Regardless of the situation, no matter how hopeless the outcome may be, I will never quit, and I will never back down. I have become the wolf.


Did have to chuckle. I warned Joe that this was a long test to have to wait for, cause we can’t wait together. What they tell you is an hour and a half is in reality two to three hours depending on the persons ahead of you. We walked out and he was like “damn, that took forever.” I so tried to warn him.

Here’s the rundown on a PET Scan.  You check in with this lady that talks more than any woman on the View ever could.  Every thing under the sun she talks about.  You finally get checked in and you get sent to the “benches” to wait your turn.  These benches are as hard as rocks and just about as comfortable.  So you wait, and you wait, and you squirrel magazines cause you’ve been here before and you know what’s in store.  Joe looks at me funny every time I score a “car guy” magazine.  He has no idea how rare those are in waiting rooms, or how long the wait. 

The tech come out and welcomes me into the trailer hereby called the “Freezer”.  First I get to sit in a leather chair in a 60 degree room.  And the ride is just beginning.  Knowing in advance about the freezer I was prepared.  Leggings, sweats, t-shirt, long sleeve shirt, sweat shirt, heavy socks and warm slippers.  So what if people look at me funny.  I’m warm dammit.  The lovely tech takes my hand and gently shoves a pick into my finger to draw blood, she then squeezes it and takes a sample.  Good news,  I’m a 72, but then anything under 200 is good for them.  We then proceed to the fun part of the ride, the IV insertion.  Keep in mind that I just had chemo a week ago and my veins still haven’t recovered.  So after three tries and an arm change, we finally get it in.  For all of two minutes.  She flushes the IV with saline (or whatever they use) then injects the radioactive sugar into the IV.  Two minutes and she’s done.  Zip, the IV is out and I’m on my way….. to the next quiet room.

I’m now required to relax in a hospital room with the lights out and the curtains drawn for an hour.  Door closed, no visitors.  I’m now considered “hot” and would set off counters in three states. 

After a long and chilly nap, it’s time for the actual test.  Back up the lift to the Freezer.  This time I go into the scanner room.  A long ugly tube, makes a claustrophobic person kinda twitch, ya know?  Then they make it worse.  They strap my feet together and my legs down so I can’t move.  They start to draw the strap crossed my chest and I stopped her cold.  “It’s in case you move”, she says.  “I won’t”, I reply.  “You can’t know that,” she states.  “I’ve had eighteen of these,” I explain gently.  “I don’t move, and I don’t get strapped down.  You can leave the band on the feet but release the legs.”  I think she could tell I was serious cause the straps went away.  I requested a towel for my eyes and told her to begin.

The test takes a half an hour.  You can’t move or they start over.  I worked as a mannequin for 2 years.  I can stand still for hours.  When it was over, she told me that no-one had ever done it unstrapped for her where she didn’t have to do it over.  I think I impressed her.

Now I get to wait till Thurs. for my next two tests.  I hope I can convince them to use the same IV for both tests.  Doesn’t make sense to do one then insert a second..

Oh, the good news is that Joe was able to move my oncology appointment from the 25th to the 17th.  So I get my results one week sooner. 

Don’t know if I’m sad or glad about that.  Been waking up and wanting to make plans and being unable to even decide to plant a flower.  What if I’m not here to see it bloom.  I’m having a tough time holding it together right now. Perhaps I can get the doc’s to up my meds somewhere. Frick it, might as well be stoned and scared rather than just scared. 

Seems like only four months ago I felt robust and healthy.  I could wrestle with H and swing I around.  Now I can barely make it up the stairs.  I can feel the meat melting off my bones.  I don’t like this “survivor” feeling.  My bones poke into my butt when I sit for too long, so Joe took me out and bought me a new recliner.  It’s my perfect chair.  I took my Gramma’s advice and circled the chairs three times.  I sat in all of them and I kept coming back to this one chair.  The price was reasonable, It fits me like a glove and it’s so soft and wonderful.  Not to mention the knitting and crochet storage in the arms and the drink holders and the heat and the massage.  I can’t wait to get my new chair.  Tomorrow.

Off to bed.  I think I figured out a way to torch tomorrow without having Mom worry.  I’ll move the video camera down stairs and she can watch what I’m doing.  It’s a baby video monitor, but if it saves her from worrying about me…  It might work.

Night all.  And remember:

As long as a man stands in his own way, everything seems to be in his way.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Comments on: "First of three done for today." (2)

  1. I’m an oncology nurse, a port would save your veins and can be removed at the end of your treatment. This would make all the lab draws and IV ‘stuff’ less stressful for you, you’ve got enough going on.

    • Had one of those once upon a cancer diagnosis. They took it out in 2008. I would gladly get another one except they want to give me a “pick” which would make it impossible to swim. Where my port was before is one huge scar cause no-one told me to wear a bra for at least a month till the scar completly heals. Those suckers pull apart really easy and leave a horrendous scar.

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