Naked Truth

Can you tell I have no freaken clue what it is that I am doing?
Because I don't.
If you thought I did, please permit me to disabuse you of that notion.

Yeah. I swear like a teamster, but I occasionally sound like I *may* have read a Webster's dictionary.

Back to this blogging thing that I am completely shitty at:
So, first "boost" treatment, today. It's totally bizarre, the shit you endure during cancer treatments...
Today? Well today, as I lay there on the cold, hard table (dear medical equipment people, please pull your heads OUT of your fourth point of contact and design a table that those of us getting microwaved in the name of "medical treatment," can lay upon COMFORTABLY) they molded some sort of 1" thick pliable padding...it was almost taffy-like,around my left boob.
Which, by the way, protested.
Of course, I lay there, patiently smiling, never giving any indication that my boob was issuing a fatwa on their asses, as they taped the taffy to my chest and explained that it acted like more skin to get the rads the way they want them.

OK.
I seriously think they could draw on me with a sharpie and I'd accept that as normal.
Oh wait...they did THAT too.

I had my treatment and then saw the doc...all is well.

Ya know what gets me?
Before 9AM, four people saw my left boob.
And not ONE of them was my husband.
There's a joke in there...I think.