#6 of 92: How Hot Was It? Really Hot!

Yesterday, I had my face fried. Well, not fried. Baked would be more accurate.

Here is a picture I drew of this event.

This is how it worked. I took off my cochlear implant receivers (meaning I was then deaf) and then the medical assistant stuck patches over my eyes (then I was blind). She tapped me on the shoulder to signal the photodynamic therapy starting and the heat blasted. Boom. You know how when you open the oven to check the roast and a blast of heat smacks you in the face. It was like that except there was no closing the oven door.

The heat was up close (not like in the picture which is not a true depiction but a true representation of my skills as an artist). I felt that if I moved my head a single inch, I could bump into one of the flame throwers and so I sat as still as a scared little statue for 16 minutes and forty seconds which is the prescribed amount of time to sear off all the precancers on my face. The medical assistant told me that most people feel like the pain starts out at a 9 (on a 10-point scale) and goes down to about a 5 once the initial roasting is done. She turned out to be right.

I sat quietly with my hands folded in my lap and then realized I would need to start playing some mind tricks to get through 16 minutes and forty seconds.

I imagined canoeing on Sable Lake.
I switched to swimming in Lake Superior.
I sang You Are My Sunshine and the first few verses of A Tramp on the Street in my head.
I moved my left leg and got a cramp in my thigh.
I wondered if the medical assistant had left the room because, you know, I wouldn’t hear the door opening or closing.
I thought about whether there had ever been another time in my life when I was so completely at somebody’s mercy.
I wondered how I could escape, you know, if it came to that.

Another tap on the shoulder. Done. The air in the treatment room felt like a late fall breeze. I put on my big hat and drove home. My face looked the same as before until this morning when it reddened up big time. “That’s okay.” Paulina said. “Red is my favorite color.” Dear one.

I write about it because, as they say, everything is copy (Nora Ephron).