This morning’s trip to the treatment center uneventful. The most exciting thing occurred on the way there, listening to FOX News Sunday on XM. A man who had been stung by a skillion killer bees told how he went to his screen door and asked his wife not to open the door. She noted, in a carefree drawl: “I said buuullll-sheeeeuttt.” She immediately apologized, and everyone – including the crew – seemed to think that this was pretty kewl.

Anyway, in the waiting room, I swiped my card. The tech, Allison, came out to get me as I was handing my watch, keys, and wallet to my wife. (I wear sweats and a t-shirt. It’s much easier that way.)

Back in the room, I saw my picture and stats on the wall. I took out my hearing aid, kept the Cross, and took off my New York Yankees T. (They clinched the Wild Card last night and are the early favorites, for what that’s worth, to win the AL pennant. They’ve had quite a comeback this season, and it gives me something to celebrate as I go through my treatment.)

They evidently had a few more things to adjust on the mask, which they put on my head after putting my breathing thingee in my mouth. “94,” said one, “94 ½.” The voices were muffled, but I’m pretty sure I heard both of them use those two numbers during the treatment.

Nice blasts of radiation, I suppose, though I could not feel it. Yet.

And I was done. My photo and stats had been replaced with those of the nice, older gentleman I had seen in the waiting room when we arrived.

Tomorrow is the chemo. My first time.