I woke up this morning to find my underwear on the kitchen table, right next to the bottle of tequila.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
But Seriously, Folks...
Here’s something you don’t want to hear while waiting for your daily dose of radiation:
There’s something wrong with the machine.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Whirrr! Click! Zap! Holy Radiation, Batman!
"What fresh hell is this?"
--Dorothy Parker
The entrance to Jefferson’s cancer center is on the street level, on the southwest corner of the hospital, at 11th and Sansom Streets. To get to the place where they do radiation, you get into the elevator and push B. According to the elevator buttons, there is only one level between S(treet) and B(asement)—a staff floor, full of offices and off-limits to patients—but it takes forever to get to The Basement. This is, I imagine, because there are several other levels of (unmarked) hell between the street and my destination at the final, bottom rung.
The first time I was ever in this place, Dr. X tried to tell me that the reason all the scary radiation equipment was located well below sea level is that it is all extremely heavy, but I am smarter than this. Did he think I didn’t notice all the warning signs, and the no-children-beyond-this-point message, not to mention the ghostly appearances of all the patients walking out of the restricted areas. Surely the fact that these machines spit out toxic amounts of radiation daily has something to do with their location.
When you get to The Basement, hereafter referred to as Hell, the first thing you do is scan in at reception. The technicians who made the mold for your head and the plastic mask that fits over your face and chest two weeks ago also snapped the most hideous digital photo of you imaginable. This will be used to identify you every time you visit Hell, which will be daily, Monday to Friday, for the next three weeks. As this is shorter than the average stay in Hell, you are reminded to count your blessings.
--Dorothy Parker
The entrance to Jefferson’s cancer center is on the street level, on the southwest corner of the hospital, at 11th and Sansom Streets. To get to the place where they do radiation, you get into the elevator and push B. According to the elevator buttons, there is only one level between S(treet) and B(asement)—a staff floor, full of offices and off-limits to patients—but it takes forever to get to The Basement. This is, I imagine, because there are several other levels of (unmarked) hell between the street and my destination at the final, bottom rung.
The first time I was ever in this place, Dr. X tried to tell me that the reason all the scary radiation equipment was located well below sea level is that it is all extremely heavy, but I am smarter than this. Did he think I didn’t notice all the warning signs, and the no-children-beyond-this-point message, not to mention the ghostly appearances of all the patients walking out of the restricted areas. Surely the fact that these machines spit out toxic amounts of radiation daily has something to do with their location.
When you get to The Basement, hereafter referred to as Hell, the first thing you do is scan in at reception. The technicians who made the mold for your head and the plastic mask that fits over your face and chest two weeks ago also snapped the most hideous digital photo of you imaginable. This will be used to identify you every time you visit Hell, which will be daily, Monday to Friday, for the next three weeks. As this is shorter than the average stay in Hell, you are reminded to count your blessings.
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