Had a CAT scan today to prepare for radiation therapy. Ooooh, it was cold in the room, but warm friendly technicians. An IV was inserted for contrast solution to be injected. The doctor came in and marked the area on my chest to be scanned with a very fancy, hi-tech pen…a “Sharpie”. Next I had to put both arms over my head and hold onto a bar… and remain that way, without moving, throughout the scan, and for a short time afterwards. Just before the scan, the nurse told me that when the contrast fluid would be injected, I might be able to taste it in my throat, and I might feel warmth in my bladder. Yep… tasted it in my throat first, then the “warmth” in the bladder – what a shock! It felt warm all right, but also wet. I thought, oh no, what if it really is? I couldn’t stop the feeling. I had visions of calling Ric at work and telling him to stop whatever he was doing and bring me fresh clothes. Soon the scan was over and the “warm” feeling was starting to go away. And it turns out it was, in fact, warmth only. Whew! After the scan one of the nurses gave me three tattoos… one was a heart, one was a rose, and the other a snake. Okay, not really. Three teeny, tiny little dots. (The tattoo dots are placed to make certain the area to be radiated is lined up in the same position as the plan mapped out from the CAT scan.) Then the other nurse took pictures from each side. The IV then came out. Was told to drink lots and lots of water for the next 48 hours to get the contrast fluid out of my body. I’ll be called in about a week, after the radiation plan is mapped out.
It Strikes Again
Found out that a friend was diagnosed with breast cancer, and is facing a possible mastectomy. Just before calling her, I thought, “What will I say? What can I say other than ‘I’m so sorry’?” You’d think since I’ve been through my own ordeal with breast cancer I’d be ready with wonderful words of wisdom. Yet I still worried about what to say. I decided not to think, and just call.
Turned out, of course, that I didn’t have to offer words of wisdom. I just needed to be with her, answer questions (what I could), and share my experience. And tell her I’m there for her. That’s all. (If the intentions are right, if there is love and caring, God supplies the words.)
Jennifer is 10 years younger than me. I’m amazed at the courage she already displays. August 11 is her surgery. She already knows it’s cancer. (I didn’t know for sure until after the lumpectomy.) I don’t know which is more difficult… not knowing, or knowing. I suppose neither is worse, just a different kind of anxiety. In any case, God is already there!
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