Yesterday I went to the radiation oncologist's office to finish what I started before I called a halt to wait for genetic testing. I'd already talked to the financial counselor (you know it's bad when they have one on staff with her own office), and they made me pee in a cup again even though I informed them it was Shark Week and really, it'd have to be a miracle, but you just never know, honey, women find themselves pregnant all the time with no knowledge of how that happened.

After that, we went to the CAT scan room, which was very cold. I had my choice of three different levels of robes to put on in the dressing room, which locked with a little pool-ball keychain that I got to keep with me. I thought it was kind of cute they were going to let me pick which robe I would wear before I showed my chest to an entire room full of people.

I don't remember ever having a CAT scan before. When I asked about the cause, it was "to determine my course of treatment." I had to lay down on a bench, topless, while the nurse marked me up with Sharpie and stuck some little metal BBs to my boobs. She told me to put my arms above my head and grab the pegs, which let me tell you, felt VERY 50 Shades of Gray and not in a good way. Then she covered me up because there was a dude in the sound booth or whatever, and I guess she wanted me to have some shred of dignity after showing my boobs to half of Jackson County, Missouri.

After a while, the oncologist came in and verified the BBs were in the right place, and they rolled me into the CAT scan machine. There was music in the middle of the machine, somehow, and Little Red Corvette was playing. Every time I rolled in, I saw this:

And I really wanted to tell whoever designed the machine that THIS IS A USABILITY ERROR. No one rolling into a large, Prince-playing casket wants to be reminded they are going nuclear. I mean, seriously?

After that level of hell was over, the nurse told me it was time to get my tattoos. I thought I was getting one, but oh, no, it was six. And just because they are "just like a freckle" does not mean I wanted them, at all. Add insult to injury when I realized instead of a proper tattoo gun, she was just going to dab some ink on me then stick me with the medical version of a thumbtack six times. The sternum was the worst, but if you've ever considered getting a side-boob tattoo, let me just advise against it. That is a sensitive area, the ribcage.

Then it was done. She told me I can't wear normal deoderant until this is all over because there is metal in deoderant and it causes a reaction. So I'm buying stock in Tom's of Maine because that is my option in Missouri in 100-degree heat. I go back next Tuesday at noon for "the long one," whatever that means, then I have 21 more weekday sessions of lasers (which, I don't know if that's what it is, but that's what I'm picturing), then maybe this nightmare will be over for a while.

ONWARD. #medicalink #yolo #whatthefuck

Hi. If it feels like it's been a long time, it has. I had blood drawn for genetic testing on June 9. The medical oncologist's nurse called me with the results this week, on July 19, six weeks later. I was told we'd have the results in two weeks, so the six weeks thing was sort of a shock. As days became weeks became months, I actually had about a three-day period in there that I forgot completely about the cancer thing. That was kind of nice, like when you wake up from a dream where a thing you want to have happen happens and you haven't realized yet it isn't true.

But! They called this week, and they told me there is no BRCA mutation, which means no need for dramatic surgeries and I can continue with the original treatment plan of 22 sessions of radiation. KU Cancer Center does radiation on weekdays, so we're looking at slightly less than five weeks once things get going hopefully next week. First I have to have a CAT scan and get a tiny tattoo so they can line everything up on the daily without fear it will wash off. Fortunately, I already have two actual tattoos, so this idea doesn't freak me out. However, I never expected to be getting ink done for medical reasons, so there's that. I have considered turning it into something else when this is all over, but I'm not really into tattoos in that general area.

I didn't realize how much I was stuffing my feelings down until I got the news this week. Since then, I have cried daily over long-past events like Sandy Hook and Tamir Rice. I have grown irrationally angry over small slights to my daughter. I remembered on Monday that I got cancer out of nowhere and got really mad. I lost my grip on gratitude about three hours ago, and I am clawing my way back to the person I really want to be. We're on an hour-by-hour schedule here at Camp Rita.

I am so flawed.

At work this week I've been dealing with situations I don't have a lot of control over and having those self-aware snapshots where you realize I didn't do this on purpose but I bet this other person thinks I'm an idiot. I do not relish scenarios in which someone else thinks Rita Arens doesn't understand the Internet (a real quote at one point in my career), but I'm also growing more aware the older I get that no matter what I do? Someone will always think I'm an idiot. And probably I am enough times to sort of warrant it. And enough not at other times to warrant telling people who think I am to go to hell.

I'm working on not caring so much.

I feel like so much time has passed since February when I started this new life with a new job after eight years of working from home, a commute and a new set of challenges with a teenager and a husband who travels up to 75 percent of the time, depending on the month. A new health condition. Most of the time I'm fine, but sometimes I have this anger that bubbles up. My husband counsels me not to send the email, not to say the thing, and I'm listening. But the flip side is that I checked out so hard last week that I almost gave up on radiation entirely because I didn't want to beg a doctor one more damn time to please give me the results of that test you took over a month ago. Being made to feel you're overreacting to your cancer is beyond unacceptable, but it happens.

I'd love to end this post by saying how much I've grown since I last wrote, but that would be a lie. I've survived. I've vacationed. I've trashed about half of PARKER CLEAVES and am growing increasingly uncertain if I will ever finish it. It's hard to write with this commute and my husband's travel. It's hard to find time to work out. It's so hot it's hard to breathe, and I like hot. But this is insane hot, so hot that if I try to go for a walk at work at 8:30 am I soak my shirt through in a half hour outside.

I hope I can find my writing inspiration again. I don't feel much like a writer these days. I worry it was a phase I went through in my thirties. Because I still have a lot to say -- I just can't find the right structure to say it in. Maybe when this health scare passes, my mind will feel free to concentrate on stories again. I hope so, because most of what I've ever cared about has been told through stories.