"Nicholas Hart" comes the call, put down the 3 year old National Geographic, amazing pictures but very American.
"Can I just check a couple of details with you? Your date of birth and the first line of your address please"
"If you could take off your t-shirt and lay down on here and we'll move you into position" At this point I apologise for being a bit bigger than the average bear and wish inwardly that I wasn't my current 17 and a bit stone.
And that's about all the conversation you have really, there's the odd nicety now that I've been a few times but they are busy and with a great number of patients to see.
I can see the laser lines on my body in the reflection of the zapper (probably got a boxford 5002 serial number but I don't know it), I can also see the grading that is projected onto my chest. They move me about, a twist here and a nudge there. They call out numbers to each other and then draw crosses on my chest in pen. They measure the distance from my chin to my chest, hope Bruce Forsyth doesn't have to go through this. The zapper disappears under me and the read out more numbers. Then they leave the room, and I'm all alone with my thoughts, hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of machinery and the Shadows playing in the background!
Something that sounds like an angry mosquito happens behind me for maybe 20 seconds. I hear the door open, the staff come in, move the zapper to above me and leave again. Another mosquito sound and the door opens and the staff come in. I put my top on and leave. As the meerkat on the telly says, simples!
That's it. Probably 5 minutes all told even with shoving me around. So far I've had no sensation, I have a bit of a sore throat and am a bit tired but other than that I feel right as rain. Whether that'll continue I have no idea, I seem to think I felt ok after the first chemo. Radiotherapy may hurt but at least I haven't got drugs coursing round me and there's no reason for my hair to fall out again.
No comments:
Post a Comment