I get PET Scans every 3 months to check the progress, good or bad, of my cancer. It can be a mix of emotions because I have had some really good scans and I have also had some not so good scans. Sometimes, I think that it is going to be a long life to live in the unknown for three months at a time. But then, I turn the thought around and think to myself that I will do whatever I have to do in order to have that long life.
Scans can be unpleasant because there are needles involved, but I'm very used to them now and they don't really bother me. Its just a stepping stone to the results day so that I can soon be on my merry way for the next 90 days.
When I arrive for my appointment, I am ushered back into a small private room with a sterile hospital-style recliner. They always confirm (more like, rub it in) that I haven't eaten in at least four hours, and then add an additional laundry list of questions. I'm not allowed to wear anything that has metal on or in it, which includes a bra clasp, zipper, bobby pins, or jewelry; otherwise, I have to change. And since I don't like to make this process any more complicated than it already is, I carefully plan an appropriate outfit the night before, just as though I'm preparing for my first day of school. These apparel stipulations can be a bit challenging; but, then again, no girl ever complained about having to wear yoga pants. After the initial interrogation, they start the poking. In the past, my veins have attempted to outsmart phlebotomists, techs, nurses, and the like. They roll, they jump, they hide, and they slide similar to some of Jackie Chan's greatest stunts (The veins, not the vampires). The PET Center at RUSH has three men on their team and I've scanned with each of them several times now and they are super nice and they all have stellar aim with a needle into my roly poly veins, which goes along way with me in regard to patient satisfaction.
There is a syringe attached to the needle which is two-sided and first takes blood to test my blood sugar; it isn't that big and scary looking, in fact, it is rather unassuming considering what it is capable of. Once my blood sugar is determined to be good, a flow of saline is released into the line to flush out the blood so the radioactive sugars can be injected. The saline flush is actually my least favorite part of the process because it leaves a less than desirable metallic taste and smell that corrupts my senses. Before the injection begins, the scanner is required to bring in a steel blockade on rollers, that he has to stand behind to administer the medicine so that he is not subjected to the radioactive affects more than he needs to be. <<insert humming of the Imagine Dragon's "Radioactive" here>> After this point, I'm left alone for 40 minutes with a stash of trashy news magazines and Facebook via my cellular device to pass the time. I'm required to hide under a couple of blankets because my body temperature needs to stay warm, otherwise it messes up the scan. So, I cozy up under the heated blanket that eventually becomes my cape as I morph into a superhero while the injected material processes and courses through my body before eventually making the cancer glow so it can be identified in all the nooks and crannies in which it resides.
When it is time for the actual scan, I leave my little room of solitude and head into the hallways full of chatter, zings, swooshes, beeps, and beds whizzing by with patients as passengers to solve their own body's mysteries. The PET Scan requires me to lay on a table that is about 6 inches wide (that might be a slight exaggeration, but I'm leaving it that way so you get the idea of how uncomfortable it is) and I'm slid in and out of a huge ring that does amazingly high tech things while I use the next 13 minutes to take a snooze. Despite what is becoming vast experience with these scans, I'm still reminded -profusely- that I'm not allowed to move. What. So. Ever. Otherwise, we will have to start over. Of course, this triggers every itch, twitch, sneeze, and spasm humanly possible, so I giggle for the first few seconds before I'm actually ready to begin.
The duration of the scan is less than 15 minutes, so I catnap and then I'm sent on my way with well-wishes exchanged between my scanner and myself for our children and families. This last time, I even scored a pair of New Balance gym shoes for Avery as my parting gift. No, it's not a friendly gesture from RUSH, in fact, they charge me an arm and a leg to buzz through their giant donut every three months. Well, actually, I'm not sure that my arm and leg are actually even worth the bill that I get in the mail... But since the PET team and I are buddies now (and one of their wives works for NB), the sneakers were an added bonus for my baby.
So, now, I just wait. The results will process through a computer and be read by some medical professional to whom I am a faceless chart and eventually it will end up in my doctor's hands and translated to me. From start to finish it will be four days until I know the results. But, really, I already know.
And, so do you.
I'm fine.
No comments:
Post a Comment