I seem to think of better titles to my articles or idea rants when nowhere near anything that I could write them down on. Either because, I cannot take my smartphone out of my pocket fast enough to press the correct combination of icons (no keys anymore) to get to the right App in time to capture that fleeting concept. Oops. Too late. Already gone. DAMN! (When I do this it usually requires most of my body to emphasize the impact of my frustration.)
PT Scan scheduled late last week. Not that this was easy. Nothing (or very little) with me ever really is easy. The doctor told me on my Oct 1 appointment that he would schedule the time and date and call me with that information. I waited.
Tuesday passed. I waited.
Wednesday passed. I waited with anxiety that felt like constant slight body wide vibrations.
Thursday I called. The doctor’s nurse said she had been waiting for his order. She said she would contact Radiology to schedule it. Cool I thought. I trusted her and waited. Friday passed. Saturday and Sunday. By Monday I was getting angry. I called them on Tuesday and stayed on the phone until the appointment was finally scheduled. All righty now. Tension: Before I put down the phone my intestines began an instant ramp up to desperate need of toilet. Of course, I had to hold it until the call was over before pushing myself up out of my La-Z-Girl and falling back in only to be ever conscious of my body’s required use of the facilities to push up again. I am repeating a mantra, “Squeeze, squeeze, just hold it. Do not stretch the legs too far apart. You know, they are helping hold back the coming onslaught (or would outporing work better?). So, with knees somewhat bent and a fast shuffle to the bathroom, I make it in the nick of time. (Who the hell is “Nick” that he gets to rescue us from “time”?).
The appointment happened on Tuesday (October 15). My Son went with me, of course. I so would NOT want to do this alone. The radiology nurse was very nice. I was put into a cozy little room in a really BIG recliner. I received the requisite warm toasty blanket. She inserted the needle into a vein on the upper side of my arm. I am used to them in the veins on the back of my hands and inside the elbow and the occasional insert into the vein near my wrist. I have become completely used to and expect them to use the Porta-cath, as well. I asked her if she was going to use my port. She said they usually do not for this. Well, ok then. This was quite different.
I knew there was going to be something radioactive put into me. It is a “Low-level radioactive tracer material.” However, never having any experience prior to this moment I really did not comprehend the meaning of “radiation” in this sense. I am ab-so-lute-lee and far too familiar with x-ray type of irradiation.
After inserting the needle hub the nurse left the room. In a few minutes she returned carrying a heavy pale yellow rectangular metal box with a foldable handle. I was not yet aware of what this meant. However, when she opened it and took out something that looked like a Geiger Counter and then, an approximately four-inch long, one-point-five inch metal cylinder with a port at its center. She connected this to the needle and somehow forced it into my vein. Then, she used three syringes full of saline to ensure they flush the stuff far into the vein. Then, she replaces this heavy cylinder (she treats it as if it has heft) into the square metal box. If we were in an auto repair shop I might think that box carried only a few and heavy tool box. In a way that is exactly what this box is. Not only is that cylinder heavy so is that box. She and the Geiger Counter then, left the building (uh, room) after turning down the lights. I was left here for forty-five minutes. Then, I was put into the PT/CT machine to be scanned.
Add on: Oct. 16, 2013
My son called me an Ox the other day. we were talking about the radiation treatments and my fear about the results of the PT Scan, when he assured me I would survive anything Because, as he said, “You are an ox Mom you will always get through.”
Being called an “ox” used to we an offensive and painful thing I was often called by my Mom. Not ever in a good way. Her calling me an ox was meant for me to evoke the size, movement, don’t forget horns, and swiftly swinging tail, and complete negativity of a girl being such a thing.
Other than him, I am NOT to be called an ox by anyone else.