Today I had my first radiation treatment. When I walked into the dressing room I've been in several times before, I noticed the dirty laundry bag.

(I inquired whether either I or my clothing were actually radioactive biohazards, and they assured me the linen bags were misleading and needed to be replaced.)

The person who does the radiation (nurse? specialist?) led me back to the room, which she assured me was always dark and cold. There, in the middle of the floor, was a bench with the same 50 SHADES OF GREY pegs to hold onto above your head.

We quickly dispensed with the niceties of the cape, and I gripped the handles and shut my eyes while the woman told me to just lie there "like a sack of potatoes" while they manuevered me into the proper position for nuclear reaction. (I don't know if that's exactly what radiation is, but hey.)

Then they took about 35 X-rays while speaking to me through an intercom. They assured me they could see me and hear me via microphones and two TV monitors in case I decided to freak out. As I listened to today's line-up, "Jack and Diane" and something I feel very confident was by the Black Eyed Peas, I stared at two red lights in the ceiling, wondering if they were the lasers that would radiate me.

Then I wondered if my eyes might laser shut.

This morning, I didn't put on dry shampoo because the ingredient list contained aluminum, and they told me not to wear normal deoderant that works in summer because it contained aluminum and I pictured my head starting on fire.

Then I wondered, while waiting there, if my shorts would actually become radioactive, which would make me sad, because they are both linen and Athleta and those are two things I don't have a lot of in my life.

I listened to "Jack and Diane" and wondered if my entire cancer experience would be narrated by '80s hits while the machine reared up its head and started rotating its way around me. It didn't actually show any laser beams, as I had anticipated, but it fried one side of me then rotated around and hit the other, all in the space of about ten minutes.

I went back to the closet and put on my clothes. A nurse took me into a room and told me about the healing properties of aloe vera, which the lab pharmacy would sell me at cost for ~$2. When and if the burns got worse, she had samples of other lotions that I own from when the little angel was a very chapped-face baby.

She said the fatigue was cumulative, so I probably wouldn't notice it for a while, and if I felt tired, I should get some exercise. I realize that seems counter-intuitive, but I've always found the if you can't take a nap, the best cure for a case of the tireds is a brisk walk around the block, preferably outside.

They gave me a schedule leading up until the Friday before Labor Day. I left. I sold some books at Half-Price Books. I bought some hanging plants on clearance at Walmart that I thought I could save from certain Walmart death. I took them home. I hung them up and gave them plant food and water. I ate dinner with my parents and the little angel.

I thought maybe this radiation thing won't be so bad.

It remains to be seen. They say the fatigue and skin burns will come later. But the worst fatigue I've ever felt in my life came when I was unemployed and not taking my meds for microscopic colitis and I developed a Vitamin D absorption problem and my friends, I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to work again because I COULD NOT WAKE UP in the mornings. Fortunately, now I take 50,000 units of Vitamin D once a week and I get up before seven on the daily, but let me tell you if something is off with your body the struggle is real even to get out of bed. I always used to think people were exaggerating. Not anymore. There are lots of people who struggle with chronic fatigue every day. Please understand that feels like not trusting your body to rev up at all. It's terrifying to think you might actually not be able to get out of bed. I hope I never experience that fear again.

So, in a way, having a Vitamin D deficiency, after one day, was scarier than radiation. For sure having a broken leg and a plate put in was scarier than radiation.

It's funny. I always thought cancer treatment would be the scariest thing ever. I realize I'm at the low end of the scale, but it's still cancer treatment. I now measure medical hell on a scale of CAN I MOVE to OMG I MAY NEVER WALK AGAIN.

There have been a lot of moments along the way on this cancer journey where I've seriously questioned my ability to go on, but today is not one of them. But, tomorrow I'll be two hours late to work because of radiation. And that will go on, two hours late or two hours gone early, for 22 work days. That's the hard part, the logistics. The hard part is not fighting cancer, but fighting cancer while the rest of the world goes on like everything is normal when it is so not normal for you.

ONWARD.

Yesterday I went to the radiation oncologist's office to finish what I started before I called a halt to wait for genetic testing. I'd already talked to the financial counselor (you know it's bad when they have one on staff with her own office), and they made me pee in a cup again even though I informed them it was Shark Week and really, it'd have to be a miracle, but you just never know, honey, women find themselves pregnant all the time with no knowledge of how that happened.

After that, we went to the CAT scan room, which was very cold. I had my choice of three different levels of robes to put on in the dressing room, which locked with a little pool-ball keychain that I got to keep with me. I thought it was kind of cute they were going to let me pick which robe I would wear before I showed my chest to an entire room full of people.

