“That which has been is what will be, That which is done is what will be done, And there is nothing new under the sun.”
Ecclesiastes 1:9
With Tonya, the radiation R.N., my first impression was a Snow White/Mary Tyler Moore hybrid. She was a beautiful brunette, possessing a girl next door vibe, complete with swinging shoulder length hair.
Yes, she was exactly the person you want in the health care field: a people person, upbeat, a social butterfly. From day one of meeting her, indeed, I saw her fluttering. She had these wonderful, draped long cardigans that gave her the appearance of gliding down the Cancer Care hallways. She is a glider, I guess.
(On her staff bio, she mentions she has bungee jumped from the world’s highest bungee bridge in South Africa. She probably glided there too).
But mainly, through all of my radiation adventures, she has answered my plethora of questions (I am the Question Queen). She did the occasional skin check, just to ascertain how fire- engine red I was at various points during my thirty sessions. She was all hugs, warm laundry and reassuring, “No, Sheryle, you’re not dying this second.” You cannot imagine how helpful this was to hear that reassurance at this insecure time.
As I burned, itched, and peeled, she was there, soothing voice, telling me how “normal” this was.
And then, there was the matter of my chin. Yes, you heard me correctly.
At the tail end of my radiation, I woke up to a belated Christmas present: a black mark on my chin.
What?
Every weird thing was getting my attention now, post-diagnosis.
What’s next? Five extra toes? A second head?
It appeared to pop up overnight. And no, it was not a mole. Those are dark brown. This sucker was jet black and noticeable even with makeup covering it.
After several unsuccessful attempts at scrubbing my face, I called Tonya. Perhaps, this was some stray radiation spray. I thought I was out of range to be hit though. We were targeting the right side of my chest.
She seemed unconcerned. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if this thing was going to spread further; I still had some radiation sessions to go. I envisioned my mug looking like Mike Tyson’s face tattoo- not a great look for me.
She offered to examine it when I came in later that day. Upon closer inspection, she remarked how she didn’t see it unless and until I pointed it out to her.
Calmly (because the woman is serenity), she mentioned how, once again, your favorite and mine, stress could change the pigment of the skin. So… black spots.
(I have just about had it with the wackadoodle things stress can cause).
She, once again, assured me I was not going to die, nor grow my own organic face tattoo. “In time,” she added, “it will fade.”
And yes, it has, although I still see a faint trace. Souvenir, I suppose.
Tonya has been a constant reassurance to my fussiness. She will insist she’s just “doing her job” here. But come on. After pesky, “the sky is falling” question after question from me, even that old sentiment wears mighty thin. Tonya is that reassurance; she is innate understanding.
And apparently, a great bungee jumper too.
