Zip zap zip

My radiation simulation – a kind of dress rehearsal for radiation – involved five technicians hovering around my inert, topless body and taking turns poking and prodding me into position on the un-comfy metal table, while urging me to hold still and lay heavy. Their multicultural combo of accents, the many monitors and hulking high-tech equipment, and the general futuristic vibe made me feel as if I were guest starring on an episode of Star Trek.

I certainly have the hair-do for it.

At one point, a Russian man and a Chinese woman stood on each side of me, both scribbling on my chest with their special medical markers and reciting numbers that seemed nonsensical to me: 84, 23, 17 (I wanted to pipe up, “Hut!”). Now I felt as if I were a disputed Sino-Soviet border territory, perhaps Mongolia or Manchuria, being divvied up.

Simulation involved maintaining a fixed position for a good (or, rather, bad) 45 minutes.

“My neck hurts from tilting my head at this angle,” I complained.

“You need to keep it like that; we don’t want to accidentally irradiate your throat,” a technician said.

Talk about instant motivation to stay stock still. A crick in the neck or months on a feeding tube? I’ll go for Door Number 1.

They try to liven up the experience with Muzak and a Hallmark-worthy mural on the ceiling depicting a verdant nature scene in unnaturally bright colors. Someone with a sense of humor had decorated it with little stickers of monkeys , penguins and other assorted geographically incompatible critters cavorting through the fake woodlands. The radiation-delivery device -- a linear accelerator, which looks like a giant’s dinner plate mounted on a mechanical arm -- was also festooned with little stickers of animals and Disney characters.

The actual radiation session was a lot quicker; I was in the room for less than 15 minutes.

“Jump up; butt here, head here and boob out,” a friendly technician said, patting the metal table. Another one tucked a warm blanket around my lower half.

Once they arrange me to their satisfaction, the techs file out into their control room where they supervise the proceedings on closed-circuit monitors. It looks just like the live-TV control room I’m using to seeing on Academy Award broadcasts.

As I lie on the table, a mechanical arm swings the accelerator into different positions over me. When it’s actually zapping, it emits a high-pitched whine and a sign that says “X-ray in progress” lights up on the wall. The four different zaps take just a few minutes in total.

Including putting on the hospital gown, waiting to be called, getting prodded into position, getting zapped and getting re-dressed, each daily radiation session takes about 30 minutes. My standard night-time exhaustion is now kicking in earlier and earlier, and my chest area is starting to feel tender.

Summoning up the full power of my command of the English language, I would say that in comparison to chemotherapy, radiation sucks less.