CT Scan

Usually my scans happen earlier in the day, but I have no control over when these tests get scheduled. Sometimes they don't even tell me when they are coming up! 4:30 pm. I wonder if I will have time to complete the scan and get back to campus in time for my evening class at 6 pm. Especially if they are running behind. Well, there is no help for it.

Traffic isn't bad getting there - everyone is headed the opposite direction, away from the medical facility. Science Park is easier to get to, and parking is not a long term assignment either. I pull up in one of three empty spaces right in front of the door to the Imaging Center. I smile as I fill out the usual form. The receptionist now hands me a "courtesy copy" of my previous visit so I can just copy stuff. No need to look anything up.

I watch the news for a few minutes before they call my name, and a sunny tech named Gloria leads me back directly to the scan room. No reason for me to be seated first in a side room. No IV, no gloppy stuff to swallow, no radiation. This is just a straight, simple no contrast scan. I suspect they took me in ahead of a few others because this will be so quick.

Gloria glances at me, asks if I am wearing anything metallic, and nods when I say no. I am an old hand at this game. I learned the rules ages ago. She places me on the machine's tongue head first. This is different. I usually go in feet first. Zip, zip, whirrr, whirr, in, out, again, farther in, out, done. There's the exit. Bye.

It goes so quickly that I have plenty of time to stop at Panera's for dinner before I head to class. Nice. But something about the scan has scrambled my head. First task in class is to write out our memorized Scripture. I knew it cold going into that donut machine, but now I am struggling to catch the right words to put down. I have the sequence right, I can see the darn word on the printed page from which I memorized it. I know the first two letters and the intent of the word, but I cannot for the life of me get that word into my conscious mind and out onto the paper.

I select the closest approximation I can come up with, knowing full well it is not right. Sigh. I haven't had one bit of chemobrain that I have be aware of since the treatment. But this. This is definite chemobrain. I am frustrated. I wonder if chemobrain has been evident elsewhere in my work. Darn. I will have to run a diagnostic on everything I have touched recently. Rats.

I turn in my paper and look for the two words I could not recall. Yes, there they are. Close to what I put down, but not exact. Well, what's a few demerit points among friends? At least I retained the meaning if not the perfection.

Before when I had chemobrain, it was evident and part of the general dysfunctional fog of ineptitude I was experiencing. It has been 8 months since my last chemo. Odd time for it to hit. I wonder if its part of this sort of detox I seem to be experiencing? Along with the leg neuropathy and exhaustion. Could be, I suppose.

At least its not bad, and I am over the treatment, so hopefully this will pass quickly without further incident. We shall see.

Paper Writing Blues

We have this assignment for our Pastoral Care class. Write an order of service for a funeral, and a 5 or 6 minute meditation for people attending the funeral of a loved one. I have attended many funerals, most recently my Dad's. Wouldn't you think I could put something together easily?

Well, the order of service went well. I just pulled together what I would want for my own service. But the meditation part. Goodness. Where do you begin? What do you say to people? Of course, if this were a eulogy for a specific person, it could be crafted to fit the circumstances. But to just write something, well, not so easy.

Pick a text and speak from that. But everything I selected was so dark and depressing. Or too bright and cheerful. How difficult it is to get just the right mix of sorrow and hope. I wrote, scrapped, wrote again, scrapped again, ad nauseum. I tried reading a few out loud and I was depressed hearing myself. Boy, what a challenge. I have great admiration for those who do this all the time.

After a dozen attempts, I finally managed to get a direction that worked OK, and though not my finest work, it will just have to do. I never thought 5 minutes could be so challenging. At least I got a nice service order to use myself whenever the time comes. I will put a copy in my black briefcase with all the other necessary papers. Hopefully, someone will remember its there!

Im-PORT-ant

My port has been bothering me of late. It tugs and pulls against the muscles in my shoulder and sometimes causes spasms. When I am walking Sugar, I often have to hold my hand over my port to ease the aching. I hope it isn't giving out. I wonder if ports rupture? Could I bleed to death before anyone could intervene? Sure hope not!


I run my finger around the circular hard edge with the three prongs sticking up, and I remember. Dad had a port. How vividly I recall a conversation with my Father. The doctors had suggested he have a port installed to make things a bit easier for him. Mom asked me what mine was like, and I drew aside my shirt to show them. Piece of cake, I told them. You will love it. So Dad had one put in.

Now as I touch my port, I think about Dad's port. I have never made that connection before. None of my siblings share this commonality, this concrete touchpoint that reaches deep into my heart. I never got to see Dad's port, and he didn't use it much. I wonder if the undertaker was surprised to discover it and what he did with it when he was preparing the body. Morbid thought, I tell myself, shaking it off.

I think about the last time I saw Dad. As I said good-bye, I kissed the top of his bald and age-spotted head, smiling at how far his ears stuck out, all Yoda like, patting his shoulder in a semi hug. It was a good visit - long overdue - and a gracious farewell. I think we both suspected it would be our last time together.

I can see him in my mind's eye as he sat in his chair, his eyes searching mine, his once energetic frame sagging wearily. How glad he must be to have shed his tired tent and be clothed with immortality. I am not ready to join him quite yet. Someday. But for now, I am happy to think of him, glad that something as simple and lifegiving as my port reminded me of how important it is to remember my Dad.