My 6 month PET scan appointments were at the Mayo clinic yesterday. I am very grateful and relieved to say the scan shows “No Evidence of Active Disease”. Thank you, God!
I will continue on the same chemotherapy infusion schedule every 3 weeks as I have been doing the past 6 and a half years. With your prayers of praise for my results, please say some prayers for those living with cancer that don’t get these kind of results. I know I am blessed.
Here’s a glimpse into the past few days for me.
Standing in our kitchen, I hold on tighter and seconds longer than a “normal” hug. I first hug Brielle, then Brian. Brian squeezes tighter too. “I’ll be thinking of you, babe. I hope your scans go well.” The tone of his voice tells me we’re both thinking the same thing. The next time I see their faces our worlds might look very different. They run out the door to get to church while I pack my last few items for the five hour drive to Rochester.
***
I sit listening for my name to be called, so the port in my chest can be accessed and blood can be drawn out. It’s 7:20 AM, but the waiting room is full of Mayo Clinic patients already. It happens to be St. Patrick’s Day. Many patients and their caregivers thought to wear green. A wave of guilt hits me. I didn’t think to remind Brielle to wear green to school today, ughh. I decide to open the book I’m reading, “The Time Keeper” by Mitch Albom. I try to read but I find myself hearing the names of others being called. I watch different patients walk up to the nurses; my mind wanders trying to make up their story in my head. I overhear a couple next to me visiting about their upcoming day. I look at my phone and reply to a few text messages. I look at the clock thinking that I may be late to my next appointment. Back to my book. I finish the chapter I’m on and turn the page. It’s a new section in the book, the page is blank except for an image of an hourglass and the word “FUTURE”.
***
I am now in the PET scan machine, laying on my back with my arms above my head. A thin white hospital blanket is covering my legs to try to keep me warm. Music is playing in the background as an attempt to set a calming mood. When the nurse helped me on the table, he asked if I wanted to choose the music genre for the 19 minute scan. Without thinking, I replied with a quick “no thanks, this is fine”. A large globe shaped mirror on the ceiling catches my eye. I strain my eyes to take in the room that is reflected in the mirror. I see myself on the table. I see my purse, jacket and other belongings on the table in the corner of the room where I entered. I see the large glass window, knowing the radiology technologists are on the other side of that. I know they are seeing the images that the PET scan is taking of me right now. My mind wanders again. This time I catch myself thinking about being able to eat since I had to fast for this scan. It’ll be around 10 AM when I’m done with this appointment, but I find it odd that right now I’m craving a huge bowl of steamed vegetables. My head is not so patiently waiting for my first cup of coffee for the morning.
***
I feel nauseous. My stomach feels full, my shoulders tight, my breathing is shallow and fast. It’s always these moments that end up being the toughest part of my appointments. I’m sitting on the couch in the clinic room waiting for my oncologist to knock on the closed door. I know that if my scan does not show cancer progression, my oncologist will share that with me as she’s walking in the room. It’s these minutes that can feel like hours. I pick up “The Time Keeper” book again. I open it, but set it back down without reading a page. I try to respond to some messages on Facebook but the signal in these rooms are weak.
***
I look out at the view from the 10th Floor Gonda Building. It is floor to ceiling windows and it’s this view that I always take time to stop and admire. Flashbacks from the past 13 years flood in. I think of conversations I’ve had there with Brian when I was first diagnosed. Another time when Brielle was a toddler we stopped the stroller there for her to admire. Today, it is here that I message and text those most important to me, to tell them of my, once again, great scan results.
***
It is intermission and the lights come on. We all look at each other as we stand up to stretch. Our minds are wheeling with who the murderer might be. We share our thoughts and theories. We share our joy and excitement for how fun this play is. And just like that, I’m back to my ordinary life. Almost as if the mystery of the past 12 hours of experiences at the Mayo Clinic didn’t really happen. After the play my Grandma gives me a hug and says, “I’m so glad you got good news today.” I hug her tight and respond, “I am too, Grandma. I am too.”
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