Welcome back! It feels as though a lifetime has passed since I last updated you on my cancer story. In reality, it has only been eight days, and there really has been very little progress to report.
In my last blog, I shared with you my experience at the Radiation Oncology clinic. I feel as though we all walked away from that blog feeling optimistic that my prognosis should be relatively favorable in getting rid of this horrific disease. Over the last eight days, I have thought a lot about the faces I saw in that clinic. I try to imagine what my optimism might look like if I were one of those patients. I could be like that brilliant young man, full of life and seemingly oblivious to the fact he has a life threatening cancer. I might be like the elderly man that was sitting across from me. He was alone, and looked as if he had been fighting a decade long war; his optimism shattered. If I didn't know any better, I might be gullible to believe cancer is an alien life form that has taken control of my mind. Once you know it's there, it feels as though the cancer takes residence in every waking thought and every restless dream.
Eight days has felt like a long time after having seen what cancer can do to people. I'm still optimistic, but I have some rapidly growing concerns. When I first went to the dental clinic, my "callus" was barely the size of a pencil eraser. It was annoying at times, but completely manageable. Now, it is nearly the size of a marble and hurts constantly. Over the last couple days, I get a sharp pain that radiates down the side and to the tip of my tongue. My teeth are extremely sensitive, especially to anything hot. This really sucks because I can't part from my morning coffee and evening tea. I feel like Dr. House, popping Motrin every couple hours like it's candy. If the cancer doesn't kill me-having a busted liver might. I think about going to the doctors for assistance, but I can't get past the thought of one of them saying, "Dude... you have cancer. Duh!" It really is a waiting game.
I've also been on the phone a lot with my case manager trying to either secure more medical appointments, or coordinating TriCare referrals for those appointments-she truly has been an absolute hero throughout this entire ordeal. I have two appointments this week. The first is a computerized tomography (CT) scan, which I had today. (We'll get to that in a minute.) The second is for tomorrow morning, which is the one we have all been waiting for-the Otolaryngologist, i.e., the ENT surgeon at Banner UMC. So, progress has been made, but I simply have yet to receive any additional information that might clue us in on the status of this cancer.
I had to work a 24 hour shift at the fire department last night. Our day was busy as usual. We conducted live fire training with Tucson International Airport. Davis-Monthan AFB is one of very few locations where we are authorized to burn actual jet fuel for training. Most bases use propane because is burns cleaner. As a firefighter, we like using the real stuff because it provides us a more realistic representation of what we might see if a plane actually crashes and bursts into flames. Yesterday was a bit windy and Tucson's fluctuating temperatures have made for a very unpredictable inversion layer. We tried to hold off our training for as long as we could, in hopes for a more favorable weather condition, but there came a point when we just had to get it done. Half way through our training fires, we must have experienced a downward bust of pressure because the smoke plume moved awfully close to where many of us were staged. One of my young firefighters quickly pointed out that if we don't move, we might become exposed to carcinogens. I chuckled at the irony.
After a long night of emergency calls, I decided to abandon my plans of running errands. Instead, I treated myself to a well-deserved massage before heading to my radiology appointment. I wish I could inform you that the massage was enjoyable, which I'm sure it was, but I must have been so tired that I fell asleep almost immediately. I woke briefly when I was told to roll over, only to fall back into a deep slumber. After the masseuse woke me up, I sheepishly thanked her-embarrassed that I hadn't remembered a thing.
I only had a thirty minutes to spare before I was expected to be at the radiology clinic. Luckily, it was only a few miles away. I walked in a couple minutes early to a waiting room packed full of people. I spent the next couple minutes people watching as I waited in line to check-in at the registration desk. The gal behind the desk let me know that she liked my last name. She asked me if people called me Smiley as a kid. I explained to her how some classmates had failed to realize Smiley was my real name until they saw it typed in our yearbook. I had only one form to fill out, which was a release form for the contrast dye they had to pump into me for the CT scan.
By the looks of the waiting room, I thought I would be waiting awhile. I was pleasantly surprised when I heard my name called after only a couple minutes of waiting. The nurse's name was the same as my late father who succumbed from cancer a year and a half ago. He walked me back to a large room with what looked like a huge plastic doughnut sitting in the middle. From the doughnut hole was a long, flat bed with a supersized syringe attached to it. The nurse asked me to place all my personal belongings on a chair in the corner of the room. He then instructed me to remove my shoes and crawl up onto the bed. This was turning out to be much different than I had expected. No hospital gown? Nope! Normal clothes. This was not what I had in mind at all. My uneasiness with not knowing was getting the best of me. I began interrogating the nurse on what I should expect. He informed me that I was going to lay down on the bed where he would then start an IV on me. This is where the contrast was pumped into my veins. He then explained that he would calibrate the scanner to my body before taking the images, and that before I knew it, we would be done. I was in a bit of shock to learn that this process was going to be quick, and not long and tedious as I had imagined.
As the nurse ran my IV, he informed me that the contrast dye would make me feel warm and slightly uncomfortable inside. I didn't like the idea of feeling uncomfortable and immediately got nervous. He went on to give me the last of my instructions before stepping out of the room.
The CT scanner began moving the bed back and forth. I could see a laser beam being used to center my body on the scanner. A magnet or something began circling around the doughnut, increasing speed over time. I felt like I was trapped in the middle of an alien spaceship. It was eerie enough to only heighten my already nervous state. There were a few times when a female voice came from the machine instructing me to take a deep breath and hold it. After a moment of movement, the voice asked that I resumed breathing normally.
When it was time for the real scan, the nurse came over a PA to tell me it was time to inject the contract dye. My hands were over my head. I had to keep them there until my chest scan was complete. I felt a tingle in my hands. Then, in my feet. Suddenly, I was warm all-over. It was indeed uncomfortable. My bladder got really hot, and I felt as if I had peed my pants. The concern with the discomfort was almost enough to distract me from what was going on with the CT scanner. The female voice once again told me to hold my breath. I did, and again I was moving back and forth as the scanner took my picture. The second scan was of my neck. For this one, I was allowed to drop my arms to my side and relax. The contrast was already in my body, so I only had to lay still.
Before I knew it, the entire ordeal was over. I had survived my first encounter with the alien doughnut. It really wasn't all that bad. Knowing what I know now...it would be a walk in the park if I had to do it again. From the time the nurse called me back, to the time I was heading for the parking lot was only fifteen to twenty minutes. It was a bit anticlimactic to be honest.
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