I'm scheduled for a PET/CT scan tomorrow. Assuming it works out, this is a move in a positive direction - we'll be able to get a much better picture of what Hank looks like, and what he's doing in there (stuff we couldn't find out from the initial scans because I couldn't fit on the tables).
So, why the terror? Bunch of things could go wrong here - for one thing, I'm right at the limits of the table, and they may decide I can't fit. I really don't want to go through that special little sort of humiliation yet again. Also, this is a "don't eat anything for 6 hours before the test. And don't take your diabetic meds. Oh, and if your blood sugar level is over 200, we can't do the test." Right. I'm an insulin dependent diabetic (my body does not create insulin), with a really strong dawn phenomena (my body puts out a flood of sugar right when I wake up - most people's body does, it's just mine is extra strong. I can go to bed at 110 and wake up in the morning at 220. And no, I'm not midnight sleep-snacking.) Oh, and I'm on a pill that is trying to keep Hank under control called Megace - two of the side effects are a) it's an appetite enhancer that they give to cancer patients to try to help them gain weight and b) it messes with your blood sugar. I mean shooting up to 360, then dropping down to 70 in the course of about 45 minutes. So, trying to guess what the heck my blood sugar is going to be at any particular moment is a little like attempting to plan a luge run on my old red flying saucer after an Olympic Village after-party. What I'm saying is that precision is not exactly on tap here.
Then, if I do manage to thread the weight and blood-sugar constraints, we get to the fun part of the morning. They put me in a quiet room, dump radioactive dye into my veins and make me sit quietly, by myself, for 45 to 60 minutes. I have to sit by myself because at this stage, apparently, I could poison any small children, dogs or husbands who are in the same room with me, just by glowing at them. Heck, people... I'm a down-winder (well, I'm a down-winder's daughter). We laugh at radioactivity! Then, they put me on a table, with my hands over my head, and I have to stay like that. For 2 hours. Rotator cuff screaming, back aching, muttering vague imprecations about the entire medical profession under my breath - I know, it's not them, it's me. But I'm the one writing this rant, so I'm going to be complaining loudly.
Then, Roger gets to take me home, where I can't do the usual "console myself with chocolate" routine (despite when anyone may tell me, broccoli is *not* the same in this instance), and we wait for the results. I don't know why I schedule these scans on Friday - it just gives me two more days to worry, but that part I will admit fault for.
It's been almost a year now since the whole Carrie remake that
introduced me to Hank. At the time, the cancer doctor didn't want to
make predictions, but didn't sound really positive about me lasting more
than a couple of years. But then again, I don't think she thought I
would ever be able to lose anywhere near 140 pounds (heck, I didn't think I would be able to, at the time.) But I still realize that this is a race, and each time the scan comes up, I'm terrified to look at the scoreboard. Best case scenario - the sheer volume and variety of veggies has scared Hank into submission, he's retreating, all is good with the world. Ok scenario - he's stayed stable and I've still got more time to try to beat him. Worst case - he's growing again. I don't want to think about worst, but funnily enough, when I'm lying there with my eyes closed, that's about all I can think of. Maybe now that I've written it out, though, it'll be out of my head and I'll be able to sleep. Goodnight, all.
No comments:
Post a Comment