I don't remember ever having a CAT scan before. When I asked about the cause, it was "to determine my course of treatment." I had to lay down on a bench, topless, while the nurse marked me up with Sharpie and stuck some little metal BBs to my boobs. She told me to put my arms above my head and grab the pegs, which let me tell you, felt VERY 50 Shades of Gray and not in a good way. Then she covered me up because there was a dude in the sound booth or whatever, and I guess she wanted me to have some shred of dignity after showing my boobs to half of Jackson County, Missouri.

After a while, the oncologist came in and verified the BBs were in the right place, and they rolled me into the CAT scan machine. There was music in the middle of the machine, somehow, and Little Red Corvette was playing. Every time I rolled in, I saw this:

And I really wanted to tell whoever designed the machine that THIS IS A USABILITY ERROR. No one rolling into a large, Prince-playing casket wants to be reminded they are going nuclear. I mean, seriously?

After that level of hell was over, the nurse told me it was time to get my tattoos. I thought I was getting one, but oh, no, it was six. And just because they are "just like a freckle" does not mean I wanted them, at all. Add insult to injury when I realized instead of a proper tattoo gun, she was just going to dab some ink on me then stick me with the medical version of a thumbtack six times. The sternum was the worst, but if you've ever considered getting a side-boob tattoo, let me just advise against it. That is a sensitive area, the ribcage.

Then it was done. She told me I can't wear normal deoderant until this is all over because there is metal in deoderant and it causes a reaction. So I'm buying stock in Tom's of Maine because that is my option in Missouri in 100-degree heat. I go back next Tuesday at noon for "the long one," whatever that means, then I have 21 more weekday sessions of lasers (which, I don't know if that's what it is, but that's what I'm picturing), then maybe this nightmare will be over for a while.

ONWARD. #medicalink #yolo #whatthefuck

Hi. If it feels like it's been a long time, it has. I had blood drawn for genetic testing on June 9. The medical oncologist's nurse called me with the results this week, on July 19, six weeks later. I was told we'd have the results in two weeks, so the six weeks thing was sort of a shock. As days became weeks became months, I actually had about a three-day period in there that I forgot completely about the cancer thing. That was kind of nice, like when you wake up from a dream where a thing you want to have happen happens and you haven't realized yet it isn't true.

But! They called this week, and they told me there is no BRCA mutation, which means no need for dramatic surgeries and I can continue with the original treatment plan of 22 sessions of radiation. KU Cancer Center does radiation on weekdays, so we're looking at slightly less than five weeks once things get going hopefully next week. First I have to have a CAT scan and get a tiny tattoo so they can line everything up on the daily without fear it will wash off. Fortunately, I already have two actual tattoos, so this idea doesn't freak me out. However, I never expected to be getting ink done for medical reasons, so there's that. I have considered turning it into something else when this is all over, but I'm not really into tattoos in that general area.

I didn't realize how much I was stuffing my feelings down until I got the news this week. Since then, I have cried daily over long-past events like Sandy Hook and Tamir Rice. I have grown irrationally angry over small slights to my daughter. I remembered on Monday that I got cancer out of nowhere and got really mad. I lost my grip on gratitude about three hours ago, and I am clawing my way back to the person I really want to be. We're on an hour-by-hour schedule here at Camp Rita.

I am so flawed.

At work this week I've been dealing with situations I don't have a lot of control over and having those self-aware snapshots where you realize I didn't do this on purpose but I bet this other person thinks I'm an idiot. I do not relish scenarios in which someone else thinks Rita Arens doesn't understand the Internet (a real quote at one point in my career), but I'm also growing more aware the older I get that no matter what I do? Someone will always think I'm an idiot. And probably I am enough times to sort of warrant it. And enough not at other times to warrant telling people who think I am to go to hell.

I'm working on not caring so much.

I feel like so much time has passed since February when I started this new life with a new job after eight years of working from home, a commute and a new set of challenges with a teenager and a husband who travels up to 75 percent of the time, depending on the month. A new health condition. Most of the time I'm fine, but sometimes I have this anger that bubbles up. My husband counsels me not to send the email, not to say the thing, and I'm listening. But the flip side is that I checked out so hard last week that I almost gave up on radiation entirely because I didn't want to beg a doctor one more damn time to please give me the results of that test you took over a month ago. Being made to feel you're overreacting to your cancer is beyond unacceptable, but it happens.

I'd love to end this post by saying how much I've grown since I last wrote, but that would be a lie. I've survived. I've vacationed. I've trashed about half of PARKER CLEAVES and am growing increasingly uncertain if I will ever finish it. It's hard to write with this commute and my husband's travel. It's hard to find time to work out. It's so hot it's hard to breathe, and I like hot. But this is insane hot, so hot that if I try to go for a walk at work at 8:30 am I soak my shirt through in a half hour outside.

