“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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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’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.
“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.
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