It was 7:20 Monday morning and I was so relieved to see that Mike, the radiation therapist, was already there preparing the radiation room. One more time I made my way through the huge ominous door averting my eyes from the large red letters that read “DANGER- DO NOT ENTER”. I headed for the cold steel table upon which I was instructed to lie perfectly still so that the radiation therapist could line up the diagnostic x-ray machine with the tiny permanent ink dots that had been tattooed on my chest. This process allows for more precision in the delivery of the radiation thereby causing less damage to the surrounding healthy tissue.

Mike, with his usual calm, laid back manner always seemed to emit a quiet, confident, competent strength. He was humorous and attentive but, at first glance, I would not have called him sensitive. As I was to find out, Mike did not miss a thing. He could not have known that I failed all 4 years of high school PE because I would not undress for showers. Nor could he have known that at age seven I elected to have the entire series of rabbi shots administered into my back vs. the normal administration to the stomach. Bearing my stomach elicited intolerable feelings of vulnerablity . Like radar, Mike picked up on my fear even though I tried my hardest to appear “together”. Truth be told, I was so scared during all 33 threatments that I was grateful to just not drool.

So it was that when the right side of my chest was exposed, it felt exactly like the right side of my back when exposed as both areas are flatter than a pancake. Conversely, when the left side of my chest became inadvertently exposed, I would instantly feel embarrassed, vulnerable and sometimes even ashamed. Most of the technicians’ would endeavor to replace the cover when it fell from the right breast. After awhile it became a tedious task and they were trying to get their job done as efficiently as possible because their waiting room was filled with weary women wearing but a thin hospital gowns patiently awaiting their turn to proceed through the “DANGER DO NOT ENTER” room.

I never understood how it happened but by some mysterious cue, if my breast became exposed, Mike was back in the room as if he had some good reason to be there. He would nonchalantly put the cover back on my exposed breast. Once again my “back” was covered, my childhood monsters were soothed and I could breath again. As quick as Mike appeared he would disappear closing behind him the door that read “DANGER DO NOT ENTER”.

Of all the ways and means of extending appreciation and gratitude, thanking someone for keeping those intangable feelings of vulnerability and dignity intact, is among the most difficult to express. Nevertheless, in my book he exemplifies the very essence of professionalism and compassion effortlessly and without even a hint of solicitation of praise. Thank You, Mr. Mike and the entire staff at Olympic Medical Cancer Center.