This is a shot of Dent, Arthur Dent from 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy,' He has been taped in place while he enjoys a reading of Vogon poetry. It reminded me of how I have to be taped in place while I enjoy radiotherapy.

Yes, radiotherapy. Today my final treatment takes place. I've been promised a cake and live entertainment, including jokes and dancing girls, but I suspect they were kidding. Not about the jokes, though. I get those every day; jokes like: "Why did the scarecrow win an award? Because he was outstanding in his field." They're supposed to keep me from thinking about the horrors of nuclear devastation.

The idea behind my treatment is to concentrate the nuclear rays so that they build a concentration in the cartilage in the middle of my nose where the cancer has taken hold, and lay waste—in the style of Attila the Hun—anything resembling a squamous cell carcinoma.

One of the peculiarities of radiation is that it likes open space, which means that, if left vacant, my nostrils will fill with playful radiation, which will bound about in a game resembling Red Rover, while the internal surfaces are stripped bare of useful skin. To get around this problem, sharpened bamboo sticks are wrapped in gauze, coated with a thin layer of Vaseline, and thrust into the cavities. I resemble a walrus, especially when I try to speak.

All nose-breathing ceases. I am reduced to mouth gasping, a process which dries the tissues and leaves my mouth like something resembling a clay pan baked in the sun in Death Valley. I have learned to pre-empt this problem by slipping a cough lolly into my mouth before reclining on the table. The mentholated sweet promotes the production of saliva, but creates another problem—the fear of accidentally swallowing, or inhaling, the medicinal candy. Fear of choking helps focus the mind and keeps me from thinking too much about nose bleeds and the spectre of epistaxis.

The vinyl-covered pillows are adjusted; my head is lifted, tilted and angled. To keep me from moving, I’m bound in position with a roll of duct tape. As the first length is stretched against my forehead, the slap of the tape releases a wave of cold sweat across my face. This causes me to flinch, which is good, because the next step is the placement of lead pieces onto my scrunched-up eyes. These half kilo weights are another source of pain and leave me with flat eyeballs and distorted vision for some time afterwards.

I am imprisoned by two radiation commandos, who murmur numbers to one another, read from a checklist, review the settings and, after a quick confirmation that they have the right victim bound and gagged, scarper from the blast zone. I lie perfectly still and think of film clips I’ve seen of nuclear explosions and the aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki--all the horrors of nuclear devastation. A light, bright enough to penetrate the lead shields over my eyes, fills the room. I listen for Spielberg’s five tones inviting me aboard the mothership or the sound associated with the jump to hyperspace, but all I hear is myself, sobbing softly.

Eventually the light goes out. I continue to lie still, awaiting the return of my captors. They’re not in a hurry to run into the residual radiation washing about the room, but eventually risk it. I hear the cheery cry of “All done,” and wrestle the weights from my eyes.

Some time is expended in unravelling the duct tape, removing the sharpened bamboo from my nostrils, and generally clearing away the evidence of what just happened to me. The radiation commandos cluster about me as I try to sit up. They are solicitous of my well-being and careful to keep me from plunging to the floor. I wipe away the sweat, take a deep breath, and go looking for the cake. And the dancing girls.

I read your posts with fascination, Henry. Where else can I find literary constructs of hospital treatments?