Brave new world

This morning I met my fall classes for the first time and this afternoon I met the machine that will shoot radiation into me every weekday for the next five weeks. In both cases, I felt as if I had crossed an invisible border.

My classes are great--I love the material and the students seem responsive (so far). Everyone writes on the first day of class, and even though I've only skimmed today's writing, I can tell already that this is going to be an engaging semester.

I went through the usual syllabus spiel with one important difference: in order to explain why my office hours are limited and why we'll occasionally move class discussions online (sometimes with advance warning, sometimes without), I told my classes briefly about my recent medical adventures. It would have become obvious soon anyway since my hairline is receding at a rapid pace, but I tried to focus primarily on how my treatment regimen will affect the class.

My hands were shaking the first time I went through the spiel, but by the third time, I was more relaxed. I like being in control, especially in front of the classroom, so it's not easy to admit how little power I can exert in my life right now. I felt naked.

I felt even more naked this afternoon--but even if I'd kept all my clothes on and donned a suit of armor, it wouldn't have prevented the radiation from beaming into my inner parts. The big white radiation machine named Elekta beeped and buzzed and flashed at me, sounding sometimes like a blender whipping up a smoothie, sometimes like a toilet flushing, and sometimes like a doctor clearing his throat.

Radiation therapy isn't nearly as immediately disruptive as chemotherapy: there are no needles, no nasty chemicals, no side effects for the first few weeks. And yet it felt momentous, like an entrance into a brave new world. I'm not sure I'm ready for this, or for what it will mean for my classes. But one thing is certain: there's no turning back now.