It's getting cold outside.  It was cold outside when I answered the phone the day my doctor called to tell me "it's cancer".  That must mean almost a year has drifted on by while I've been in this fog.  Almost a year?  Crazy.  In the midst of everything, today I realized I'm THAT person....the one you see, the one you feel horrible for when you notice them, the one that you never, EVER want to be.  Yep, I'm her.  It sort of brought me to my knees in panic.  Like, how do I NOT be her?  How can I get on the other side - the side where you're doing the looking, not being the one looked at?  Because on this side it can get very, very scary.  Regrets creep in.  What-if's lurk.  It's just not comfy at all.  I wish I could have given Zeke siblings in case I die and he's left all alone.  I regret not getting my master's degree. I regret buying my first two dogs instead of rescuing two that really needed a home.  SO many things.  But I guess when your sparring partner is cancer, one tends to look back on her life and pick it apart at the seams. 

So, I've started the radiation portion of my treatment.  I have mixed feelings about radiation.  It doesn't hurt...at least not yet.  My skin doesn't have any burns yet, I'm not feeling overly exhausted.  I think what scares me is the lying all alone in the room with the big machine drifting around me, lasers staring down at me, everyone FAR away behind protective walls and glass....while I lay there bare chested and so...vulnerable.  Like, if it's so bad that all of the nurses and techs need to stay behind closed doors while the radiation is going on, how is it okay that day after day I waltz in there, get topless, and rendezvous with the stuff?  I lay there each day, not moving at all, as this "thing" circles around me.  Sometimes I try to drift off with my eyes closed and just relax.  But then I realize I'm getting cooked.  So, my eyes pop open and I stare at the ceiling.  It's a nice ceiling...the ceiling tiles are actually a faux-fall scene so we radiation-getters have something to look at.  It's all orangey-yellowy trees against a fall sky.  Nice.  But then I look further and there's a tile out of place.  I can see like one or two inches where it's off track.  That little crack gets my mind reeling.  What's up there?  Is that the gateway to the next world in case I die here on this slab of table from being cooked too much?  Then there's the closet to my right - a set of double doors that are always open, but usually the lights are off.  UNTIL....the lights pop on.  But no one is in the room with me.  How did the lights go on?  Is it a sign from God? Is it a metaphoric light and soon there will be a bright white light for me to follow up to Heaven?  Oh, and when I lie down on this slab of table, I have to put my hands above my head and grip two handles.  I've noticed that the handle for my right hand is slightly loose.  If I hold it too tight, it wiggles.  Will it fall out one of these mornings while I'm being cooked?  If it does fall out, is that symbolic?  Like, is it a metaphor for my radiation life?  The handle fell out so now radiation has failed, cancer is back, Nancy dies.  This.  This is the mess that goes through my head while I cook each morning on that table.  At least with chemo, there were people buzzing all around me, Pauly was there, or my Mom was there.  Nurses were everywhere in a very real way.  I had human connection.  With radiation, it's just me and the cooker and the slab of table.  So creepy. 

I'm through 5 of 30 treatments now.  25 to go.  Too many to start a countdown so I just keep on grinding.  In the meantime, please keep prayers coming for me.  My white cells are still low and I'm sure frying each day doesn't help.  I know this is temporary, but please pray that as I finish up this portion of my treatment plan, all good news comes my way.  I want to be looking at cancer in my rearview mirror this Spring.