Kelly Corrigan's
memoir of
growing up—
the first time,
and the second time.
[Click here]
....................................

by Kelly Corrigan, 36 years old, Stage III Breast Cancer Survivor
Kelly writes a bi-monthly column on everyday life. If you'd like us to email her columns to you, click -->

I hate radiation, not because it hurts or anything but because it brings me back to cancerville, the coming and going of the ill and diseased, the bad wigs on long faces, the washed out, dazed exhaustion, the cheery, untouched doctors, the occasional gurney and wheelchair, the old People magazines about Jen and Brad, the flyers about support groups for metastatic disease patients and announcements about guided imagery to fight recurrence anxiety.

For a while there, I had forgotten who I am now. I was just a mom, running to the post office while my girls were in preschool, wondering what we might do for Claire's birthday this year. I wasn't sick, I didn't have any updates for anyone, I was a success story. Now, after 2 days at Alta Bates, I remember that I am tagged, in the army for life, like it or not.

The physical side of radiation is much less complicated. I lie on a table, beneath a huge machine, for two minutes. It takes longer to change my clothes than it does to take the hit. And the technicians who align my body between the rays every morning are delightful, camp counselor types. There's Ramone, who some of the ladies call Romeo, since he usually calls us "Gorgeous" or "Dear". There's Michelle, who has a huge smile and loves to talk about American Idol. And Clara, who laughs at everything I say, and does a little dance every day after I get up from the table.

Between the three of them, and the chatter and the dancing, I can almost forget again.