Waiting game.

Tuesday I had my MUGA test, which makes sure my heart is strong enough to endure chemo. I assumed this would be easy, a few sticky patches on my chest and back, a few pictures, that's it. But the first nurse came in hacking and complaining about her sinus problems, the second apologizing for her garlic breath because of "these crackers and dip I just can't get enough of, my daughter told me about 'em, they're so good but boy, do they stink." Lovely.

I was surprised when Sinus Face told me they'd be injecting me with a radioactive isotope. Panic. I have tiny veins, and every time I have to be stuck, it's an ordeal. I end up surrounded by four or five nurses, each apologizing for the various holes they create in my wrists, hands, arms. This time was no exception. Garlic Breath couldn't find a vein big enough. She stuck me once. Again. The other nurse tried. Each time hurt more than the last, each more frustrating, more anticipation of the pain. I just sat in the chair and cried helplessly, mostly out of selfish pity that I have to be going through this.

Finally, the injection worked in my left wrist. They directed me to another room, where I lay in a big tube, first on my back, then on my side. Before I left, they gave me a card to carry for the next week, which would identify me as radioactive in the event I set off any alarms at airline security or federal buildings. The card basically says, "Hello, I'm not a nuclear terrorist, I'm just a radioactive cancer patient. Please do not send me to Guantanamo Bay."

Yesterday was my PET scan. I spent the morning dreading yet another needle. I arrived at the small office and a tall, blond gentleman guided me to a little room containing nothing but an oversized wingback recliner and a magazine stand. He asked me to relax, and I gripped the arm of the leather chair as he approached with the needle. That's it? I felt almost nothing. He was sent from the heavens, obviously. Not like the obnoxious duo the day before. It would be an hour before the injection would take effect, so I stole a glorious little nap in that big chair in the quiet room. Peace. Calm. No running to appointments. No chit-chat with nurses. No filling out forms asking, "Is today the 28th?" Just peace. 

The man woke me gently, then took me to another room with another tube. I lay flat as a board and motionless for 45 minutes as the giant donut measured the way my body—and specifically the cancer—was metabolizing the radioactive glucose that had been injected an hour before. (Cancer gobbles it up and appears as a bright flash on the PET images.) Eventually, the test was over. I put my earrings back in, my shoes back on. Before I left, the nice ladies at the front desk gave me a box of chocolates for my trouble. I smiled and told them thanks, I might just be back tomorrow. 

As of now, testing is over. I have appointments with my oncologist next week to review the results and discuss treatment options. Stay tuned.

Love you all,

Tara