There were similar masks in the treatment room--white and new-looking and spotless. I wasn't brave enough to think about the technical aspects, but climbed back into my winter clothes and said goodbye.
Then, last night, the facts: The mask must be perfect - as individual as her fingerprints. Sobering details, building a perfect mold on the patient's face and body. The thought of being immobilized in them. That would be enough anxiety for some of us without the radiation. I wanted to turn it off.
But then the Diary sent me to another site: an artist and former patient has started a group that makes original art from the masks that patients bring home. The transformed mask art is sold to raise money for other patients.
When it ended, I was embarrassed about any complaining I did about radiation, and inspired by the resilience and kindness of the "mask artists." And especially, I know how much I have to be thankful for.