I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from rads treatment but after three rounds I have some thoughts. In some ways it’s exactly what I imagined it would be but in others it is quite different. It conjures all sorts of images and feelings. I’ll share some of them with you.

For one thing I never expected to feel like I was in a James Bond movie. You know the part where, as Dr. Evil so aptly put it in Austin Powers (the first one not one of the lame sequels), the villain places Bond and his flavour du jour in “an easily escapable situation involving an overly elaborate and exotic death?” That’s sort of what it’s like when they arrange me on this enormous and rather intimidating machine and then proceed to fasten my torso to the table. This keeps things in position but it isn’t like I couldn’t just pull off the tape and get the fuck outta there if I wanted to.

Of course it isn’t a perfect parallel seeing as the folks doing the arranging and taping are nice to me and are actually trying to save my life. Never mind. It is, however, pretty freaky when they leave the room and the weird noises start, first a high-pitched sound like out of a sci-fi movie, then the whirring and clicking as the head of the machine slowly glides into position and prepares to fire, then silence… and finally a flat buzz at the photon beam is delivered, first via one angle and then after the head repositions via the opposing angle.

When that happens I try to visualise something fierce à la Chicks I Dig Vol. 1, like one of my super heroines shooting any naaaasty cancer cells that might have stayed behind with laser beam eyes. Or maybe a cancer-hating dragon scorching the heckety heck out of any stragglers with its fiery breath.

You don’t feel it. And it’s fast. So different in so many ways from chemo, which took hours and from which I often experienced side effects as the poison was flowing into my veins. Radiation is not without risk (duh) or side effects but it (so far) feels less patently sinister.

A few minutes later they come through the doors and announce “you’re done. See you tomorrow.” It’s like having a job but a really short one. And I don’t get paid. But it is five days a week. Okay I guess it isn’t really like having a job, unless you consider killing it a job. It has been quite a job, as a matter of fact. And I think I’m pretty good at this job. But I hope to change careers soon. There are so many of us doing this job. It just ain’t right.

My machine is called Trilogy. Trilogy is large but I do not fear her. She is a sort of gentle giant. She is there to help me. With her flat, round head and deliberate movements she conjures for me a great tree sloth with special powers.

When I arrive at the radiation centre I descend to Basement 3. I am called to treatment and remove my clothing from the waist up and slip on a johnny leaving it open in the back. I enter the radiation chamber where Trilogy awaits. I slip the robe off and lie on a table with my arms over my head. The staff gently position my body so that laser beams align perfectly with my three tattoos, one between my breasts and one on either side of my rib cage on my sides. Once they are satisfied that all is perfect they place, for the first twelve treatments anyhow, a flexible bolus over the right side of my chest. My final thirteen will not include this.

They tape the bolus to me and the table. After this they leave the room and the alarm sounds (that weird high-pitched wavy alien sound) telling them to get the f*&% out of the room. Then the other noises begin and the party starts.

Then in a flash I get dressed again and am outta there. Ready to do it all again the next day. Once home I apply some Calendula- (marigold) based cream to the treated area in the hopes that it will minimise the sunburn effect and promote healing. The cream is called “My Girls” and I slather it right on my girls and my chest and under arm.

Yesterday my radiation oncologist showed me pictures of my scans and planning, which depicted the angles of the beams and which areas would be treated. It was unsettling to see the top of my right lung in the line of fire even though she had specifically told me about it. Apparently the scarring to that lung will be minimal and I won’t notice the effects of it. But still. On a positive note, turns out the portion of the left breast that is getting a dose is pretty minimal so at least for now I have stopped hand-wringing about that wrinkle.

After that thrilling technical description I thought you might like to be entertained. But if you are easily grossed out then stop reading right now. I’m not kidding.

This morning I decided to go to treatment in workout attire so that I could get one in right after it was over. I pulled on my Lulu Lemon extra longs and took the tube to Warren Street and then hopped on a random bus (the 27?) — there are loads of them on Marylebone Road and they get me 20 seconds away from the door of the treatment centre which is ideal when I am running late having had to draw on eyebrows or some such thing.

I visited the powder room upon arrival and tried to adjust my gym pants (pants in American means trousers not underwear, thank you) to eliminate that terrible thing that happens to women when the seam sits a certain way. Yes, you guessed it. Camel toe. Unacceptable.

I don’t know why but my LL’s tend to give me that sometimes and I do NOT like that look at all. Then I decided I had to pee, having made those seam adjustments in vain. I squatted (I have long legs and I don’t sit on public toilets, people). Somehow being, shall we say, more bare in certain areas can apparently cause some control issues. The long and short of it is that I peed on my own leg. When I sensed this I stopped mid-stream and looked down at the back of my Lulu Lemons. Yup. I peed on my own pants too. Super.

So in the space of two minutes I discovered that (a) I had camel toe and (b) I peed on myself. But that didn’t rain on my parade (so to speak). Nope. I was in a good mood. I just took some towels and water and soap and washed off those pants and redid my seam adjustment and moseyed on into treatment. Nobody the wiser.

I know that was TMI (too much information, come on, older set. Keep up!). But I just had to tell about it. It was a killer start to my morning.

Just so you know, below is a simulation. I have my robe on because although I love ya I don’t want to share that much. We took this right before my treatment began. You can see I am still smiling from the bathroom incident five minutes prior. Please be a dear and don’t post this pic on “Am I Hot or Not,” if that site even still exists, okay?  G’night.