Two Down, One to Go | Feb 23 2021

Tuesday February 23

Two appointments scheduled, one to go.

The PET scan will happen Friday. I will go to the nuclear Xray place at the hospital, drink some yucky stuff, then spend a long time being scanned from neck to knees. The Mayo Clinic tells us that cancer cells show up as bright spots on PET scans because they have a higher metabolic rate than do normal cells. The reason for my scan is to see if any cells have escaped the confines of the lung and burrowed elsewhere in the body. If so, that would nudge treatment in one direction. If not, then another direction might make more sense. But that’s just one test.

Tomorrow I have a preliminary consult with a pulmonologist about an Ebus Bronchoscopy. That’s the equivalent of a colonoscopy, but for the lung. While they’ve got their little camera in there, they’re also going to stick my enlarged lymph nodes with needles and try to get some tissue to biopsy. I imagine/hope a result of the consult tomorrow will be another appointment, the Ebus, for the calendar.

Frankly, I’m also looking forward to talking with the doctor about the chest ache, congestion, and cough. Maybe they can get this Ebus done fast so they can give me a bunch of steroids to calm this area down.

What will be left is the brain MRI. That’s to discover whether cancer cells have crossed into the brain. (Except, as I was reminded today, this might not even be cancer.) (Yeah, right.) The results of this test will also figure into the algorithm that will determine the next step.

I don’t know about you, but if it weren’t my brain, I would find that a fascinating study– one I would want to read about, or even watch. But my brain? That is just creepy.

I’ve had MRIs before, once to see if a rotator cuff was torn– it was– and another time to see if a knee was damaged– it wasn’t. (As I recall, the orthopedist’s official diagnosis of the knee was “You whacked the hell out of it.”) The first time, being in the tube with random banging noises exploding around me was strange, but as long as I kept a folded cloth over my eyes and did some breath work, I was fine. The second time, as I was slid into the tube, I had a moment or near-panic. But I focused on breathing and ended up being OK. This time, I want All The Drugs.

We’re still waiting for insurance approval for the MRI. Apparently, if you haven’t gotten a firm diagnosis of cancer, insurance companies are loathe to send you into the tube. But my doctor is apparently quite comfortable in a so-called “peer-to-peer” conversation with the insurance folks. We’ll see.

The third thing that happened today was a phone call from Julie, a Nurse Navigator. (How many jokes can you make about *that* title?) Her role is to keep tabs on all these tests and nudge them along if need be. She’s also our contact point with any questions or concerns. I say “our” because she made it clear that Mark or Ruth or Mom can call too. You know, that is just really good.

And now for the pet peeve of the day. The pulmonologist’s medical assistant is taking down all the usual info: medications, illnesses, surgeries, blah blah blah. OK, fine, I get it. Then she tells me about the paperwork I have to fill out. OK, fine, no problem. Then I open the paperwork and I have to write down all the same damned information again. Even though it already appears in the chart because I just told it to her. I caught myself in the surgeon’s office yesterday– jeez, was it only yesterday?– about to get on my feet, sweetly return the clipboard with pages of questions to the desk people, and tell them I had already filled out the exact same information on the pre-visit paperwork. Sit down, I said to myself. You will not do anything to piss these people off.

Here’s the other weird thing. I don’t feel like this is a fight. I feel like my poor body has held up under this for maybe a long time, and that it wants to be whole and well, and that I want to do everything I can to help it. I do not at all relate to the warrior mentality of “fighting” or “beating” cancer. That keeps the attention on cancer, and cancer deserves neither my attention nor my energy. My body, my poor, strong, suffering body is what deserves my love and compassion, and all my energy. That somehow, we will rise up from, or step around, this thing that is inside me, and emerge whole and integral.

We shall see, eh?

Thanks for reading.