So yesterday I had my what feels like 100th CT scan. By now....the actual procedure itself is old hat, but the feelings and anxiety leading up to it don't become any more comfortable.
My appointment was at Mac and I haven't been to any procedures there before. When a cancer patient can't get in when they need to at Juravinski, they try to find spots for them at other hospitals because timing matters. We are among the very last to stop receiving care during Covid. There are so many people who've had surgeries, appointments and procedures delayed because of Covid but I am grateful I continue to receive care. It's comforting on one hand, but scary on the other because obviously, I'm serious enough to need it.
So I asked Jason to drive me, parking and timing and whatnot. He of course obliged.
Note how tired I look. I didn't sleep the night before. Thoughts of cancer, what ifs, what nows, waiting, just anxiety all around and unease. It doesn't get easier.
We arrived at Mac and for those of you who haven't been to a hospital during Covid there are many checkpoints you have to go through before you get to your department.
This is checkstop #2 after pulling up at the front door to show my paper that says I'm meant to be there. Full covid screen, questions, temperature etc. Then off to registration for another screen and more questions, temperature and verification that you should be there.
Next step is one waiting room. Here's the hallway. Note the absence of ANYONE. The hospitals are oddly quiet... all the action is in the ICU and emerg . I'm heading to CT waiting you can see at the end of the hall and another checkpoint, the person is waiting there on the side to ensure I have an apt.
So we get to waiting room one.
NO one around. Just me. OH and I should add that they let Jason accompany me, they are letting some cancer patients have an emotional support if they've been in treatment for over a year. It's a human thing, psychiatrists of cancer patients at Juravinski have been making recommendations that patients undergoing cancer treatment are actually experiencing PTSD after having gone through chemo, radiation and surgery alone so they are now allowing some emotional support. Like they let those dogs on airplanes..... I appreciated it so much to not be there alone.
SO we sat. Saying nothing. Just having him there mattered. I wasn't alone. He took my hand at one point and just held it. It meant everything. I think of all the people who suffer alone from Covid and don't have that from a loved one and it breaks my heart.
Anyway....
Then they called me into another waiting room
I would then be moved to another chair where they would insert a canula into my vein so that during the CT scan they could inject radioactive dye that would course through my body and light up any areas of concern. It looks like this when it's in
The connect the end to the machine, and when the time comes they come over the speaker while I'm in the machine and tell me the dye is coming. The dye is awful. It makes your mouth taste like metal and ash, it heats up your throat and all the way down your body. It makes you feel like you are LITERALLY peeing your pants. I kid you not. Anyone who's had a CT with contrast can relate. It's so strange.
I asked to take a picture of the machine but she wouldn't let me, luckily I snapped this one from the waiting room before I went in. I will be fed through the hole.
It's a scary experience but nothing like an MRI. It takes about 7 minutes total and it's all over. They make you hang around to see if your body is going to reject the dye or have a reaction. They take it out and then send you home.
And out another empty hallway and off we went. SO bizarre how silent and quiet the hospitals are. It's eerie.
Anyway. Home we went. I felt like crap after the dye. Need to drink lots of water to flush and just emotionally exhausted. I was going in thinking I was having a chest/abdomen/pelvis scan which would cover basically my whole body, but turns out only a chest CT was ordered to monitor the pneumonitis from radiation and lung nodules. I was a little disappointed because I like an "all clear" and I wasn't going to get one. But that's life after cancer, especially Stage 3.
You never get an all clear, you get an OK for NOW. So I wait. Friday is my appointment with my Doctor to get the results of the CT scan. Feb 3 I meet on the phone with my oncologist to discuss next steps and how I feel. For now....I wait. It's such an awful feeling.
I tell myself, I feel alright, the odd pain and day of not feeling so great, but I don't feel like I'm going to die....then again when I had a tumor the size of a baseball lodged against my chest wall and 19 lymph nodes filled with cancer I didn't either.
This is the reality of breast cancer, or advanced stage cancer of any kind. The tests don't stop, the waiting continues and the wonder and thoughts get away on you if you let them. It's a type of guarding I need to do to protect my soul, my happiness.
As I write this the day after...I'm watching the astronauts install some pieces on the ISS in space. They are literally in the vacuum of space using wrenches and fumbling around with nuts and bolts. I'm mesmerized. These are exceptional people.
Surely my situation is endurable. I can hang out in my warm house with my dog at my feet, safe for now, looking forward to my steak dinner of the month. Yesterday I ordered sushi because I like it. Keto is on hold for now. We'll see what Friday brings. It's a super tough diet and emotionally I dropped out. I'm getting back on board Monday. It's SO HARD.
Yeah.....it's tough, but I'm grateful to still be allowed in to the hospital, to be monitored by Doctors who care, to have a supportive partner there with me and to be able to share my experiences to hopefully help women who may be experiencing a CT for the first time.
It's all manageable. Life is scary at times, anxiety provoking and there are nights we don't sleep, nights we wonder what the future brings.....but at the end of the day....what matters is the present moment.
That is all we can control. Not test results, not future feelings, not past experience. Just the present.
Everything has a beginning and an end. Just like the breath in and the breath out. All life, all experiences, all tests, all things.
When I get worked up about the end results, I remind myself. Today is the focus.
One foot in front of the other. One day at a time.
Hope, positivity, sunshine through the window and gratitude.
These are things to focus on for me....for today.
No one knows what tomorrow brings....I'm including a poem by Rumi...one of my favoruites to end this blog:
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