I got an automated message on Friday, informing me that I had an appointment at the hospital at 9:45 Monday morning. No further information. And so, I dutifully entered said mystery appointment into my phone and got myself ready to go this morning, blissfully unaware of what was coming, and again, not planning to have anyone with me. “Hey – do you feel like coming to my mystery appointment Monday morning?” seemed a little bizarre. I let it slide. That said, my spidey-senses started up early in the morning and I called the Cancer Centre and they confirmed that I had a heart scan booked. You know, to see if it’s strong enough to start the poison tomorrow. I had my friend google the test while I got ready. The texts started coming in…
‘They’re going to inject you with radioactive dye’
‘They’re going to scan you. You’ll be there for about an hour.’
I call Diagnostics Imaging to confirm, and they brush it off cheerily. Oh no – no prep necessary. (No. Unless you’ve developed a completely irrational fear of injections, like I apparently have in the days since my PICC line placement) Tears start flowing while I’m driving and I have at least three I’M NOT DOING THIS moments on the way to the hospital. Then my yoga breathing in the parking lot, and I’ve got myself composed enough to walk into Diagnostic Imaging, mohawkery held high, and I sit in another waiting room plastered with comforting signs while I desperately try to distract myself with texting or 4-pictures-one-word, which is great unless you get stuck on one of them in a waiting room.
The nurse comes and gets me and asks me if I’ve ever had one of these before, in a similar tone a server would use in a restaurant while they ask you if you’ve tried the crême brulée. No, I respond. First time.
Then she hands me something to fill out, basically ensuring that there’s nothing living inside me right now, because it probably wouldn’t enjoy these next TWO injections. Ugh.
I have to turn my head now. So the nurse does her thing, and of course it doesn’t hurt very much at all, but I have anger inside me now. Like how is it that I have a central catheter attached to my body (my lovely PICC line, which is now very well accessorized, by the way, thanks to my amazing friends and collection of sparkly legwarmers) but I have still managed to have other veins opened up by needles three times since then??
And now that’s done, and tomorrow the real work begins. This whining about PICC lines and injections of tin and radiactive dye and blood-taking are all likely to seem pretty ridiculous to me 24 hours from now. I know this. (I am actually capable of logical thought, although this bog may cast some doubt on that fact)
I am gathering all of my talismans. I am digging deep for strength I never knew was there. I am crying a lot. I am a little bit pissed off. I am printing out pictures of my boys so their faces can be with me tomorrow when I start the series of big injections. I am so, so thankful to be surrounded by so much love and support. Taking you all with me tomorrow.