I hope I can find my writing inspiration again. I don't feel much like a writer these days. I worry it was a phase I went through in my thirties. Because I still have a lot to say -- I just can't find the right structure to say it in. Maybe when this health scare passes, my mind will feel free to concentrate on stories again. I hope so, because most of what I've ever cared about has been told through stories.

Watching my daughter watching the sun
makes me reflect on the races I've run.
Hers are still all out in front.
Mine reflect how I was wont.
Out past forty and turning the corner
forget whatever I had planned.

But the waves that grind pink shells to the sand
also carry great ships into land.
Old man in blue trunks with a metal detector
hoping to find some middle class treasure;
we are all here trying to recapture
the first bead on the strand.

They always say you're nothing without your health.
I learned that this year, through their stealth,
breast cancer was hiding
in my body subsiding,
I used to fear really big things.
Now I understand--

the worst things can be held in your hand.

Yesterday I met with the rad oncologist (radiation AND Gwen Stefani) to tell him I wanted genetic testing before radiation. He was not super psyched and told me not to put off radiation too long. I walked out mad and sad, I admit. It's my body, dammit.

Today I went to the med oncologist, who told me I'm triple negative from a hormone perspective, which means they can't prevent more cancer with drugs. Apparently (shocker) this is also fairly rare.

My doc decided to break from protocol and do the testing herself. I really appreciate her and KU Med for letting me find out if I have BRCA before my radiation is scheduled to start. That is a huge weight off to have the information I need to make good decisions about treatment.

Also: adulting sucks.

I go on vacation next Wednesday. When I get back I should know if it's more surgery or if it's radiation, and either decision should bring the first real peace since this nightmare started in April.

ONWARD.

The internal stitches are starting to dissolve. Day by day the skin lies flatter. My surgeon cleared me to get in bodies of water with a bandage. He said the lake of the Ozarks is particularly dirty. I laughed.

I've done some research, realized it's harder to operate on radiated skin. Decided to insist on genetic testing before radiation. If I have the rare BRCA, I'll have a bilateral mastectomy. Ironically, if I did that there would be nothing to radiate. So I go with that, because with that decision I guarantee only one sucky thing has to happen, not two. Mastectomy or radiation. Not both.

This week I get my radiation tattoo and find out about drugs and genetic testing. My husband is in Indianapolis. My daughter is volunteering at a retirement home. I'm 90 days into my new job. I go on vacation next week.

I need this vacation. 2016 sucked.

I am watching THE HANDMAID'S TALE. To some extent, I remembered that in my moments of humiliation and pain in my surgery, that mine is not such a bad story to tell. Everyone in my story acted in my best interest.

I don't forget that.

My story is pretty trivial, except to me. As are all of our stories.

ONWARD.

Yesterday I cried several times at work. Big, splashy tears. It felt so strange to have my co-workers think my IV bruise was a spider bite, like life is that normal. I ended up telling a few more people because I thought I might scream.

I made it through the day, and last night I stood in the shower for 45 minutes with a bar of soap gently trying to work off the dressing stuck on with dried blood like superglue. Finally it came off and I was do relieved the incision didn't start bleeding I cried again. This is a wet business, DCIS.

I put a ton of Neosporin and five butterfly bandages on the gnarly incision (frankly, it makes me kind of queasy to think what is gone) and went to sleep with my arm in a pillow. I dreamt someone wanted to sell me a grand house with an inside swimming pool and I said to Greg we couldn't afford this place if one window broke because the ceilings are fifty feet high and woke at five in the morning wondering what that meant.

My girl and I have clashed a bit, which has always been my biggest fear with maternal cancer. I worry I'm rising too much to her teenage criticisms, which are unfair in the way of teenage and not personal, though it feels that way. I wish I could say I'm such a big person I don't mind if challenges arise when I'm less than a week out from losing an ice cream scoop of breast tissue, but you know what? I'm not. I still feel pretty damn sorry for myself, I admit it.

My doc called this morning to say there was no DCIS left in my pathology, which is way good news for my health but also there is a touch of "so I went through all that for nothing?" And even though I know it's not for nothing, we needed to know the margins were clear, I look in the mirror at what I am now and remember what I was a week ago when unbeknownst to all of us, the cancer was taken by the biopsy.

Bygones.

But props to the biopsy guy, right? Here's to you, dude, because those were small samples. WTF? Get down with your bad self.

There seem to be many steps left. My girl is mad at me. The road feels long and rather lonely. My incision hurts. My pride hurts. My mothering instinct hurts.

I guess I'm not the poster child for doing breast cancer parenting right.

