Needles and Hot Pockets

Big Daddy had been scheduled for another MRI at 8am. I didn’t have to be at the doctor’s office until 9:40, so maybe he would be finished in time to meet me there. Time ticked away and eventually Big Daddy called. He was finished at his appointment and was on his way to meet me at mine. This was my first post-chemo scan and my emotions did what they usually do…ignore my determination to not get “all caught up” in what could be.

I called Big Daddy as I drove to my appointment.

“Hey. I just wanted to let you know that you don’t have to come if you don’t want to…I mean, I seem to be a bit emotional and I don’t know why and since I don’t know why it’s kind of hard for me to control it so if you just wanna meet me at the house after, we could do that and then maybe get some lunch or something of course, I have class tonight so I need to try and find my lab book…I found my lecture book, it was in the back of the truck but I think my lab book is on the big chair in the living room .”

No, really, he LOVES my run-on sentences in that one-octave higher than usual speaking voice.

“Traffic is moving a little slow but I’ll be there. I love you. See you in a minute.”

And there you have it.

I walked into the clinic and headed toward Registration. You learn the system pretty quickly when you visit so often. My immediate thought, as it always has been, is that I do not belong here. These people are sick. The vast majority of patients are elderly. Most with some sort of assisted walking device such as a walker or cane or wheelchair. I do not belong here. It is so obvious to me that I feel an almost anger rising up. This is new. I don’t recall feeling angry before. Maybe I did. As I have mentioned previously, I have no recollection of most things. The chemo-brain phenomenon presented itself not too long ago. As the snow accumulated outside, I cleaned out Precious Son’s closet and there they were…a pair of brand new, shiny patent leather black snow boots with soft, plush fur rimming the tops. Apparently I had purchased them last winter. It was like someone handing me the perfect gift, these boots. Ah, chemo-brain, where everything is new again.

Anger was rising inside of me because I was NOT sick, I was NOT old, and I was NOT going to drink that beyond-nasty gloop they give you before scans with contrast.

Pre-registration, done.

Radiology registration, in process.

The lady asked if I could please complete and update my information. Sure! Why not? I took the form and read the first question…

“Why are you being seen by us today?”

It was at this very moment that I was possessed by someone else. Someone mean and hateful and yucky. The “person” took over my hand and answered the question in a manner most unbecoming to me, the non-possessed.

“Why are you being seen by us today?”

The handwriting was nothing like mine. The letters were large, irregular and messy. The pen was leaving indentations from the pressure being applied as each letter was scrawled out for the world to see…

C A N C E R

Seeing it before me, having no real recollection of writing it, I just kind of stopped. The letters took up far more space than allowed by the template boxes. I stared at the writing. The writing that was not mine. The writing was from someone who was silently screaming through each individual letter.

C A N C E R

You know how you do that self-reflection kind of thing when you are pretty sure the world is crazy and it isn’t you but you sort of step back and take a mental inventory just to be sure? That’s where I was.

I just wrote “CANCER” as the answer to why I was being seen today.

Self-reflection…I wrote that and I am apparently angry inside. Wow. Who knew?

Well, there is a pretty good chance the lady handing me the forms picked up on my angst because while I was staring blankly at the paper, she said:

“Here are two bottles of dye for you to drink.”

“Actually, you can give me one because I can choke down about one third of one bottle before I start to puke.”

“Okie dokie, then! Here is one bottle. Do what you can, Honey.”

Obviously the “angry person” had not only taken over my handwriting but also my voice and dialog.

I answered the rest of the questions but my eyes continued to be drawn back to those letters…

C A N C E R

If I knew why or what I was feeling, I hope you know by now that I would share it with you, but I don’t know the answer to either.

Big Daddy came in and sat beside of me as I had completed the information update and was now forcing that horrible thick-quid down my throat.

I was shortly escorted back into the CT Scan area and they told Big Daddy he would have to wait outside of the door or in the lobby. He chose outside the door. I undressed and lie down while the techs gathered their needles and IV paraphernalia. I explained that I was a “hard stick” and that my veins blow and that I will cry. I asked if Big Daddy could please come in while they were putting the IV in if he promised to leave before the radiation started. They agreed, of course.

Big Daddy came in and took my left hand, and cradled it to his chest. I appreciated this gesture far more than I could put into words here but please remember, he just had spinal surgery and his range of motion is significantly reduced. Bending over seems so simple and commonplace, but it isn’t for him. Not anymore. And yet, there he was, bending over to hold my hand close to his heart.

I reminded the techs that they could only access my right arm because my left arm is off limits for sticks, blood pressure, and wearing my wedding band since the surgery. They understood. I needed to make sure they knew they were not only working with a limited tolerance level (me) but also with limited availability (sites). These sticks MUST count the FIRST time.

First vein, deep in the bend of my elbow, blows within sixty seconds.

Tears were already coming down and I was probably looking as pitiful as I felt. Big Daddy told me to keep looking at him, and I did. He also told me that for lunch we could just pick up some hot pockets, and put them in our coats for lunch. I was trying to concentrate on what he said but it didn’t make any sense. With as much vein-accessing-distraction as humanly possible, I asked what on earth he was talking about.

“Well, with my MRI this morning and your CT now, we should have enough radiation between us to cook up some hot pockets if we have them in our coats and hold hands”.

I laughed. The techs laughed. Big Daddy laughed. The needle was in.

Second vein, just below my wrist bone works just long enough to complete the scan and then it blows, too.

This was a good day because the test was actually completed before the vein blew more than twice.

Big Daddy was waiting for me just outside the door, of course, and we headed downstairs to the lab for my blood draw. Again, the place was full of sick people, old people, people not like me somehow.

The phlebotomist accessed the deep vein in the crook of my arm, just above where the vein had blown before. Now, with a blood draw, there is no catheter and they can use a butterfly needle, which she did and all was well.

My oncology visit went well and Dr. Horn said that he would see us in three months for the next round of blood work.

“No scans?”

“Nope, just blood work.”

“Well, ok then! See you in three months!”

And off we went, Big Daddy and I, to pick up some hot pockets for lunch.

Sometimes you just have to put anger, whether understandable or not, in the back seat for a while and get yourself some lunch.