Needless to say, finally meeting Dr W. was a bittersweet event for me. I was there to discuss such a dismal topic but to finally have that discussion, it was a much needed relief.
I went to high school with Dr. W, well, he was a senior when I was a freshman. He's a very smart man, very personable. He's very good at what he does. And I'm not using the word very loosely here. He's a very good cancer doctor.
My husband, mother, and I talked with Dr. W for an hour and a half. He was thorough. He educated me about the pathology report and we discussed the next steps.
"We need to do an EGD and a PET scan. We need to send the pathology off for more testing and in two weeks, we'll meet again and discuss your diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment plan."
Two weeks? Are you kidding me? "Sounds great," I said.
The next Monday, I returned to same-day surgery. "Welcome back," Pete said.
The young male nurse, the only person I have snapped at to date, greeted me as I was being wheeled into my second endoscopy procedure, an EGD. I lovingly named the EGD, my "face probe" and like I had for the CT scan and surgery, I had been fasting.
P gave me the "magic milk", scoped my upper GI for abnormalities, and not surprisingly, sent me packing with a clean EGD report.
Two days later, in a rain storm, my husband John drove me to Huntsman Cancer Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah for my PET scan. Just to preface a bit ... I'm a researcher by nature. I research everything, and I mean EVERYTHING so that I always feel as prepared as possible when embarking on new adventures. But for some reason I was misinformed about this test, and went into it blind.
So? So, the PET Scan has been the hardest thing for me physically to endure to date. Harder than surgery, or post-surgery, or nausea, or the colonscopy prep, or the pain before the tumor was removed ... the PET scan kicked my butt.
Thinking it was going to be similar to the 20 minute CT scan I had had weeks before, I was shocked when the Radiology tech said, "Let your husband know you'll be about two and a half hours."
Huh? "Will do," I said.
Enter my digestive tract please. Even with a beautiful, clean, innocent, pristine colon like mine, nausea and surgery-induced constipation have plagued me since birth. I knew the second Rad tech entered the room holding two bottles of berry flavored Elmer's glue, er .... contrast, my gut was in trouble. She was shaking the crap out of them as her colleague struggled to find a vein for my IV.
"Why have you lost so much weight recently?" she asked.
Poke. Ouch! "Because I have some sort of cancer in me," I said, my tone one of question.
"What kind?"
"Um, my oncologist thinks it's colon cancer, but right now we don't have a for sure primary."
"So then ... I guess I don't understand your weight loss."
"Maybe it's because I'm always fasting."
"Fasting? On purpose?"
Poke number two and a sigh from the poker. Finally. "No, because of all the surgeries and test. I'm always fasting."
"Oh. Well, we need you to drink two bottles of contrast over the next hour and a half. Then we'll have you use the restroom, then we'll start the actual scan."
I did my best to drink two bottles of barium. I managed to choke down 3/4's of one. After sitting in a recliner in a freezing cold room and waiting for the radioactive isotopes that had been pumped into me through the IV to explore my innards for well over an hour, I was beside myself. The pain in my abdomen was fierce, the kind of pain you've felt before, the kind that scares you. It brought me to tears. When they finally let me walk to the restroom, I thought I has seriously died and gone to heaven.
I entered the PET scan lab and glanced at the table. How long could this scan possibly take? I thought.
"This scan takes about 35 minutes from start to finish. We scan you in sections, give you some more contrast through your IV and then there are some breathing instructions at the end," the Rad tech says. She pointed at the thin, metal table. "Oh, and you can't move or we'll have to start over."
Why can't I have some 'magic milk' then? Seriously? "Ok. I'll do my best."
They strapped me down, and I felt pretty comfortable ... for the first 15 minutes or so. Then I got a tickle in the back of my throat. The burning in my lower back had settled in nicely, too, so nicely that I barely noticed the guy pump two huge syringes full of radioactive stuff in my arm. The breathing instructions were a welcomed indicator that I was almost done. A few minutes later, with a burning backside and a full, glow-in-the-dark bladder, I finished the PET Scan.
"Well if I didn't have cancer before, I've got cancer now, yes?" I teased, making light of the ordeal with the same guy that had given me my IV.
"Actually, the stuff you've got in you now would kill cancer, not create it," he said, just before putting a Sponge Bob Square Pants band-aid on my newly bruised arm.
Okay? "Okay," I said.
I walked into the lobby and noticed my husband's eye grow with disbelief with each step I took closer to him. "You look like you just got beat up."
I sat down in the closest chair and sighed. "I feel like I just got beat up."
He drove me home and as my body filtered out what I thought to be gallons of contrast, I was hurting. Regardless of my physical anguish, my spirits were lifted knowing that all the tests Dr. W. wanted me to have were over.
I have a week now, a week to rest and to not have any tests or appointments, I thought to myself, resting in bed that night. I was elated to have some time off from appointments and fasting even though I knew, deep down, that I wouldn't truly be able to relax until I knew for sure what was going on inside my gut.
Carry on,
~K
.jpg) |
| Berry-flavored Elmer's glue, er Contrast |
No comments:
Post a Comment