7:51 p.m. - 12.01.2003
\"My Body is a Scream\"
Today I woke up angry. Now the anger has evaporated.
Radiation everyday at 11:15. Brush teeth, comb hair, wash face, apply lots of sunblock. Bundle up: pink furry hat, pink yarn scarf. Ride in car, talk about weather. Arrive at hospital, get dropped off at entrance like cripple. Enter lobby, look at no one, go through double doors to "Gowned Waiting Area." Go into changing room on women's side, lock door. Remove hat, scarf, coat; hang in locker. Remove shoes (always black and pink velcro sneakers, easy on-easy off), remove pants, remove panties. Put pants & panties on top shelf of locker, shut door, turn key, remove key from lock. Put shoes back on. Get blue gown from stack to your right. Put gown on, tie inside ties, tie outside ties. Look in mirror: black socks, black shoes, ghostly white legs, blue gown, red t-shirt under gown, bags under eyes, short hair, tears in runny green eyes. Take deep breath, unlock door, sit in waiting room full of old people (how did I get here, with them?), pull gown taut underneath when sitting so bare ass does not touch chair. Ignore "Hollywood Squares" on the blaring TV. Look no one in the eye. Accidently catch eyes with very tiny old man with bright yellow cardigan, smile, try not to look at his skin, blackened from radiation.
Name is called. Get up, make pleasant talk with Tech, "yes, thanksgiving was fine." Smile too brightly.
Go into darkened room, say hello to all 3 techs, lay down on table. Get into position: arms crossed over chest (like a coffin), toes together so they can bind them, eyes up above, staring into machine. Table is raised, gown is parted to expose "pelvis" to machine. Rolled into perfect position by techs, matchings red lights to tiny tattoos on my sides and lower belly. They leave go into their booth, turn on bright lights. Close eyes and try not to think. Machines whirl above you, sounds rush into ears, try not to think. Then it's over and each one says, "That's one more down!"
Dizzy, exhausted, skin burning and itching, lightheaded. The, "You won't feel any effects for 2-3 weeks" has turned into, "You are very fair, the skin problems start sooner for such pale people..."
Kathy Acker, from "Birth of a Wild Heart":
"Come, child, cry. Tears come from heaven/us. They are the water of the kidneys. Cry, child, cry. You are going to be brought thro. You are only a child: you did not bring on any of this. Pain exists because it means; the world is meaning. When you scream, it is love. Cry, darling; the earth has been parched for a long time. You will be cooled down...What else do the angels say to me? They brush my face and touch my tears and kiss me. As soon as it rains, you'll be cool enough to sleep.
They're saying a lot. We took you to paradise, not of dead, but living paradises you'd know where you're going. But you have to go thro this. Cancer wasn't painful. You don't get away without seeing the pain; do you think cancer came from a situation that wasn't painful? You have to see. then there was the desert. The desert broke up when it cracked from forces from beneath. This is what you have to see, down here, these forces of hell, what runs humans, desire and need and love. Cry, for they are ferocious."
