Then, The Worst Test Ever began. E had to have a CT scan to look at the tumor again. This time they also made the "mask" she has to wear over her head/shoulders/neck for the daily radiation treatments. It came out of a large warmer and was rubbery. After two nurses manipulated it for five minutes, stretching it over her face, head, and breasts, she had to extend her neck with her chin as high as physically possible and lie still while it hardened into plastic. Then they bolted her to the table. The mask has plastic bolts on it that will be used each time to secure her to the table so that they are aiming the radiation at the same exact spot each and every time.
I keep thinking about Rick Grimes and the Zombie Apocalypse Rule Book. Being bolted to a table seems like a dicey proposal under optimal circumstances. I'm riding up there each and every time and sitting in that waiting room to ensure I don't have to rescue her in case of an outbreak or firebomb or something. Oh, if stuff goes down we're getting off that table, Sister. Watch me.
And now, we have two radiation treatments down, 13 to go. God is faithful!
Random factoids:
- She has mermaid skin after treatments.
- Treatments only last 15-20 minutes once they begin. The drive over and back and changing takes longer than the procedure.
- If I never have to drive in Birmingham traffic again that will be just fine with me, because if the cancer doesn't kill us, road rage might.
- My child is braver than I am.
- People in a radiology waiting room will tell you anything and everything about their entire life backstory. Fear is a funny animal. And prayer is powerful when shared with scared people.
- We are participating in a genuine miracle. The fact that we've figured out how to point concentrated beams at the outside of the human body and vaporize stuff inside of the body is miraculous.
