~ 30 Minutes ~

Today I had my upper torso mapped.

3-D imaging.

I didn't get to see the map, but I am guessing it is pretty cool.

When I arrived, I was given "some more paper work to fill out".  

Except I didn't fill it out.  It was for the social worker.  Asking personal questions.  Sorry.  Thanks but no thanks.  I am not interested in filling out a form about my emotional well being, and my sex life, that is then reviewed by office staff and probably entered into a computer.  Nope.

Next was the tour and instructions on how the radiation treatment regimen will unfold.  No need to check in, just go to the treatment waiting room.  Go change into a gown and robe.  The waiting room has cameras, so the staff will see me when I arrive and come get me.

Today, I had to identify myself by my birthdate, as the technicians could not tell if I was me.  The photo they had of me (taken on December 3, 2008) is of a woman with red hair and terrified and sad eyes.  I tell myself they couldn't recognize me from the photo not just because my hair is gone, but because my eyes are no longer terrified and I do not look sad.  Yes.  That must be why.  Not sad and terrified, but strong and courageous.  I ask the technicians to take a new photo -- and they cheerfully agree.

I had two technicians helping me today, a man and a woman.  Both very friendly and helpful.

Then into the mapping room.  The doctor came in and marked my chest with a pen.  As she was looking at my breast, which has one big incision scar across the breadth, she asked, with uncertainty in her voice, "is this the lumpectomy site?"  Well, hello, yes.  There is only one scar; where else would it be?

The technician must have seen some response on my face, because he said "doesn't even look like a scar!  Just a red line on your breast!"  I think "really?  how odd is that?  A woman with a red line across her breast.  Is that better than a scar?"  But I said nothing.  

After the CT scan mapped my chest, it was tattoo time.  The male technician did the tattooing because the woman tech had just painted her nails (at work? what?), and didn't want to put gloves on her hands quite yet.  

I have four little dots now forever on my upper body.  

And a recognition that my initial opposition to tattoos is renewed.  

I have given serious thought (much to my husband's chagrin...) to getting a tattoo once this cancer stuff is done.  But after today, and the four little dots, I doubt I am brave enough to proceed.  

Because tattoos hurt -- feel like bee stings.  

And I am guessing that the pain (not unbearable, but certainly uncomfortable) will be enough to keep my head on my shoulders and prevent any craziness of subjecting myself to repeated pin pricks...   Just imagine a bee sting over and over and over in a small area.  Ouch.

Ok, now for the last part of my mapping adventure...here's where you may want to stop reading if you're wary of too much information.  Because the next paragraph will certainly be too much information. 

One of the last things the male technician did was snap a few photos..."ok, Drenda, we need to get a photo to show the position of your arms".  I think, ok, that sounds reasonable.  

"Ok, great.  Now I just need to get a photo of your breast straight on."

WHHAAATTT?

Before I could say anything (not that it would have mattered), snap!  The photo of my breast is now a digital memory.  OH MY GOODNESS!  

After having babies, and cancer surgery, and repeated exams, and, and, and..., I am pretty good about letting the medical professionals see parts of my body that they need to.   BUT A PHOTO?  Are you kidding me?

I am thinking that in any other context, that photo would be considered pornography.  Not even a chance it would be considered art.  But now a part of my chart, apparently.

What a day.  I am exhausted.

This appointment actually only took 30 minutes; I am learning that lots can transpire in 30 short minutes.