Wallet? Check. Water bottle? Check. Sketchbook and a few pens? All there.
Headphones on, long-sleeved shirt—because even if it’s 100°F outside, it’s basically sub-zero penguin territory inside the radiation center—bright orange toe-shoes, and of course, my walking cane.
Yep, I was officially ready for a new week, striding out first thing Monday morning on my way to treatment.
Despite all my meticulous Google Maps recon, the sidewalk ran out impressively fast. I soon found myself walking right through the grass, directly toward a guy on a massive riding lawnmower who was staring at me like I had two heads. The sheer number of times I had to cross the road just to cover 750 meters—with barely half of it on anything remotely resembling a sidewalk—was nothing short of breathtaking.
But hey, the open space, the lush green scenery, a deer darting right across my path, and a flock of ducks escorting me all the way to the building entrance... all of it made the commute way more interesting. Right up until the mama duck let out a terrifying shriek, sending the entire flock into a frantic panic.
Taking the final turn toward my destination, I walked inside, curious to see what kind of wait time was in store for me. To my surprise, within ten minutes I was already done with vitals, questionnaires, weigh-ins—and a few bewildered looks from the staff. Mostly directed at my bright orange shoes paired with socks, but we’ll save that fashion statement for another post.
So there I sat in the waiting room, clad in a hospital gown, cane in hand, zoning out over some mindless phone game to kill time. Even the technicians couldn't ignore the shoes—or my answer that I’d been wearing them long before any diagnosis.
Gradually, I started observing the people around me. The older patients who came with a clear mission looked exhausted. Those traveling from out of state looked even worse—usually flanked by a few family members, all of them thoroughly drained by the journey and the routine. The locals, on the other hand, even if they had driven a fair distance, acted like this was just a quick pit stop on their way to a nice restaurant.
Another session down, and the body aches hadn't really let up—even with enough painkillers in my system to knock out a pair of elephants.
Toward the end of the first two weeks, a wall of pure exhaustion hit me almost out of nowhere. Sometimes I’d crash for a few hours and wake up feeling like I’d just run a marathon. Other times, I’d just lie there staring at the ceiling, completely drained, waiting for the feeling to pass. On better days, I’d manage to catch a nap in the car on the way to a short outing—a absolute win for everyone involved.
Like proper tourists, we pulled over for every single deer, elk, squirrel, or leaf-bug, getting excited as if we’d just discovered a new wonder of the world. In the evening, we realized the lawn next to our lodge was lit up with fireflies—yet another reason to feel like starry-eyed tourists. Then I’d glance over at the locals casually walking right through the cloud of fireflies without a second thought, as if it were the most mundane thing on earth.
And just like that, quietly, another week of radiation and New Jersey adventures came to a close.
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