallway|
|see the webcam in the corner of the room? they were watching me from the hallway.|
I hear the door open and the cheery voices return to help me sit up, put my mold back into its cubby, and wish me well until tomorrow.
|my mold: doesn't it look just like me?|
Radiation was lonely, very isolating, and full of quietness. Nothing like the constant hustle and bustle of the chemo clinic. While it didn't make me nauseous, it made me sad, made me feel like a sick person.
Now, twenty-three months later, the crisp, drying air feels the same. The Christmas songs all sound the same. The clear sky looks the same as it did that month of December. How odd for so much to remain unchanged.