So, I might’ve spoken too soon about how easy radiation is. I mean, no question it’s easier than chemotherapy, but it isn’t quite the breeze I depicted it to be in my last post.

Here’s what’s happening all of a sudden: my skin is dying. I’m not being dramatic here. It’s literally dying. I asked my radiation oncologist why I was getting these gray/blue bruises all over, and he told me that those weren’t bruises, but patches of dead tissue. So. Damn. Disgusting.

Only it doesn’t end there. In the areas that aren’t dying, I have these angry, red welts that can literally bring me to tears in a split second, and look like something gross and communicable. In fact, the nurse has started to apply an antibiotic ointment to them, since the skin is starting to open in places. There are even a few on my neck, which is lovely, since next week I head to Washington D.C. to present my research at a national conference, hoping that everyone isn’t focusing on my diseased-looking skin. And I can’t shower too often, either (you’re welcome, Missoula!), because it hurts too badly, even if the water isn’t hot. Add that to the growing list of reasons why cancer treatment is super gross.

And yes, it’s true that I only have two treatments left. I am trying to take comfort in that, but really, when people try to remind me of that fact, I just keep thinking, “Seriously? They’re going to burn my fried, dying skin two more times? That’s not comforting! That’s torture.” Okay, that was a little dramatic. It isn’t water-boarding-level torture, but it does feel at least mildly mean.

This morning, as I walked into the radiation office, an older man who I see every day commented that today was the first day I didn’t come in smiling. Without a word, I pulled aside my shirt, just enough to show him my skin. He replied by showing me an identical patch. We both nodded silently, taking a little comfort in the shared misery.