Every 3 months I get a CT scan of my chest, abdomen, and pelvis to see if anything new has decided to take up residence in my body, or more accurately, any of the microscopic cells already present have decided to give the radiologist something to wax poetic about. Barring the fact I’ve had lung surgery, the time between this imaging passes without me worrying too much about having cancer because I am scanned every 3 months, and there’s hardly time to worry before I’m back in the donut again. However, the days around getting the scan and hearing the results tend to manifest some dramatic thoughts. People always say they can’t imagine what it must be like, so here’s a glimpse into my mind during the days surrounding my last scan. The words in quotation marks are my inner dialogue.
Sunday, February 10th, CT scan 8:30a tomorrow morning:
1:30p: at brunch, nothing really looks good, and I’m feeling a little tired and nauseated. “god, I might puke. i don’t even know if I can keep anything down. why am I so tired? there’s a massive tumor in my colon. i’m obviously dying. i can feel it growing.”
1:55p: “omg, that’s the best burger! oooooph, i ate it all. you aren’t dying, you’re old, and still a little hungover from friday night. freakin’ M.” (no need to name the mostly innocent)
9:00p: sitting on couch, rewatching last season of Game of Thrones, duh. “i hope I live to see the series finale.”
10:45p: “i don’t need to set an alarm. as if I’ll sleep past 7a on a Monday morning. god, I just want to get this over with.”
Monday, February 11th:
8:10a: eyes blink open. “oh wow, that was great sleep. yay, sunshine, how dreamy. wait. what time is it? oh my god! oh my god oh my god oh my god!” Teeth brushed, hair not so much.
8:30a: made it on time to my imaging center, “like a boss!” Receptionist: You have an outstanding balance of $300. How would you like to take care of that? “[Curse curse curse]” Charge it! I tell her with a smile. “[Curse]. well, at least I’ll get points.”
8:32a: filling out same paperwork as always, listing medical history, and here comes the baby panic attack. “it’s back. it’s definitely back, and probably all over my colon. Fuuu…what if it’s my liver? is that a chest pain? just be ready for it to be there. [Curse] try to look calm. this isn’t your first time.” Take a diazepam, and try not to walk out the door.
8:33a: “if I have cancer again there’s no way I’m doing chemo. no way. i’m going out big, a world beach tour. how quickly could I sell my car, or could I just get an advance on the money from mom and dad? probably not an issue, could just charge it. Seychelles, Mauritius, the Maldives, back to Trancoso, a full week in Espelho. home to die. boom. why am I so tired? definitely dying.” Note: The above statement about the chemo is most assuredly untrue.
8:35a: “stop being a crazy person. you do not have cancer again. you have allergies like everyone else in Austin. seriously every other person you talk to has the same complaints.”
8:36a: Imaging tech: Ms. Walters? Blah blah blah, metal hooks, blah blah blah blah, iv for contrast, which arm, blah blah.
8:43a: CT scan says: Breathe in and hold your breath. Breathe. Breathe in and hold your breath. Breathe. Tech: Here comes the iodine (it warms you up like a hot flash, and totally makes you feel like you just pee’d on yourself, but you probably did not). “i wonder if she can see the spots, and is being super nice because my lungs are covered in tumors? i wish I could power nap. why don’t they have candy here?”
8:45a: Ok, Ms. Walters, you’ll just need to stay here for 12 minutes to make sure you haven’t had a reaction to the iodine. “i’ve never had one in the past, so why do you think I’ll have one now? I just want my coffee.” Ok, thanks, is what I say.
8:47a: “please no more chemo, please no more chemo, please no more chemo.”
8:49a: “please no more chemo, please no more chemo, please no more chemo.”
8:50a: You can go, drink plenty of blah blah blah. “Coffee”
All day rest of the day: distraction. Take a walk, lunch with a friend, workout with a friend, go to the grocery store, dinner with friend, home and asleep by 10p.
Sample convo and inner workings of my brain any time over the next 3 days: friend: did you have your scan? It will all be good, you’re so healthy! me: I feel really good! My brain: “just enjoy this time together, because it all changes once we find out you’re riddled with cancer. no! stop being ridiculous. you’re fine.” Back and forth back and forth.
Tuesday, February 12th and Wednesday, February 13th:
At any point during the day:
“i’m strong. i could do another surgery tomorrow, and hold off on the chemo until we see if another one is there in 3 more months.” Deep, deep, deep down thought, “but what if this is when they find lots of them.” Squash! Bye, bye deep down thought.
“things are too good for me to have to do this again. one at a time, easy enough to manage. i’m not the other kind of Stage IV.” This is an interesting one, isn’t it. “I’m not the other kind,” meaning the one who isn’t NED after a surgery, but is living day to day with their cancer, looking at prolonging and not curing. Funny the way we make these distinctions, but we do, because mine could still be gone and never come back. You never know.
“busy busy busy busy busy busy. I’m too busy to think. busy busy busy busy busy busy.”
Thursday, February 14th, follow-up visit with Dr. Yorio at 3p:
6:30a: “how long til 3pm?”
6:35a: enter state of extreme emotional and psychological suppression. “i’m fine.”
6:35a to 2:30p: “i’m fine.”
2:45p: “i’m not fine. i’m fine.”
3:00p: meet mom in lobby. her: how are you? me: I’m fine. “gotta move. i need candy.”
3:03p: teaching older gentleman how to dig for the best candy at the bottom of the basket. I tell him he should take as many as he wants because no matter what he’s doing here today, we would both rather be somewhere else. I find two caramels hiding in a bottom corner for him, and take 6 tootsie rolls for myself. sit down next to mom, eat all 6 in rapid succession, head back for more. give 4 vials of blood. come back. Panic is rising.
3:15p: waiting for Dr. Yorio. mom is making small talk. i have no idea what i’m saying in response. “where the f*^k is he? how long does it take to spin some blood?”
3:25p: “Ok. I’m ok. he never makes me wait when it’s bad. I’ve gotta pee…do I have time to sneak out?”
3:35p: “OMG, just get in here, tell me I’m fine, and let me goooooooooooooooooooooo. MoPac is backing up like a parking lot as we speak.”
Seriously, this is how I knew it was ok. He never, ever makes me wait when he’s delivering bad news. The man is in the door within seconds of me sitting down when he’s about to say the word cancer again. The scan was clear, not a single new speck. Time for celebration, right? For the people who love me, absolutely.
3:45p: “This is good. The further we push it, the stronger you’ll get. Thank god it wasn’t today.” deep down thought “but it will likely be next time.”
That’s my thought. “This is good.” I do not jump up and down with excitement, and I certainly no longer believe that this means everything will be alright. It means everything was alright today. And it means I don’t have to cancel my Gyrotonic training in March. I am also making plans for my beau’s 50th birthday trip this summer, where all of our reservations are refundable.
Loved this! So many thoughts and the compilation expresses the daily reality. I had similar thoughts with CT scans of my head and neck after I had a tumor removed. I really enjoy your writing.
Thank you, Sarah! I really appreciate it.
Shelby, thank you for sharing these very vivid thoughts and emotions. Maybe you should still consider the beach tour- I will go! Prayers to you! ❤️
Hahaha! Lets go!!!