I could have been nervous. I should have been nervous. I was
headed to Washington DC a few weeks ago to repeat a test – CT scan of my chest - three months
after my first scan in February showed “something not normal” in two of my
lymph nodes under my clavicle. February, I had been complaining of a cough and
of a tightness in my chest. A few times, I actually came close to asking Liz to
take me to the ER (no joke) because I was having such breathing issues.
I was told by my oncologist if I should ever have “symptoms”
that last a week or two, I should bring them to her attention. So, after a few
weeks of feeling this as if I was either having a heart attack or my lungs were
collapsing, I finally mentioned it to her. Previously, it should be known, I
voiced my opposition to the “standard of care” given to breast cancer patients
who just finished chemo. That standard
of care is basically composed of kicking you out of the nest that is constant
attention and hands on by the medical team for six or so months while they
inject poison into your system that makes your hair fall out (which turns out
to be the least of your worries) and then telling you to “go live your
life”. Oh, and come back and see me
every three months for blood work and a chat on how you’re feeling. AHHHH! Couldn’t
they put me in a scanner, I replied? Couldn’t you shove me into an MRI machine
and ENSURE my cancer hadn’t returned? For
crimeny sake, I did not know I had cancer the first time! How the hell am I to know it’s come back?!?!
Anyway, she heard me (as it turns out, I’m not the first of
her patients to have such a meltdown. I was assured most of us – apparently - have
similar reactions), but she was staid fast on the “NO SCANS” sign she posted in
her front window the day I graduated from chemotherapy, patted me on the head
as she scooted me out the proverbial door.
So I complained. And
I explained these were real feelings. And I looked scared. She heard me and agreed to CT my chest and
figure it out. This was February of this year.
I had just finished my “extra curricular” rounds of chemo (Xeloda).
Surely, some of that poison was still in my system, hunting down any stray
cancer cells in my body. Surely, cancer
couldn’t have come back THAT soon? Yes. Yes, in fact, it could.
The “good news” was my lungs were clear as clear can
be! The “bad news” was they saw what
appeared to be two slightly enlarged lymph nodes under my clavicle. Ugh. They were too small to see in a PET Scan,
too small to biopsy. All that could be
done was to WAIT three months or so and have another scan to see if they grew,
or changed in anyway. Really? That’s the
answer? To wait? Wait to see if they
grow? I hate cancer! I just hate it. By the way, as soon as I knew my lungs
were fine, my “symptoms (the coughing, the tightness, the feeling of needing to
go to the ER) all just disappeared. Went away. Your mind is a powerful friend
and/or foe…..more on that later.
Three months has past. Three months of waiting. Of pushing
the anxiety and the fear down into some other compartment in my head. I started mediating regularly - like EVERY day. Which has helped a great deal. I needed
a distraction – and a prescription of Xanax – to make it through this. Oh, so
we moved. We sorted through 30 years of living our lives in DC, and we tossed out,
sold, gave away almost everything! My crap went beyond 30 years as I discovered
grade school report cards, high school Year Books, old catcher masks from a
time well-remembered, and grade school report cards in my stash in the attic.
We then piled our 12-year old vizsla into the back of the SUV and conjoiled a good
friend to join us on the two-day, two-vehicle, totally uprooted drive to Fort
Lauderdale. That whole thing was
distracting, I supposed.
Now, I’m back in DC. Back to the “bubble” of political
upheaval, stress, traffic, congestion, yuck. Back to have another scan of my
chest. Back to see if cancer has returned.
How wonderful.
So I should have been nervous. “It” even has a name, scan-xiety. The fear of
the scan. What it can tell you. Cancer has returned. You are now incurable. You
are now stage four. (there are no more “stages”, BTW). You have metastatic
cancer. So, sure all that can provoke anxiety. For sure. I should have been
nervous. Scared out of my wits. Frightened and losing sleep. Remember, I wanted
to be scanned A LOT when I finished chemo. I haggled with my oncologist about
it. I wanted something to tell me I was cancer-free. I wanted something to look
inside my body and tell me it had not returned to my liver, my lungs, my
kidneys, my bones. What I didn’t know (but the doc was genius to) every scan
turns up something. It may not be cancer, but nevertheless, you’ve now jumped
down the rabbit hole of the “unidentified spot” and chasing after the truth (meaning additional tests to check out the previous tests) now commences.
I went alone to DC. My wife is busy keeping a roof over my
head and my belly full. I haven’t worked
in almost a year now. We were grateful she could keep her job in DC and work
remotely. This was key to our decision to move away from DC and the stress of
living in the DC metro area. So I came back alone.
I went to my appointment alone. I
could have asked any of my friends to go with me and I know they all would
have, but I didn’t. I wanted to face
this alone. I wanted to stare down my fear (this time) alone. I felt confident and strong – regardless of
the outcome. I knew – no matter the result – I’d be ok.
Off to the hospital I went. This is a VERY familiar place. Almost
comforting to be there. I traveled down the
elevator to the ground floor where the Imaging Department of Sibley Hospital is
located. I checked in and took a seat. All pretty standard. After all, I just
went through these steps three months ago. All very familiar. Then a nice gentlemen walked up to me, knelt
down and hands me a bottle of some pre-mixed (berry favored) drink and tells me
I’ll need to drink it… and there’s another one behind it. It tastes ok. It’s tolerable. It’s berry
favored.
Several minutes later, the kind woman who started my IV the
first time comes out and ushers me back to the department. She pricked my finger
to ensure my kidney levels are strong enough to handle the “contrast” that’s about
to enter my body via the IV. It’s the contrast dye that will “light up”
anything unusual in the CT scan. The berry
flavored drink will do the same in my abdomen.
You see, not only am I repeating the chest CT of a few months ago, I’m
also attempting to qualify for a clinical trial in Miami. To be accepted, you
have to show you have no evidence of cancer. Thus, additional CT scans of my
abdomen and pelvis region were ordered.
Do it all at once, I asked…
My IV line in, she took me to the room with the big
machine. It’s a tube, really. You lie down at the front end of it, covered in warm
blankets. Told to put your arms above your head (not as easy for me these days),
close my eyes, and the tech hooked up my IV to a machine that administers the
contrast dye. “You will feel a sense of warmness, like you are peeing your
pants. But you are not”…..hmmmm yes, I remember that.
The machine doesn’t make any sound as you simply slide in and out of it. Asked to hold your breath a few times. Gratefully, it’s not like
an MRI machine that beats and hums and whizzes at ear-splitting levels for 45 minutes. No,
this is quite civilized. After about 5 minutes I’m done. Out of the machine (I didn’t
even have to change into a gown) and headed out of the hospital. In two days I
meet my DC-based oncologist for the results.
I drive a car- borrowed from a good friend - to the home of other good friends
who agreed to put me up for the week, and we share a meal, a few drinks, and a
few laughs. The next day, I'm lying in a chair, shirt off, getting the line work done for my chest tattoo. Hey, when time could be your enemy, you don't wait.
To Be Continued……….
