Red Beam and Vanilla Pudding Trays

She lay there reading the words above her head... "ISOCENTER CORE RETRIC"

She saw the words every day and never knew what they meant. Obviously it was to mark something of great importance such as where to place the tray of vanilla pudding she passed every morning. Each tray had a last name written on it and hers was never there because it had already been placed in the radiation machine. Of course, the tray did not contain vanilla pudding, but rather a brass configuration of medical proportions that very few people ever understand. Being a radiation-oncologist means you get to arrange the brass configuration for each patient. The fact that every morning she was able to look upon a multi-level cart with trays of vanilla pudding labeled with the names of others meant there were an awful lot of people there for the same reason she was. Throughout the day, one by one, the trays of pudding would disappear as each cancer patient was escorted into the facility room with twelve-inch walls, reinforced with materials to absorb the radiation and not allow it to escape the room...unless, of course, the radiation was leaving with you...in you...

She lay on the table as the technicians checked her. It was the same drill every day as one tech would remove her left arm from the sanitized hospital gown, and place her left hand around the finger-form-fitted bar above her head. Another tech would always have a green, permanent marker with which to re-mark the area to be radiated with big X's. A third tech would tell her to "scooch down" because she never could get in the proper position without "scooching" for some reason. The technicians would initiate idle chatter while the predetermined dosage was input and while her feet were secured with a giant rubber band, so as not to allow any movement. The lights went off as always, and the technicians told her not to move as they left the reinforced room, almost running from what would be emanating from the massive machine. They did manage to say "happy birthday" to her, on their way out. She had almost forgotten about this day.

For the past couple of weeks, she had laid there, not opening her eyes during the treatment for fear of going blind, even though no one told her to close her eyes. She had undoubtedly watched too many made-for-tv movies as a youth for she knew the laser beam would irreversibly damage her vision, her eyes would "freeze like that" if she crossed them, and watching an eclipse would render her blind. Yet today, this day, she kept her eyes open and even dared herself to look up into the "Isocenter Core Retric" itself.

She could see a grid and numbers and letters and how the vanilla pudding had been shaped into an odd design. As she continued to look up into the machine, she could see a line of red, like the red you associate with a laser, marking her body. Seeing her reflection was strange. She had thought it strange for months now, but this time, even more so, perhaps in part because she had become accustomed to the sliced scars across her chest. Perhaps not, as you never really become accustomed to such a sight. She looked up and saw herself in the vanilla pudding, fit perfectly in the crosshairs of the machine, and the noise began.

Not really that like a hum or a ringing or even an engine starting. The sound of the radiation entering her body was more closely described as a low, dull roar with a high pitch signalling the concentration of the energy passing through pudding to body...to where the cancer had grown. Every day, it was just the machine and her for a few minutes. No technicians in the room. No other person allowed. Just her...and the machine that was purposefully mutating and killing parts of her body, her tissue, her muscle and nerves and skin. Killing it to save her.

She watched the red beam and concentrated on her own reflection. Was it working? Was the amount of radiation strong enough? Was this for nothing? Would her arm survive with minimal damage and allow her to fully use it? Is the red light the radiation beam itself and she would actually go blind? It wasn't as if she knew what she was looking at. She was not a radiation-oncologist nor a radiation tech. Had someone told her to keep her eyes closed and she had forgotten? Hopefully not, because she continued to stare upright as the machine lowly roared on.

Her appointment had been sandwiched between two men. They were both kind and friendly, even in the early morning hours. One had dressed casually in jeans every, single day while the other, was obviously working his radiation around his corporate schedule. "Jeans Guy" went at 8am. Her turn was at 8:10am and "Mr. Corporate" was at 8:20. This went on for weeks until one day, Jeans Guy didn't come. Maybe he had finished his radiation cycle. Maybe he changed his appointment time. Maybe he was dead. Oddly enough, neither she nor Mr. Corporate ever acknowledged Jeans Guy was gone or that their own appointment times had moved up. Perhaps they both thought that "not knowing and guessing" was better than "knowing and it being bad".

The machine cut off and she was still staring into the Isocenter, looking at all she could see, not knowing what any of it was. The technicians came back in. Their mood, chipper and happy, as always, was greatly appreciated. The instructions were given to "relax your arm" and as routine as brushing your teeth every morning, one of the techs stood beside her, offering her arm to help her sit up. The giant rubber band came off the feet and the gown was back on. Each happy and cancer-free free tech offered a "Have a great day and we will see you tomorrow" as one of them removed her vanilla pudding and replaced her tray with someone else's...and she left the reinforced room.

After having removed her gown in the changing "closet", she stopped before putting her clothes back on. There was a full length mirror in there which she had seen before, but today, she stood before it half naked, fully exposed to herself, seeing the scars which have the ability to define her, if she lets them. She stood there, silently, unwilling to move, staring at her reflection. The same reflection she had just seen while beneath the machine in the reinforced room...

Who was that staring back?

Wife?
Mother?
Christian?
Cancer patient?
Cancer survivor?
Friend?
Auntie?
Sister?
Daughter?
Control Freak?
Chef?
Public Speaker?
Author?
Critic?
Photographer?
College Professor?
Impatient Driver?
Defender of Children?
Text-A-Holic?
Dreamer?
Laundress?
Lover of Girl Scout Cookies?
Smartass?
Military Analyst?
Penny Pincher?
Spoiler of Children and Teens?
Ice Cream Connoisseur?
Color-Coordinated Fashionista?
Not today...
Advocate?
Sinner?
Co-Worker?
Cheerleader?
Event Planner?
Singer?
Poet?
Cleaning Lady?
Creative Writer?
Secret Keeper?
Crafter?
Mentor?
Painter?
Listener?
Anti-Abortionist?
Artist?
Homework Checker?
Musician?
Dog Walker?
Chauffeur?
Moon Starer?
Cuddler?
Hugger?
Lover?
Entrepreneur?
Email Checker?
Reader?
Blogger?
Detail-Oriented-Calendar-Toting-Scheduler?
Dancer?
Prancer?
Vixen?

She stood transfixed, staring at her own reflection and saw each of those people step up and claim their right to be there.

She put her clothes back on, placed the hospital gown in the proper receptacle and stepped out of the changing closet.

A smile crept across her face as she realized, in all finality, that no, those scars would never define her...that today was her birthday for she had learned to celebrate the gift of life.