On Tuesday I rode a train from Seattle to Tacoma, and rode another one back. I was counting bicycles on the train, for work.
I had some time to kill in Tacoma, so browsed through the always-seedy Freighthouse Square. I bought an unusual shirt in a used clothing store, and when I went up to the counter to pay, the cashier asked "When did you shave your head?"
That was a new one.
I told her I didn't, and that I had gone through chemo. She replied "Oh. I see quite a few women who shave their head because they like it."
I told her I would never choose to be bald.
She then asked "Is everything alright, then?"
Wow.
What if I had said "No"? I was tempted to say so, just to see what her reaction would be.
"No, I only have until 6 o'clock, and I want to die in this shirt."
When I go in for radiation treatment each morning at 7:45, I am the first patient of the day. I go into a changing cubbyhole, get out of my shirt and bra, and put on a gown. I then put my clothes and satchel in a locker, lock it, and remove the key.
After treatment, I unlock the locker, remove my stuff, go into the cubbyhole, slather aloe gel on my left breast, chest, armpit and shoulder blade, put on my clothes and hightail it back to work.
The last week, when I've come out of treatment, there's been a man changing for his treatment. I have no idea what his ailment is, but it's clear he's suffering. He grunts with discomfort every time he moves. He struggles with the lockers. I've heard him swear in his frustration.
The little bit that I've observed him makes me consider that maybe I ought not to complain so much about my disease and treatment.
I had some time to kill in Tacoma, so browsed through the always-seedy Freighthouse Square. I bought an unusual shirt in a used clothing store, and when I went up to the counter to pay, the cashier asked "When did you shave your head?"
That was a new one.
I told her I didn't, and that I had gone through chemo. She replied "Oh. I see quite a few women who shave their head because they like it."
I told her I would never choose to be bald.
She then asked "Is everything alright, then?"
Wow.
What if I had said "No"? I was tempted to say so, just to see what her reaction would be.
"No, I only have until 6 o'clock, and I want to die in this shirt."
*******
When I go in for radiation treatment each morning at 7:45, I am the first patient of the day. I go into a changing cubbyhole, get out of my shirt and bra, and put on a gown. I then put my clothes and satchel in a locker, lock it, and remove the key.
After treatment, I unlock the locker, remove my stuff, go into the cubbyhole, slather aloe gel on my left breast, chest, armpit and shoulder blade, put on my clothes and hightail it back to work.
The last week, when I've come out of treatment, there's been a man changing for his treatment. I have no idea what his ailment is, but it's clear he's suffering. He grunts with discomfort every time he moves. He struggles with the lockers. I've heard him swear in his frustration.
The little bit that I've observed him makes me consider that maybe I ought not to complain so much about my disease and treatment.
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