Radiation Reflection, Weekend 4, Sunday

To all the medical professionals who touched my body

To the woman who captured mammogram images:

You were right when you said, “There are worse things.”
I watched your eyelashes flicker as you reviewed the pictures.
You asked, “Where is the pain on the left side?”
I pointed.
You nodded.
And you knew then, didn’t you?

To the x-ray technician who helped on the day of my biopsy:

Thank you most of all for making me laugh that morning.
You said I was too young for this.
We are about the same age.
I hope it’s never your turn.

To the radiologist who performed the biopsy:

My breast was punctured by a needle
like it was fabric in a sewing machine,
and you said sorry more than once -
acknowledged discomfort and pain,
though I was numb from lidocaine
and didn’t feel a thing.
Thanks for being careful.
The procedure gave me a scar -
I’m calling it Jupiter.

To the MRI technician:

You recognized my youth,
said this was a “bummer”
because I’m only 41.
You turned up Brandi Carlile
as the machine made loud,
construction zone sounds.
Thanks for advice to keep showing up,
and for saying not to worry, because
“It won’t change anything except make things worse.”
I succeeded at showing up.
I tried not to worry, but
I realize now,
after reviewing my writing,
that I worried a lot.

To the surgeon:

Thanks for making it clear I had choices, and
those choices were mine.
You gave me a curved scar.
I’m calling it a crescent moon.

To the radiation oncologist:

Thanks for answering
hours of questions,
and not touching me
except when necessary.

To the medical oncologist:

All I remember is changing into the floral,
grandma-curtain hospital gown.
Thanks for making that exam forgettable.

To the radiation therapists:

Thanks for making me feel
safe as possible in
that blue, Star Trek room
where I received 21 treatments
in a month.

To all of you:

Thanks for treating me like I was someone -
and something -
to be respected -
protected -
like a valuable teacup that a viewer might
hold less than 5 seconds
to examine for chips.
Then it’s placed back on a shelf behind glass,
no fingerprints left behind,
because it isn’t theirs.

Examinations had to have purpose -
touch needed a reason -
conversation and caution mattered most,
and scars will become
memories of healing
instead of trauma.