A Warrior, Not a Worrier

How I wish

     “So, when did you have your third Covid shot?”

     “I don’t remember,” I answer the tech. “I had the fourth shot last Monday.”

     She notes that, but continues to probe. “Can you remember the month you got that third shot?”

     “No.” I chuckle, then tell her, “I don’t carry that card around with me.”

     “Well, we need to know.”

     “Ask the cancer center people,” I tell her a bit forcefully. “They have all that information in their system.”

 

     Oh, how I wish the three different systems talked to one another!

 

     Finally, she gives in. On to the next questions about medications. She tells me a Latin name for some drug and all I can respond is, “What does that drug do?”  Because if she can tell me what it does, I can tell her if I take it or not, and tell her that common name.

     But she can’t. And why would we expect technicians to know all about drugs?  

     Ha!  Why do they expect US to know all about drugs!

     I swear, they should require a medical course at some point in your life, so you don’t have to keep asking Mr. Google about drugs, their benefits, and effucks.

     Finally, she hooks me up to an IV, does the required diabetes tests (do they enter that in the system?), and then gives me some nuclear medication. Usually, I ask what the side effects are, but I am not in a kind mood today. At all. And this poor woman is the bunt of my upsettedness.

     Forty-five minutes later she is back, tells me to “try and empty your bladder”, and then takes me to the SEIMANS machine. (That’s the manufacturing name).

     But before that – horrors – she notices that I have eyelets in my pants, near my ankles. Metal of any kind is forbidden, and I get that. So, I have to take off my pants and put on TWO gowns: one back open, one front open. Then it’s time to meet Mr. Seimans who I have had the pleasure (not) of being scanned in many times. The woman has me lay down, puts a pillow-type thing under my knees, and then has me scooch down.

     And scooch down some more. 

     And some more.

     Because we gotta get my body just so.

     And then it’s time for the tying up part of this show. You’re not supposed to move, but it’s really hard when your arms are dangling on either side of your body because the bed is so narrow.

      Do not go there. I am not fat. This is truly the narrowest bed I’ve laid in.

     So, out comes a heavy wrap. No idea what fabric, but heavy and gray. It reminds me of the wrap dental hygienists use when they take x-rays.  It extends from my left side of my hip to the right where it meets the end part. It Velcro’s together.

     “Oh, I wish I was taller!” Tech says, but she’s really telling me that I am a lot to reach over for her to grab the other end.

     Next, she takes a large elastic band which she places around my ankles, so I don’t move my legs.

     There! I am officially tied up, medicated, dressed appropriately, and ready to be scanned. I know it usually takes around an hour and I take a deep breath to prepare myself.

     “Just breathe normally,” Tech says when she notices my inhalation. “After the first total scan, I’ll let you know how long this will take.” She pauses to adjust my IV line, then says, “And you’ll remember that at one point, we give you more saline and another medication. It might feel very warm.”

       Oh, God. Forgot about that.

       “Thirty-nine minutes!” she calls out after I have entered the tunnel of Seiman (insert naughty thought here for levity), then pulled back out to her space. “That medication will start soon.”

       Alrighty then. Let the real fun begin.

       I always say a prayer as is starts; Usually, it’s, “Please, God…” because I am truly scared of what this scan will reveal. Where is the cancer now? And since I have had numerous postponements for treatment because of my bad blood cell counts, I’m sure cancer has taken advantage of my chemo-free body and attacked another organ.

        Ah…there it is.

       A quick warmth spreading through my pelvis and groin. The first time it happened I was sure I was going to pee myself. I didn’t. And now, while I hate to say it’s normal, it is expected. I guess they see cancer better when this drug is given.

     Okay, probably down to thirty-five minutes left. But who knows? If I had a watch, I couldn’t wear it in this machine. There are no clocks in the room, and I couldn’t see them anyway because I am enclosed in this beige tunnel. I cannot keep time any other way, so I just endure.

     The scan bed juts forward without warning. That’s okay since I know that it’s coming. I don’t know how long I’ll remain in one spot, however, and sometimes it seems like I am standing still forever. So, my thoughts meander.

     Today I wonder how many people are claustrophobic.

     I am old enough to remember that when MRIs and PT scans were first brought out, patients complained about being ‘sealed up’ in the machine. I have never felt that. Sure, I have asked a technician to stop – once because I had to throw up, and another time because I knew I was going to sneeze. Both times they rolled me all the way out to give me a basin to puke in, and to wipe my nose (because you can’t do that if you’re tied up). I always think that the tech doing the scan when I puked should have thanked me for not messing up his fancy machine. This time, although my nose is itching, I try to distract myself further.

      Wonder what it’s like to be in a casket?

       I can hear my husband saying, “Why would you even think that morbid thought?” And he did say something like that later.

      Oh, I don’t know…maybe because I am facing death sooner than you are, dear. Maybe because I am in a confined narrow space?  Maybe because it’s boring to lay, tied up, for an hour.

      I imagine being laid out – isn’t that what they call when they place bodies in caskets? I am firm about wanting to be cremated, but I have been to more than a few wakes (or calling hours), and people are usually dressed to impressed. Men wear a suit and tie (poor guys), and I know more than a few old ladies who requested being dressed up in the fancy clothes they wore to their child’s wedding. My own grandmother wore the bright pink ensemble from my aunt’s wedding. Too bad that it was so stained…

     The first wake I went to was for my great-grandmother. She was wearing a flowing pink garment that matched the casket’s silk lining. At six years old, I was a little horrified to learn that they would close that casket lid and the lining would cushion grandma’s face.

      Wow, I am morbid.

      Or I just have an unfortunately good memory of people in caskets. Ugh.

     If I could shiver, I would. If I could shrug away this line of thinking, I would. But, you know, I’m restrained.

     So now…did those thoughts take about ten minutes of time? The machine did jut forward at least twice.

     Now what to think of? I always look for something to read, a sign, an on/off switch. Before Tech enters me into the tunnel, I see one digital sign that has my name and my patient ID number and a bunch of numbers I can’t figure out. I know I don’t weigh 3,219 pounds, but I see that, and a sixty-something number on a board before they enter me. 

     Oh, and Mr. Seiman’s name.

     Nothing is written inside. I think I can see through a plastic casing something whirling around. What could that be?

   This scan machine is pretty quiet. A hiss of air occasionally, but even the scan bed’s movements are quiet.

     Oh! I am almost completely out. Are they scanning my head? My neck? Because that’s all that’s inside. I can see outside the machine now, but really all I see is my restrained body. No pictures. Not even a calendar.

      I cannot wait to get out of this!

      If this is claustrophobia, then I now have it.

      Let me out of here.

      Seconds later, the bed reverses direction and brings me completely out of the machine to the florescent lighting above and little else to see. I would try to move, but I cannot yet. Tech appears, singsonging, “All done.” She removes the blanket, the wrap, and giggles when she suggests I sit up slowly, then realizes that I have that elastic band at my ankles.  Once that’s off, she says to take my time. But I am energized now. I need to get out of there.

       “I’ll leave you for privacy,” she says because I need to take off the two gowns and put on my stupid pants that I bought because of the cute eyelets.

       Shit.

      “Don’t bother,” I tell her as I dress in front of her.

      Does she not know that at this stage of my cancer journey, I could care less who sees my granny panties!

       I get dressed, grab my bag, and follow her to the waiting room where my husband has been sitting for over two hours.

     “Get me out of here,” I tell him, a warning in my tone that I am not happy. I want to be done with this scan, this place, and especially cancer.

 

This post will appear – amended – in the final Tale of Resilience, No Secrets, coming out this winter.