Part Fifty-Two: Beanbags and Ink

            “Attack of the beanbag” is what I told Dr. Nguyen I would write, but on further consideration, “attack” is not the right word.

            As Kristin, the technician, adjusted my head and arms Monday morning, I wondered about the scrunchy stuff around them.  It seemed to be a man-made material that could be squished and shaped.  She moved me and it around, finally ending up with my arms sort of draped over the top of my head, which was turned as far as it could go to the left.  As she got my various parts adjusted, she pressed a button (I assume) and the machine moved to hold the stuff tight against me.  If I remember correctly, that was the point where she put stickers on my chest and ran the brief CT scan.  Then she left to get Dr. Nguyen.

            A good ten minutes passed.  I couldn’t see much other than the ceiling, but I heard a door open on the left, and with my peripheral vision I saw two persons enter the room.  Dr. Nguyen introduced a third-year resident.   I couldn’t really see him, but I said, “Nice to meet you” anyway.  After she quickly drew lines on me with a permanent marker, she said, “That looks like an uncomfortable position.”  I had to agree.

            She went to work with the technician, who had returned from my right, creating a lump with the beanbag-like material to support my head, neck, and repositioned arms.  Once they finished, Dr. Nguyen asked how it felt.  “Like a vise gripping my head,” I answered, so she released the machine’s tension a little. 

            After Dr. Nguyen and the resident left, Kristin told me it was tattoo time.  Just five tiny burning stings—one on my left side and the other four on the right—and she was done. 

            Next week, after Dr. Nguyen analyzes the imaging and prepares my treatment plan, I’ll get the call to set up my radiation therapy appointments.  I’ll be precisely positioned according to my marks and the machine.  I’m not quite sure how they will do that.  I’ve only found four of the five tattoos, and some of the markings washed down the drain with my first shower. 

            But, fortunately, I’m not the professional here.  All I have to do is let the professionals check my dots and move me around until everything is lined up perfectly for the radiation beam and then lie perfectly still for ten minutes while I’m being zapped.  My lower back—exactly where my vertebrae are bone-on-bone at L3-4—bears the brunt of the pressure from lying flat on a hard slab.   Maybe the back pain will keep me from focusing on the pain from my arthritic shoulders beanbagged above my head.