Don't Push Me, Cause I'm Close to the Edge

Her first mistake was saying:
"Don't try to help us. We will move you into the right position. Pretend you're at a spa."

A spa? I thought to myself.
Laying still in a dark room does not equal spa.

Clearly,
preparing for an X-Ray before my radiation treatment was going to be tougher than I thought. Over the next 28 days, not counting weekends and holidays, the staff would ask me to slip into an examination gown (opening in front), and lay completely still on a cold, thin, plastic gurney for the duration of my treatment. Radiation itself, would probably only last about 5 minutes, after I was moved into the correct "spa" position.

This was the second part of my CT Simulation. The first part occurred a week earlier.

Between X-Ray films, two technicians disappeared and reappeared, called out numbers, adjusted the table, took exacting measurements and drew detailed markings. When the green light indicated that my X-Rays were finished, the left side of my chest literally looked like a road map of blue and green lines, no GPS required.

The technician apologized for doing her job.
"I had to draw the new lines higher than the ones you got last week."
I sighed, loudly enough for her to sense my disapproval.
"I know," she continued in her sing-song voice. "You won't be able to wear those cute summer tops. But it's only for a couple of weeks, and it's part of your progress."

DID SHE JUST SAY THAT TO ME?

What part of having a biopsy in September; mastectomy in October; axillery dissection and mastectomy in November; drains sticking from my body on-and-off for three months; and placement of a chest medi-port in early January sounds remotely like a couple of weeks?

"Did you slap her?" my sister asked, after retelling my story.
Sisters think of everything, don't they?

No. I didn't slap anyone, but I wanted to later that afternoon when a man, driving a van at Georgia Avenue and 29, tried to force his vehicle into my lane, without regard to me, pedestrians in the crosswalk, or other vehicles.

I leaned on my horn.
The driver stopped and looked over to see my waiving my finger and shouting,
"YOU CAN"T DO THAT!!! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?!!! YOU COULD KILL SOMEONE!!!"

Something inside must have snapped wide open because I drove the next two miles to the hospital in a haze of tears and Kleenex. I've never done that.

Whether it was the radiation tech, comparing my treatment to a two week spa visit;
the idiot driver, totally oblivious of how his actions could affect the lives of others;
or the cancer that I've been beating back with a vengeance,
I am definitely a woman on the ledge.

Watch out...
I still might have to slap somebody.