#JustCancerThings
"Are you claustrophobic?"
The medical imaging technician asks this first, even though the question is right there on the form I just filled out. I can understand why they're double-checking. The MRI is a big machine, but the opening they slide you into is fairly narrow. A white-walled tube, sleek like a cozy futuristic burrow.
I'm not bad in close spaces, really, and it's a good thing- because today's test isn't just being headfirst in the machine for half an hour, but my head is secured in a white frame. Moving during a brain scan s definitely Not Recommended.
At this point, I'm not sure how many MRIs I've had. They're not dangerous- as long as you don't have any metal on or in your person. Ask YouTube to show you clips of how Magnetic Resonance Imaging machines deal with metal- it's intense. That's why there's a long list of questions on the form dealing with your past medical procedures, possible implants, and hobbies involving metalwork.
For me, the worst part is getting readied for the IV. Longtime readers will remember that I'm the very least favourite kind of patient when it comes to finding a vein. Mine are tiny, deep, and shy- what phlebotomists deem a Five, the worst. A fellow cancer friend of mine has the other kind- thick, beautiful pipelines. He's had nurses of more than one gender declare that they're in love with his veins and would like to date them.
As for me, techs generally can't find veins and have to call in the special IV service nurses. The tech tried once, in my elbow. Pain, no go. When the IV nurse arrived, that same tech offered to let me hold her hand, squeeze as hard as I liked, and even brushed my hair tenderly from my forehead as I huddled into her side. And even with all that, I still sobbed.
Cancer has changed my perception of pain, it's true. But needles are an a class by themselves.
The test was to look at my brain. My petite oncologist, recently returned from mat leave, paid attention when I complained of more frequent headaches, and of what seemed to be a small seizure recently. When my particular cancer goes walkabout in the body, brain and bone is where it ends up. Accordingly, she's also scheduled a nuclear bone scan for me, first thing Monday morning.
When the test was over, I wanted to look at the monitors- how often do you get a chance to see your own brain, both from above and sagittal? The ventricles, the sulci, glowing white and grey against velvety black. Tongue, eyeball, skullbones- fascinating!
"Not really supposed to look at that," the tech admonished gently.
Say... is that a little highlighted area in the occipital lobe? Couldn't get close enough to get a good peek, and didn't have the energy to debate the ethics of hiding my own results from me. So I'll find out in April, which is my next appointment.
Am I scared? You'd think so, but no. Fatalistic, really. Thinking of what I'll do if it really is there.
The bone scan is a different kind of procedure. First, they infuse a radioactive isotope (hello again, IV service) and tell you to screw off for a couple hours. This is to give the isotope time to sink into the bones, all of them. The test itself is... an hour? Half an hour? I can't remember from the last time. I do remember how beautiful the images are, though- the entire skeleton front and back, looking airbrushed delicately grey on a white monitor background. Any problem areas- arthritis, recent breaks, cancer mets- show up as hot black. I'm longing to start an embroidered version of this, with tiny tiny beads representing the fuzzed edges of the image.
Why this test? Because my hip hurts, a lot. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's something. Either way, I'd like to know. Knowledge is power.
A friend asked the other day, When do we get to say you're cured?
Never, I said. We just don't say that anymore. I'm in remission, and if all goes very well I'll stay that way.
But I don't like my odds.
The medical imaging technician asks this first, even though the question is right there on the form I just filled out. I can understand why they're double-checking. The MRI is a big machine, but the opening they slide you into is fairly narrow. A white-walled tube, sleek like a cozy futuristic burrow.
I'm not bad in close spaces, really, and it's a good thing- because today's test isn't just being headfirst in the machine for half an hour, but my head is secured in a white frame. Moving during a brain scan s definitely Not Recommended.
At this point, I'm not sure how many MRIs I've had. They're not dangerous- as long as you don't have any metal on or in your person. Ask YouTube to show you clips of how Magnetic Resonance Imaging machines deal with metal- it's intense. That's why there's a long list of questions on the form dealing with your past medical procedures, possible implants, and hobbies involving metalwork.
For me, the worst part is getting readied for the IV. Longtime readers will remember that I'm the very least favourite kind of patient when it comes to finding a vein. Mine are tiny, deep, and shy- what phlebotomists deem a Five, the worst. A fellow cancer friend of mine has the other kind- thick, beautiful pipelines. He's had nurses of more than one gender declare that they're in love with his veins and would like to date them.
As for me, techs generally can't find veins and have to call in the special IV service nurses. The tech tried once, in my elbow. Pain, no go. When the IV nurse arrived, that same tech offered to let me hold her hand, squeeze as hard as I liked, and even brushed my hair tenderly from my forehead as I huddled into her side. And even with all that, I still sobbed.
Cancer has changed my perception of pain, it's true. But needles are an a class by themselves.
The test was to look at my brain. My petite oncologist, recently returned from mat leave, paid attention when I complained of more frequent headaches, and of what seemed to be a small seizure recently. When my particular cancer goes walkabout in the body, brain and bone is where it ends up. Accordingly, she's also scheduled a nuclear bone scan for me, first thing Monday morning.
When the test was over, I wanted to look at the monitors- how often do you get a chance to see your own brain, both from above and sagittal? The ventricles, the sulci, glowing white and grey against velvety black. Tongue, eyeball, skullbones- fascinating!
"Not really supposed to look at that," the tech admonished gently.
Say... is that a little highlighted area in the occipital lobe? Couldn't get close enough to get a good peek, and didn't have the energy to debate the ethics of hiding my own results from me. So I'll find out in April, which is my next appointment.
Am I scared? You'd think so, but no. Fatalistic, really. Thinking of what I'll do if it really is there.
The bone scan is a different kind of procedure. First, they infuse a radioactive isotope (hello again, IV service) and tell you to screw off for a couple hours. This is to give the isotope time to sink into the bones, all of them. The test itself is... an hour? Half an hour? I can't remember from the last time. I do remember how beautiful the images are, though- the entire skeleton front and back, looking airbrushed delicately grey on a white monitor background. Any problem areas- arthritis, recent breaks, cancer mets- show up as hot black. I'm longing to start an embroidered version of this, with tiny tiny beads representing the fuzzed edges of the image.
Why this test? Because my hip hurts, a lot. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's something. Either way, I'd like to know. Knowledge is power.
A friend asked the other day, When do we get to say you're cured?
Never, I said. We just don't say that anymore. I'm in remission, and if all goes very well I'll stay that way.
But I don't like my odds.