A Freudian Morning?

My full day of scans (PET, CT, MRIs of C-spine, T-spine, and L-spine--some five or six hours of scannning in all) was scheduled to start this morning at 7:45 a.m.

Like the compliant good little cancer patient I am, I didn't eat anything after midnight, and set my alarm for 6:30 so that I could be out of the house by 7:20, after taking a shower and feeding the two dogs, three cats, one foster kitten, and two birds. (Planned to leave the goldfish to fend for themselves until later in the day.)

But that's not how it went.

Instead, I leapt out of bed at EIGHT THIRTY, with that clutching feeling at my heart that means somehow, in my sleep, I realized that I had screwed up Big Time.

Ran to the phone and called the scanning place (Via is the name, in case you are looking for a good MRI), and was told if I could get there within 15 minutes they could still do the scans, because my tracer was already mixed up and it would only be good for another half hour.

Otherwise, they would happily reschedule me for Thursday, the anonymous, friendly voice on the phone said. I didn't think I could stand waiting that long to learn what is wrong with me this time, plus I have an appt with The Bone Guy tomorrow, and I want to have as much info for him as possible.

So I shouted that I would be there in 15 minutes--Then, let the dogs out to pee, gave them water (but no time for breakfast, poor babies), spent three minutes in the shower, put back on the clothes I had slept in the night before (after gardening and walking dogs in the same clothes all day Sunday--I was quite a fashion statement. No one mentioned the fertilizer smudges on my jeans), and raced up to Northgate, which is where Via is. No time for meds. No time for contact lenses or makeup. No time for black coffee, which would have been allowed.

Amazingly enough, I made it. The tech was not at all put out with me, but was very sweet.

The PET/CT went fine. Drank the disgusting pina collada-flavored contrast. Had some radioactive tracer injected into my arm, right above my shark bite. (Note to those of you contemplating a PET/CT: the contrast gave me terrible diarrhea for about two hours.)

The lovely folks at Via insisted that I take a break at noon, so I raced back home, gave the dogs their breakfast, checked on all the other animals, and ate something myself (Therapy Jam on a toasted bagel and coffee, in case you were wondering). I sat outside for a few minutes breathing deeply in between throwing tennis balls for the dogs.

Then I locked them up again and headed back for more scans.

The techs who handled the MRIs were, if possible, even nicer than the woman who did the morning's scans.

I used to be terrified of MRIs in a closed machine, and had two meltdowns at different times in the past when I tried to do MRIs--before I learned of the existence of open-sided MRI machines. For the past several years I have insisted on an open-sided machine, even though I understand the images aren't quite as good. But Via has a new kind of machine with both a shorter and wider tube, and it was a piece of cake. (Cliche, I know, but I'm tired here.)

One funny thing, during the MRI of the C-spine: You are not supposed to cough, sneeze, or swallow during these scans, some of which last as long as four minutes. Now, I can lie still for four minutes, and I can keep myself from coughing or sneezing for that amount of time, but swallowing? When you're lying on your back with nothing to do but think about NOT SWALLOWING?

Let me confess here: I swallowed twice during the MRIs of my neck. It was either that or turn my head to the side and spit.

Just once, at the end of the T-spine series, I had to ask the tech to pull me out so I could breathe for a few minutes. She was great about it, and then I finished up the lumbar spine with my head almost out of the tube, which made it all OK, of course.

And, to top that, I walked out at the end of the day with a copy of my MRI of my right arm from last week (the beginning of all this fuss) AND all of the images from today on a CD so I can show them to The Bone Guy tomorrow. The written reports, they said, would take a day, but they are happily going to mail them to me.

So what does this have to do with Freud?

Well, my first thought this morning was that I had overslept because I really didn't want to do the scans. But, on reflection, that is not the case--I want the information, and I want it as fast as possible.

The hardest thing for me about living with cancer is waiting for news. Even getting bad news is not as hard as waiting ... which I'm still doing, until about 11 a.m. tomorrow morning, when I should know something.

[Tune in tomorrow, for the next episode of "The Life of The Assertive Cancer Patient," who is feeling assertive, but not so patient, right now.]

Comments

[Sara]

Wouldn't you think that by now they would have developed some kind of workaround re the swallowing? You know, like, I don't know, maybe making a machine where they can shoot the pictures of you from behind while you lie on your side with maybe a spit tube in your mouth or something? I often wonder when I encounter new machines and new tests whether anyone who invented them ever actually tried them out him/herself before putting them up for sale.

There's no way I could go four minutes without swallowing, and telling me I absolutely MUST NOT do something always makes me fixate on it and want to do it more! Gah!

Well, you're through it. Fingers crossed.

[Lisa]

Congrats on completing what sounds like a truly icky day of scans. I once commented to my surgeon that the best thing about having sarcoma in the ankle is that you rhead doesn't have to be inside the MRI machine. I hate those tests. I hope you get your results soon.

Good luck

[laurie]

I agree with you about the waiting. Even when I KNEW it was going to be bad news, the waiting nearly killed me.
I hope that BONE GUY has only very good things to say to you and that all impending news is good, good, good.
And thanks for the heads up re the CT scan and diarrhea...something else to which I can look forward...;-)

[Jeanne]

Laurie--are we having fun yet?

Jeanne

[Amorette (on her mom's computer)]

I know what you mean about the "Don't move, breathe or swallow". You never have to swallow until you're told not to, then it feels as if the saliva is creeping back to choke you entirely.