Kiss My Ass

Tuesday morning was the big PET scan. It was raining, chilly and grey. I took advantage of the valet when I arrived at the hospital, a patient perk I tried to strictly avoid throughout treatment as it seemed like that would be giving in to cancer. When I checked in at registration I was escorted back out into the rain, to the mobile scan unit I had passed in the parking lot on my way in.

Shelly, the tech, sat me down in a tiny little room at one end of the trailer, verified that I had properly fasted, tested my glucose level, asked me twice if I might be pregnant and than inserted an IV of FDG, a radioactive glucose that would be taken in by any cancer cells. Then she left, closing the reinforced door behind her so that she and her lab partner would experience less exposure themselves. No magazines, no TV, work email slow, I was left alone with nothing but my own thoughts. I tried to focus on the muzak, make lists of things I had to do before surgery, pre-draft a blog entry in my head, anything to avoid thinking about the possibility that this test might not yield the results I needed it to. After 45 minutes, enough time to allow the glucose to spread throughout my body, I spent 20 minutes on the table for the scans. When I left they gave me a goody bag of crackers and chocolate. Someone asked me if it felt very surreal, but this entire journey has been surreal.

Waiting for two days wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Once outside that tiny room and absorbed in the day to day of life again, I was right back to believing all would be right. Except for that last hour before the appointment, sitting in my office sweating it out. What if he doesn't have results? What if there's a spot on my liver? What if? But all is right. Dr. Fisher didn't make me wait at all - before he was even over the threshold of the examination room yesterday he blurted out the PET scan was normal. No detectable cancer, complete remission. So there Steve and I are - crying, hugging, kissing, breathing - and then pulling ourselves together to talk through the rest of our questions, to understand what the next five years holds.

Regardless of what I have to look forward to in terms of surgery, scans and blood tests, despite the 30% chance of recurrence, ignoring the anxiety I know I'll feel periodically the next few years as I constantly question every twinge and ache...today I'm cancer free, today we celebrate.