Full Body Scan

"We've simply got to stop meeting like this," I quipped with the radiologist who had come to my prep room laden with the usual lead box enclosed dose of radiation. He smiled. "You do seem to keep coming back," he kidded while he slapped the back of my hand searching for a good vein. "Come on," he cajoled my hand. "I know you're in there. Pop up and let me take a look at you."

Since I can't do contrast, they no longer bother with an IV, just a butterfly injection which today went in easily. They wrap me in warm snugly blankets, tip the recliner back, dim the lights and tiptoe out until I am "cooked" and fully radiated.

Snoozing came easily. I have been sliding between the sheets later and later at night - for no particular reason except that I just don't feel like being alone in the dark having to corral my brain and keep it from going places it ought not go. My body speaks to me more clearly these days, especially when things are not quite right.

Picture a hand in a warm glove, and the glove wearing thinner and thinner until you can almost see that there will be a breach, a hole, and skin will show through. Its immanent, you just don't know quite when. But you know that once it happens, there is no going back. There will be a patch or two possible, but things will never be the same.


Sometimes I think having cancer is rather like knowing a tsunami is about to pound your beach, and first you run in a panic, but then you realize how futile that is, so you look for the highest point and get to the top of it, hoping the water won't rise beyond your perch. Its just that you won't know until it comes whether you are going to survive.

Well now all that's just the sort of brief little jaunts you have to keep your head from taking. Easy enough. You simply make yourself think about other things, pleasant stuff. Too soon they opened the door and summoned me to the double doughnut room and put me through the usual in and out convolutions. Breathe in. Hold your breath. l-o-n-g pause while your body rotates through the doughnut. Breathe. Then the reverse - Breathe out. Hold your breath. Long pause. More moving around. Breathe. Its a weird kind of carnival ride.

Today they were most thorough. Every spot of arm and leg got included, right up to my eyeballs! If there is more cancer, we will find it. Not to worry. Forty five minutes flew by, and before I knew it, I was headed for the waiting room where my friend was patiently knitting and reading until I came out. It was nice to have someone there. I have many offers of people who are willing to take me to tests and support me with their kindness.

Other than don't hug anyone, don't hold a baby or a pet, I am good to go. Back to the other reality of my life, work!