Whatever you do, don't...

I don't know what kind of kid you were, but I was the kind (and still continue to be) who always felt that the word "don't" issued an immediate challenge. And I was always up for accepting it. "Don't, under any circumstances, press this button." "Don't eat that, it's for the guests." "Don't touch." "Don't aggravate the dog."

During my single days in Chicago, when riding the bus, I noticed they preferred the word "no" to "don't".

No standing.
No smoking.
No spitting.
No stripping.

(I threw in that last one to see if you were paying attention). It was like a personal party invitation, even though I'm not a spitter (unless I'm at the zoo and the camel starts it first).

So, there I am in my radiation sessions, lying on my back on the table and staring up at the ceiling where there is a canister light that contains the red eye of a laser and a ceiling sign right next to it that says "Do not stare into the laser."

Well, first of all, it's directly overhead and my eyes just naturally look up and stare into the laser in that split second before I realize that I've just looked up and stared into the laser. And in the ensuing minutes, all I want to do is stare at that laser. I look to the left of center. I look to the right of center. All I want to do is look center at that freaking red light that is the brightest thing in the room. It taunts me. I have to close my eyes to avoid it because I now have this irrational fear (or perhaps it's not so irrational) that, having already stared into the laser by accident, I've already burned holes into my retinas.

I did have a broken blood vessel in my left eye a week ago and that just added to my paranoia that the irresistible laser had already done damage to my disobedient eye. In my opinion, the punishment definitely doesn't fit the crime.

The treatments themselves are incredibly fast. I'm out of the dressing room, onto the table and back in the dressing room in less than 5 minutes. The longest part of the process is lining me up with the lasers (yes, that damn one that lives in the ceiling, plus one on each side wall). That's where the blue freckle tattoos are called into play. The technician slides a metal plate, called a wedge, into the radiation machine that hovers to my left and then she leaves the room and flips the switch or hits a computer key -- I'm not sure which. I'm also not sure I understand how the wedge works exactly, but it's designed to direct the radiation according to the thickness of the skin -- as our skin thickness varies across the square footage that our chests occupy. All I know is those wedge plates are very heavy (they let me pick up a couple different ones) and those gals must save a fortune on health club dues by doing their weight lifting on the job. Once the first radiation from the left is done, the machine rotates its head, then the entire thing traverses above me (briefly blocking the ceiling laser temptation) and comes to a halt on my right. The tech inserts a different wedge, then leaves the room again and 30 seconds later, I'm radiated -- and done. Hopefully, not overdone.

It's easy, it's fast, it's painless, but if you're ever in that same circumstance, whatever you do, don't...oh, never mind.