Radiate Me

The challenge, as though I were on Survivor, which some might argue I am, is to remember the past three days of my life at the same time that I am trying to forget them. I have not yet found the part of my brain that will let me process things as they are currently happening to me, so you'll have to settle for a slight delay on this blog. Since today is Monday, let's talk about Thursday.

The Thursday afternoon injection of the radioactive isotope rocked my world and was, surprisingly, the most pain I had experienced throughout my own breast cancer awareness months. Also, when my life as a patient ends, I may just volunteer at the hospital writing new scripts for nurses and doctors for when they are forced interact with normal people, such as their patients. For example, instead of my nurse casually mentioning that the injection will burn a little, she could have said "Honey, this is going to hurt. Have you ever had your hand chopped off with a machete? It will feel a little bit better than that. Now hold on to this metal pipe and feel free to rip it out of the wall."

As I lay on the table wondering what kind of "burning" I was in for and looking for something to grab, I listened to the nurse from Queens and the doctor from China (like yesterday from China), argue about who had told what to whom and who didn't. I prayed they weren't taking about me and that someone was paying attention enough to inject me with the right burn.

The doctor asked me, in his thick Chinese accent, if I had a scar on my breast. Deduce, deduce quickly, Lauren. He wants to inject on a scar? I lift my head up and point to my core biopsy scar. He says "Oh, ok. So that's at about 2 o'clock on your breast would you say? 3 o'clock? I'll write down between 2 o'clock and 3 o'clock. " I told him it looked like 2:45 and they both laughed out loud indicating to me that their jobs are generally pretty dull.

Finally, I couldn't take the anticipation anymore and I asked the nurse if I could hold her hand. Then the doctor injected me, I squeezed the shit out of the nurse's hand, and when I was just about to break it I eased up a bit. Then I screamed a little and let out a few curse words and they said "Ok, you're done." And I laid there on the table like I'd been shot in a drive-by and I couldn't move. And I kept saying sorry. Sorry for squeezing your hand. Sorry for screaming. Sorry for cursing. Sorry for lying on this table and not getting up. The nurse told me I had a surprising grip but I knew what she really wanted to say was "You're stronger than you look, skinny girl."

Nurse put a bandage on the area of the injection. By the amount of gauze she used, I wondered for a moment if I had already had my mastectomy. Or maybe she was playing it safe. Should I experience a knife wound on my way out of the hospital on 33rd and 1st, I wouldn't have to go all the way up to the second floor again. But the hospital had clearly run out of Gentle Booby Tape for sensitive areas like BREASTS!!!!!! and so the nurse was forced to used duct tape normally reserved for packaging hazardous waste. Well, that would have to do. (Removing that tape later in the evening would be the second most painful experience of breast cancer, ranking well above a mammogram and just below a radioactive injection, for those of you keeping track).

When the orderly came in to clean the room, it became clear I was not going to be able to lie there and take a nap as I had planned. I finally pulled my shit together and got dressed. I roamed the hall for a bathroom and was warned by four or five people to only use the bathroom designate for radioactive people. Radioactive pee pee? Radioactive hand washing? Radioactive soap? What would it all do to you if you were exposed to it? I was about to see my husband and interact with the rest of New York City. Was this safe? My new mantra rose up out of nowhere: Fuck it.

Michael pulled Super Dad duty that day doing "Mystery Reader" for Willa's Pre-K class and then booked it up to the hospital in a cab. He pulled up and I jumped (ok, wormed) in and we drove down to the W Hotel in Union Square. We ate a snack at the bar, went upstairs to our room to watch an episode of Downton Abbey from Season 3, and went back down to dinner to eat some more. It was not at all possible to act normal in these pending hours. But Michael was able to guess what I would order off the menu at Olives: kale salad and salmon with quinoa and vegetables. I looked at the people eating French fries and thought they looked like aliens from another planet.

After that exciting meal, we watched one more episode of Downton Abbey, which, while enjoyable, is really just a way to pass are large amount of time without crying about anything meaningful. Then we set about pretending to sleep, which neither of us did. 5:30am seemed like a world away. And, quite frankly, so did the rest of the world.