Smart Cars and other (hopefully) smart machines

Yesterday I was in my "Itsy" car making a left turn when inside my arc was another black Smart Car at the red light. The silver-haired driver and I made quick eye contact and waved at one another like a couple of crazy women. That, and having Lori introduce me to the Canadian TV series "Corner Gas," made my day. (Some of you reading this would also enjoy this silly-clever show. You know who you are. Check it out. Lori assures me it only gets better with each season.)

Today was my fourth day of radiation. As mentioned earlier, there's new (to me) technology -- Tomo-Therapy. Rather than a robotic gizmo moving above me from side to side and zapping my torso at various intervals like last time, with Tomo-Therapy I'm conveyed into a tube. First I'm placed into my molds* (one mold holds my arms, over my head; the other (nasty cold plastic, makes me gasp every time) fits snuggly over my torso to ensure radiation stays on the surface and doesn't reach my vital organs.**

First I slide into the tube for a 3D CT scan to make sure treatment is going to precisely reach targeted areas. Then I slide out of the tube and wait for a techie to come back into the room to punch buttons to reset the machine in accordance with the position of my innards today), announce my 8-9 minute treatment will now begin, and scurry back out as the conveyor draws me back into the oven. As I lie perfectly still trying not to expose my lungs or heart to radiation, I hear a grinding-clicky sound moving 360-degrees around me, fifteen times. One of my breast-cancer buddies, Jen, with an amazing sense of humor, said she always felt like she was going into an Easy-Bake Oven. Indeed!

So the whole deal, from home and back again, takes about an hour. New technology, twice as long, far more expensive.

This go-around I politely refused one of the fleece ponchos that some well-meaning women's group donates to make us feel better as we sit in the waiting area stripped from the waist up and ready to go. I remember my poncho from last time with disdain; I hated putting it on and trashed it (as I did my winter coat at the airport before boarding a plane for Texas, remember Brenda?) as soon as my six weeks were over. Give me the impersonal hospital gown any day. Fleece or no fleece, this is not a warm fuzzy affair. Just as I would never be comfortable in someone else's choice of clothing, no one is going to present me with a choice of ponchos that suits my potato-sack fashion sense. (Thanks for the apt description, Susan.) The ponchos are always wildly patterned and adorned with gaudy buttons and fancy stitching. It ain't me, Babe. No, no, no, it ain't me.

*My molds were made a week ago when I was also given a fourth tattoo on the chest to mark a spot that apparently means something to someone.

**Greg programs robotic equipment for a living in various manufacturing plants. I know these machines can go terribly awry. This is some scary shit and every day I wish Greg was there to check out the machine before I slide in.