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.


You change into your humiliating hospital gown, then sit in the waiting room. Men and women, patients and radiation dates, all wait in the same place. When it’s your turn, they call your name over an intercom, which sounds like a muffled announcement on a SEPTA train. You get up, walk the gauntlet of the damned, then turn down the hall to the treatment area where you scan in again, then lie down on the table. Hell, by the way, is freezing.

The radiation therapists place your head in the cradle that’s been molded to your shape, slip a pad under your knees, and secure the Friday-the-13th-Jason-like plastic mask over your face and chest. You are now the star in your own private horror movie. “We’ll be right back,” one of the extras says, as they all leave the room. It’s hard to tell the villains from the superheroes around here.

Here are some of the possible side effects of radiation therapy: Sunburned skin. Sore throat. Trouble swallowing. Fatigue. Hypothyroidism. Lung cancer. Breast cancer. Heart disease.

Here is what you feel: Nothing.

Here’s how long you have to worry about the possible side effects: The rest of your life.

Here’s how long it takes: Eight minutes.

That’s eight minutes from the time you lie down on the table to the time they are setting up for the next guy. The actual blasts of radiation take less than a minute. One five second blast, followed by 11 seconds with the beam underneath the table; then the machine spins 180-degrees and stops above you for another five seconds, followed by another 11 seconds. 32 seconds in all, by my calculations. It’s okay to keep your eyes open, Dr. X reassures, as the radiation, being delivered to the chest and neck is “nowhere near” the face.

The devil’s in the details.