Fuck it.

ONWARD.

[Editor's Note: This is gross. Feel free to skip. However, one in eight women will develop breast cancer in their lifetime. I personally know four, including me, under age 50. Get your mammos, ladies.]

After the biopsy, they left a metal clip behind to sort of guide my surgeon in. Most people have an actual tumor. I don't have that. I have these invisible calcifications that only show up on a mammogram. They took some of them out in my biopsy, but what is left is scattered.

Usually, women have one wire inserted in their breast prior to surgery, X marks the spot.

They put the little calf pumper sleeves on me (if you haven't had surgery, they inflate one side at a time during surgery to prevent blood clots in the legs). Good stuff, but the tubes drag. Then they hooked me up to an IV. Also good stuff.

We went back to radiology to get my wire inserted. I was in a chair, which they pumped up like at the salon. I offered to stand, but they said it would be awhile and also, some people pass out.

They put me in a mammogram machine with a hole in the plate and shot in the burny numbing stuff, just like the biopsy. The breast care woman whose job is to be a human was there at my side as the nurse and radiologist fed in wire #1. It was very similar to how you would feed a wire through a wall, with all the jamming normally involved. A few times during the entire procedure they hit spots not numb, and I would yelp and more numbing burny stuff would be applied.

More pictures. A second wire. More jamming and the pressure that indicates that right now, you might be a gristly and somewhat difficult piece of meat.

By now, this is all happening a foot below my head, but I don't want to see wires jammed in my body, numb or not, so I close my eyes and cry, and the breast lady removes my glasses and wipes away my tears and asks me if it hurts and I say, no, but this is so weird. And I am, you know, a human. Humans have feelings.

Then we think it is done and they tape a Dixie cup over the wires that protrude three inches out and they take another picture and it's as though there are far right Republican calcifications who have fled Nippleopolis to settle on my chest wall far from the riffraff. Even in my body I have to deal with boundary wars. The radiologist declares he needs another wire to triangulate what needs to come out. So now we need to shove my boob and its two wires back into the mammography machine and through the hole for the third wire.

The surgeon comes to see what is taking so long and I curse the Republican calcifications.

Finally, me, my IV pole, my calf tubes, my Dixie cup and the beginnings of a barbed wire fence are rolled back to surgery.

As we roll into the OR, one of the students is on her phone and I have a brief and completely irrational fear of ending up on Snapchat.

I spent yesterday in a hydrocortizone haze and today am down to Advil. The pain is not bad considering the bastards on my chest wall and what looks to be a two-inch incision.

I won't go into further detail, but I don't look the same. I had a good cry. My chest has never been a point of pride, but it was, you know, symmetrical.

For now, I focus on healing. I get my initial radiation scan before vacation and start radiation in late June. I couldn't get in for genetic testing and counseling until August, which sucks, because BRCA could change everything. I haven't fought for something different because I need to not control this one. I need to show up and let the professionals handle it. They didn't take lymph nodes or do a MRI because my surgeon says it's aggressive overkill with DCIS and I chose to believe him. I'm not a doctor and I need to not feel any level of responsibility in this. If I die because I trusted a board-certified medical professional, I won't blame myself. Or him, really. I don't think we should blame doctors short of gross negligence. Our bodies are loose cannons, and we're all terminal. It's just a case of what you'll die of, and when, not if. Never if.

I go back to work on Monday so I'm not doing shit this weekend. I slept most of today. Texted with a friend who has a friend who just had a double mastectomy. That is worse. Yet I'm sulking today, because no one wins in the Suffering Olympics and I really didn't see this one coming. At all. They might be small, but they used to match. Fuck it.

Onward.

I used to have a ceramic cupcake. My sister and I got in the habit of putting our worries in the cupcake and, you know, letting the cupcake deal with it. I gave my cupcake to my girl when she needed it, so Sister Little just sent me this new one.

I put cancer in it.

Tomorrow I get measured so I suppose if I swell or shrink dramatically after surgery they can tell.

Today I went to a big work meeting and didn't tell one person I'm out on Friday to have just a touch of breast cancer removed.

Some of them know. They've been cool. If anything, it's a high level of privacy compared to the culture I used to be in so I float between various ways to interpret the people around me.

So you act like it's nothing at work, so they'll take you seriously (which I very much want), and you minimize it at home so as not to scare your daughter. When do you get to acknowledge it's real? Like OMG the pink ribbon thing happened? I'm going to act like this is totally cool, yo, even though lasers are going to attempt to kill certain cells in my body every day for weeks and I'm going to have to go to work and take care of my kid and deal with my husband's travel like it's business as usual.

The most unfair thing isn't the cancer. It's having to act like I don't care I have cancer.