Dancing in the Light

I’m not quite as naked as the day I was born; a small triangle of fabric stands between that and my current status. SPF 70 sunscreen is applied to the exposed private bits that haven’t seen real sunlight since I was old enough to know to keep my shirt on in public. I elect to keep my Medic Alert bracelet on as well, but that’s mostly an affectation. The staff knows me well enough at this point that they wouldn’t need Medic Alert in the event of an emergency. Completing the lack-of-ensemble are yellow swim-type goggles that fit snuggly over each eye. I have them on for less than 10 minutes, but they leave me with raccoon indentations about both eyes that can still be seen hours later.

It’s three shallow stair-steps up into the chamber. I’m short, so there’s just enough room for me to raise my hands up above my head and place palms to the ceiling of the box. Anyone of normal height would have an adequate fit. A tall claustrophobic would need a strong tranquilizer before entering. I step into the box and turn to face the door. There are two handles inside: one on the door just to my right and one to my left side. The first few weeks I held onto them the entire treatment. Now I use them mostly as frames of reference.

The technician closes the doors and makes a last check to be sure that I have my goggles on. It’s important to have my goggles on AND keep my eyes closed. Without both, my chances of developing cataracts are high. There’s an apocryphal story on a CTCL forum I visit of a woman who opened her eyes in the booth. I have no pressing need to personally prove or disprove the veracity of that story.

Even with all precautions in place, when the hum begins and the lights come on I can still see a green-yellow light. It’s the color of new maple leaves, of bile stains on a white lab jacket, of the good green chartreuse (not the nasty yellow stuff). It’s as if I’m trapped in a storm of hexadecimal #DFFF00. The hum is the ventilation system; without it the booth would rapidly become incendiary rather than simply dog days hot.

For the treatment to be most effective, light must hit every area of my skin that the abnormal T-cells are hiding in. The abnormal T-cells like to hide in nooks and crannies though. When the light comes up, so do my arms. Surrounded in bright green light, my eyelids tightly closed, I raise my arms to the ceiling and touch my fingertips to the surface. I count to thirty to be sure that I’ve gotten a good long exposure. The arms come down and I lift my leg to make sure the inside of the thigh gets well lit. For this I hold the door handle; it wouldn’t do to fall into the door and out of the box during treatment. After another thirty-count, I repeat with my other leg.

The next area to receive specific attention is under my breasts. Even though I’m as alone as it’s possible to be at that moment, it still feels undignified. I do the necessary lifting and back arching to maximize exposure. By this point the booth is getting quite warm. It’s nearly impossible to perspire in there though, since any moisture disappears before it has a chance to spend time lounging on skin.

I still have a few moments to spend in the booth after this, and I spend it moving uncertainly about, trying to think of any skin I’ve left unwashed by light. At some point during this awkward solo dance the alarm goes off, the lights go out and the hum dies away. The technician opens the door and I’m left to dress and gather my things.