Yesterday I went to the radiation oncologist's office to finish what I started before I called a halt to wait for genetic testing. I'd already talked to the financial counselor (you know it's bad when they have one on staff with her own office), and they made me pee in a cup again even though I informed them it was Shark Week and really, it'd have to be a miracle, but you just never know, honey, women find themselves pregnant all the time with no knowledge of how that happened.
After that, we went to the CAT scan room, which was very cold. I had my choice of three different levels of robes to put on in the dressing room, which locked with a little pool-ball keychain that I got to keep with me. I thought it was kind of cute they were going to let me pick which robe I would wear before I showed my chest to an entire room full of people.
I don't remember ever having a CAT scan before. When I asked about the cause, it was "to determine my course of treatment." I had to lay down on a bench, topless, while the nurse marked me up with Sharpie and stuck some little metal BBs to my boobs. She told me to put my arms above my head and grab the pegs, which let me tell you, felt VERY 50 Shades of Gray and not in a good way. Then she covered me up because there was a dude in the sound booth or whatever, and I guess she wanted me to have some shred of dignity after showing my boobs to half of Jackson County, Missouri.
After a while, the oncologist came in and verified the BBs were in the right place, and they rolled me into the CAT scan machine. There was music in the middle of the machine, somehow, and Little Red Corvette was playing. Every time I rolled in, I saw this:
And I really wanted to tell whoever designed the machine that THIS IS A USABILITY ERROR. No one rolling into a large, Prince-playing casket wants to be reminded they are going nuclear. I mean, seriously?
After that level of hell was over, the nurse told me it was time to get my tattoos. I thought I was getting one, but oh, no, it was six. And just because they are "just like a freckle" does not mean I wanted them, at all. Add insult to injury when I realized instead of a proper tattoo gun, she was just going to dab some ink on me then stick me with the medical version of a thumbtack six times. The sternum was the worst, but if you've ever considered getting a side-boob tattoo, let me just advise against it. That is a sensitive area, the ribcage.
Then it was done. She told me I can't wear normal deoderant until this is all over because there is metal in deoderant and it causes a reaction. So I'm buying stock in Tom's of Maine because that is my option in Missouri in 100-degree heat. I go back next Tuesday at noon for "the long one," whatever that means, then I have 21 more weekday sessions of lasers (which, I don't know if that's what it is, but that's what I'm picturing), then maybe this nightmare will be over for a while.
ONWARD. #medicalink #yolo #whatthefuck