The first PET scan.
Today is a big day.
Today I have the test to find out if I have less, more, or no cancer since starting treatment six weeks ago. The results will inform the next path we’ll take in treatment and could go one of three ways:
Nothing glows = no more evidence of disease. YES PLEASE! If this is the case, I will do at least 4 more rounds of the 21-day cycle plus potential maintenance chemo.
Same or less glow as my baseline scan. This wins me more rounds of the same cycle, up to 15. Yikes.
I shine bright like a blood diamond, indicating treatment isn’t doing the trick. I will likely be referred to OHSU in Portland or a lymphoma hospital in Seattle or Texas for more specialized treatment.
When I say ‘glow’ this does not refer to the A+ TV show and Covid causality GLOW** on Netflix of which I may be equally as put off by said cancellation then I am the wide range of emotions I’m feeling about today. Ugh. Yeah. What am I feeling? Rel-anxious. A mix of relief and anxiety. Relief that we’ll know and by knowing we can start planning life again. Anxious because knowing, no matter what of the three doors we’re walking through, unlocks a whole heap of new-to-me problems to solve and things to process. At least in the cycles, no matter how uncomfortable, painful, or downright nasty it can be, it’s a beast we know.
A little education on the PET scan process itself. *disclaimer, this is my non-medically trained description and should not be taken as fact like basically everything I write. The appointment is about 2 hours long. The first hour you get radioactive dye pumped into you via IV while you nap in a dark, quiet room. The dye detects glucose pockets which is basically what cancer is; just masses of sugar. To ensure you don’t mess with the results, the day before you are told to eat high protein, no sugar or carbs, and chill. Specifically, the scheduler told me to “tell my husband and kids I can’t do the dishes tonight because you have to rest” which I thought was 1. sexist 2. assuming a lot about my sexual orientation, lifestyle, and family situation, and 3. something I will be saying to get out of any duties today.
After the IV, you stay in your street clothes, lay on a narrow half-moon-shaped tube that slides you along a rail into another fully enclosed tube where you’ll remain entombed. Even without suffering from claustrophobia, this is eerie and uncomfortable and the machine makes bleep-bloop sounds whilst circling around your body. After 15-30 minutes of deep breathing and pit sweats, you’re set free to begin the emotional entombment of waiting undetermined days for the results. Welp, at least we can eat carbs again.
I was told to rest so I’m going to whine to my imaginary kids to leave me alone, dirty some dishes, and google which plants have protein.
**Arbitrary footnote: This was my sneaky way of getting to share the photo from our Women of Woodlands run in October 2019 where we dressed as characters from GLOW and ran around town. If you know Ashland, OR, it wasn’t the weirdest, brightest, or most unusual thing to happen that day. I’m brainstorming bald diva wrestlers for part II hopefully this year. Ideas?
GLOW girls circa 2019. I’m the cat because cats are the best but mostly because the tail was wiry and awkwardly poked elderly tourists. It’s the simple pleasures.