Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

As an actor, singer, writer, producer, and teacher, Lorna J. Brunelle has always had a passion for the arts. A tireless volunteer, with an indelible commitment to bring positive change, she is dedicated to a range of causes.

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Dirty Bomb Shell

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Contents

The Ides of March.............................1Ave Maria.....................................9Don't Move....................................5Retail Therapy................................5The Bow Tie Bastard...........................9Canceristmas..................................5Hope and Hypothesis...........................1You Gotta Have Friends........................1Handshakes....................................61Ducks in a Row................................7Untouchable...................................77The Little People.............................91Unhappy Birthday..............................107The Wonder of Words...........................123Helplessly Hypo...............................133Dirty Bombshell...............................147Darkness......................................165Bidet the Bush................................173Tigress.......................................181The Bad Cancer................................195Forgiving God.................................207Cancer Made Me Selfish........................213More..........................................221Hardly Recognizable...........................227Part of the Human Heart.......................241Saying Goodbye Again..........................255Discovering Why...............................259Nineteen Months...............................269My Catholic Bat Mitzvah.......................279Osmani........................................289Or As Happy As You Can Be.....................299Afterword.....................................311

Chapter One

He strapped my feet and wrists to the sides of the bed, wrapped a blanket around me and said, "Remember, don't move. I'll see you in forty-five minutes." The full body scan would prove to be a crucial tool used to mark the effectiveness of my radioactive iodine radiation treatment. The results would serve as the tracking system to monitor recurring malignant cells.

I had been in the entertainment industry for over fifteen years. This was the first time my performance was upstaged by fear and panic. This was my first time sharing the set with claustrophobia. Up until my thyroid cancer diagnosis, I considered myself to be one of the toughest and most self sufficient girls on the block. I was rugged in a girly girl power way. The clout of a rockin' lipstick and potency of implausible hair products helped me weather life's storms. Somewhere between a cancer diagnosis and a complete thyroidectomy, all of that changed. The girl who could conquer anything in a great pair of shoes was being ruled by a fear of small spaces.

I should have been more mindful of my dislike of being enclosed. I sleep with my feet outside of the covers at night. I bathe with the shower curtain only three quarters of the way closed with the bathroom door ajar. I keep the passage ways to each room in my house open. The French doors in my living room and the pocket doors leading to my bedroom are purely decorative. They have never been closed shut. Most days I have a hard time wearing a turtle neck.

Somehow the fright I felt in the body scan was new to me. I've been performing for years and have never experienced stage jitters. I walked out onto the field at Fenway Park to sing our national anthem without so much as an elevated heart rate. As an on camera acting coach and casting associate for the largest casting company in Boston, I have spent a decent amount of time in front of the camera. My time on the scanning bed waiting for my pictures to be taken was rapidly turning into the nastiest shoot of my life. Unlike all other gigs in my career, my future literally depended on how I did in front of the camera that day. Cast and crew on set were in search of a clear take, free of hot spots and leftover cancer.

Within seconds in my locked-down, imprisoned coffin-like state, all judicious thoughts vanished. My mind kept repeating the same thought: I have to get out of here! As I tried to settle my limbs on the bed, I couldn't help but question why I was strapped in so tightly. While waiting for the procedure to begin, I found it increasingly more difficult to, in the words of the tech, "relax." I kept telling myself you have to do this test. This is the first stage of the before and after shots taken to mark the progress of the treatment. Skipping this step is not an option. The cancer can come back. We have to kill the leftover cells.

Just then, the tech explained how the bed was going to move very slowly under the photo canopy of the scanning table. Again, he asked me not to move or talk and reiterated checking back on me in three quarters of an hour.

Before the machine began to move, my heart began to pound. Just when it seemed as if my insides were under ambush, an earsplitting reverberation engulfed my head. All at once, every street artist I had ever heard banging on five gallon buckets was inside of my body bashing on my lungs, ribs and heart. My mind was screaming I have to get out of here! As the deafening noise permeated throughout my chest cavity, the pounding inside became more than I could stand.

"Remove the straps from my legs and hands, please! I need to sit up, now! I need you to tell me exactly what is going to happen." The artist in me craved a dress rehearsal or technical run through before the actual show. "Is it possible for you to quickly bring me under the canopy so I, free of restraints, can get a sense of precisely what I am in for?" The tech agreed to my hysterical request.

I took a deep breath and tried to prepare my psyche for the ride into the scanning machine. I heard the motor of the bed kick on. I was going in head first. While my seemingly boiling breath fogged the frigid top lid of scanning camera, my body (trapped beneath equipment) tried to float away to a place of serenity and peace. Your mind is strong enough to block out your fear, Lorna ... focus on the ocean ... take your body to the sea and allow it to drift down the shore ... you can do this. Despite my efforts to psychologically regain control, once again the imaginary street musicians struck their drums sticks on my body. The rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat beats were so consuming I began to weep.

The blanket which swaddled my body locked in the rhythms of the drum core bashing around inside of me. The top of the machine was lowered closer to my nose as my body remained prisoner under the canopy. Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat. Just then my mind went to my strapped hands and feet. Am I being executed or cured? I have got to get out of these restraints. Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat.

The drum sticks were bashing all the way up to my skull. Every inch of my body was pulsating to the roar of my heart. I couldn't catch my breath, move, talk, cough, or clear my brain of all that was zipping through it. Everything became murky. In a loud voice I said, "So I am expected to be in here for nearly an hour? I anticipated an X-ray or CT scan. No one told me about this type...