everything is, as always lately, a little fuzzy regarding weekly happenings. i imagine if i wasn't currently blogging, i would have no idea and no record of what actually happened during The Great Coronavirus Quarantine of 2020. last sunday, we went to a couple of easter services from the comfort of our living room; always good to see familiar faces and hear familiar voices. early in the week, i found myself complaining that my stretching didn't seem to be helping anything, and in fact, i felt like i was getting worse. so on tuesday, i called the physical therapist's office; they got me scheduled in the next day. silver linings from the global pandemic.

i showed up on wednesday (wearing a mask this time!), temperature check, waiting room, arm bike, pulley stretches (i sit on what looks like a weight machine, with a length of cable with handles attached to the ends running up and over a pulley; as i pull my right arm down, it helps pull my left arm up to stretch it). then it is into the exam room, i lay down, she starts manuvering my arm. this is all similar stuff to last wednesday, but one of the stretches (which i know i did last week without much issue) causes me to sit up and swear. completely unfazed, she asks where exactly it hurts and presses around a bit. "i think you do have some cording," which explains a lot. cording (axillary web syndrome, technically) is a weird but often common result of breast cancer surgery. it's unclear why it happens, or what it is exactly, though it clearly involves damage due to the trauma of surgery. basically, it causes 'ropes' or 'cords' of scar tissue of some sort along the lymphatic vessels, which sticks together and hardens. for me, it feels like having guitar strings tighten inside and along the length of my forearm and some of my upper arm, just from doing something as simple as trying to make my arm straight. it's super tight and painful, and doesn't feel like a normal muscle stretch -- it feels more like a thin burning right along the guitar string (cord). i would find myself walking around the house with my left arm bent as though it were in a sling, involuntarily avoiding the burning feeling by not allowing the arm to stretch. not great when you're supposed to be moving your arm for recovery. sometimes you can see the cord, sometimes you can't (i can't, but then again i can't see into my own armpit), but you can definitely feel mine if you press in the right places. the therapist pushed and prodded and massaged, and i groaned and swore and kicked my heel against the table from the pain. then she moved my arm into the same stretch that began this cord-finding adventure. and i felt no pain. i squinted at her. "is this the same stretch you did a few minutes ago? are you MAGIC?" she said no, no magic, but one of the cords got released, allowing arm movement i couldn't have done ten minutes before, or in fact, all week. she showed me how to try and help loosen the remaining cords at home, which is more or less a weird armpit massage -- digging into the armpit, finding the cords (which feels SO strange), and pressing and moving them. it sounds unpleasant both internally and externally (and it is, on both counts), but it's not terrible. silver lining of having a numb armpit. we schedule appointments for the following monday and wednesday to continue working on the cords, and she releases me with orders of cord massaging and continued stretching.

friday was the dry run in radiation oncology. no visitors are allowed in the hospital these days, so it's just me for radiation appointments (not that there would be anything exciting for andy during these, but old traditions die hard). temperature check, receptionist who remembered me from the planning appointment, dressing room, gown. one of the radiation techs led me to their station, which is a different room than the CT scan planning. they explained the daily checking in process (name, date of birth, is this you in the photo?), and how they would be able to see, hear, and talk to me from their station while i am in the radiation room. because when radiation is happening, no one should be in that room... unless they have to be. they led me down a short hallway (just around a couple of corners, really) to the radiation room. big machine with a large round bit of it jutting out near the top, long thin movable table underneath, the immobilization cast from last wednesday at the head of the table (photo below, me included). they have me slip my left arm out of the gown and lie face up on the table. i get my arms positioned in the cast, hands on top of my head; the little breathing box is taped to my belly, and a warm blanket is put on my legs. they try to put blankets on my arms, but i am in hot flash territory at that moment and wave them off. so this is where i am for about half an hour. the two techs line me up on the table, presumably using the three tattoos i received from the planning appointment, guided by the red laser lines emanating from various parts of the machine. i don't know what it is actually called and just saying "machine" over and over is going to get old, so for now i will refer to it as The Baconator, as i assume it will be giving me a nice sunburn bake over the course of the next six weeks. the entire light blue portion of The Baconator rotates 360 degrees, which i.. was not expecting? i don't know what i was expecting. i know enough that i should have expected it. but when you see a massive medical machine, you don't automatically think, "hey, i bet that thing rotates like a clock."

The Baconator slowly spins around me, stopping and whirring and clicking every few inches/seconds, while the techs read off random numbers to each other. sometimes one tech is in the room, sometimes they are both at their station. when they are both at their station, i can hear their disembodied voices over the intercom while i am alone in the room, making The Baconator seem a little more like HAL 9000. sometimes i watch the bits moving inside the machine through the glass when the big round part is above me; sometimes i switch my focus on the reflection of myself on the glass, seeing the red laser beams across my torso. at some point i realize my arms are getting chilly, so i am less relaxed on the table, but i have chosen that fate. also, it's hard to relax on a flat, plastic table anyway. mostly i find myself wondering if i'll ever be able to move my arms again, as they are both falling fast asleep. i get another sharpied x-marks-the-spot sticker, this time on my upper left chest. for positioning, something something. i'm sure lots of other details happened, i don't know. eventually, they are finished, and i re-cover my left side with the gown. one of the techs walks me out, explains a few things, answers a few of my questions, gives me another bottle of aloe vera, and then i am on my way.

this weekend we used our quarantine time to finally order lots of prints and put together a photo book. from our wedding. which was almost two years ago. uh, better late than never? good times. Week 34 is in the books, and Week 35 brings the first week of radiation. let's do this.