Saturday, April 25, 2020

I am a marked woman

So tiny.

There's nothing really like laying on a cold hard exam table with your boobs fully out for the arriving doctor to examine and draw all over while trying to make small talk.  Surely it happens all the time, but this was MY first experience with such and it was...something.

I have had two children and so am no stranger to folks feeling around the ol' bits and bobs; by hour 3 of pushing with Thing 1 I was ready to have the janitor get a good feel in case he/she could just Get The Baby Out Already, but this was different.  So casual.  So matter-of-fact.  So, normal.

And therefore I was comforted.

The doctor and my radiation tech were very appreciative of how well the lumpectomy scar is healing, which I'm sure they tell all the girls, so I called them out on it and they declared as to how I'm a veritable pro at healing up from things. 

Again, comforted.

Then the doctor went away and the tech put me through my paces in a CT scanner to have a good look at my guts (more like my thoracic cavity I guess), while I still was tits out to the world.  The procedure was interesting - I got to watch the spinny thing inside the scanner that was taking pictures of my innards, and that was cool.

Then, I went and got 4 new tattoos.  By way of celebration, as ye do.

HAHAHAHAHAHAA!  JK, the tatts were given to me by the radiation tech, who will use them to align me in the particle accelerator thing so that only those parts of my body that are meant to be blasted with radiation in fact ARE blasted, and nothing else.

I've had tattoos before, and so was ready for the gun.

No gun.

Instead, a drop of ink is placed on the spots marked by the doctor, and a single needle prick gets enough of the ink under the skin to be useful (see picture above for about-actual size).  Amazing.  Each tiny dot counts as a tattoo in my book, though I suppose they could be considered as 1 total work of art.  I like the sound of 'I got 4 tattoos today!' better.  Your mileage may vary.

Finally able to sheath the breasticles in bra and tee once more, I was released to the Covid-infested wild, only to have to return in a week or so to start the radiation process in earnest.

Every weekday for 6 weeks I will rely on my new tats and the expertise of the doctors and techs to administer the right amount of radiation to the right place so that, we all hope, the freaking cancer is chased from the premises for good.

Wish me luck.

Tiff out.


W. Va. Fur and Root said...

I gave birth to a very premature baby in 1985 in the teaching hospital of a major metropolitan area. I have no shame left.

I feel for you.

And, yeah, FOUR tattoos!


Blonde Goddess said...

I’m so grateful you’re sharing your experience here.
The entire barrage of exams and medications and tests and treatments must leave you feeling violated and exhausted. But still, you take the time to share. I have no doubt that you do so hoping that someone else who will need to go through this will be comforted and encouraged by your account of things.
I know I’ve said it before but I admire the hell out of you. You’re one of the best ones and an inspiration!

Maybe you can write something fun on your breasts the next time you have to go in for a full frontal viewing???
I know I would.

Kick that cancers ass!!!

Middle Girl said...

Most of the stories I've read regarding cancer/s were (all) after the fact and (many, if not most) were second hand accounts.

This more-or-less in the moment account of one woman's journey, your journey is . . well, swell.

Thank you.