Redemption

Elgar would be spinning like a top in his coffin, but "Land of Hope & Glory" was playing in my head as I strode, triumphant, from the MRI suite at Princess Margaret Hospital, this afternoon.  My regal pale blue cotton robes floated around me, and the booties-that-look-like-hair-nets softened my imperial step on the cold linoleum, but the effect was as magnificent as circumstances would allow.

2mg of Ativan, the BFF, and a delightful technician I'll name "Darling" got me smoothly through the IV installation, then into -- and 25 minutes later out of -- the trauma tube.  What a relief to have it behind me.  But what a kick to finally achieve what had felt so difficult on previous attempts.  And how proud I am to have been able to do, at last, what The Dutchman requires of me.  I do so want to be the pefect patient.

I hope I'll be able to learn the results, before I head into OR on Tuesday.  I'm quietly concerned that the images will show further areas of concern, and the course of my surgery may change.  But I'll burn that bridge when I cross it.  'Til then, I'm happy to have tucked another success into my medical folio.  Now where's that pink champagne?

Twenty-six With a Bullet

Stressing tonight about Sunday’s MRI redux, I Googled “MRI and claustrophobia”. A dozen URLs later, I found myself downloading an MP3 that, with luck, won’t make the 25 Most Played list on my iPod: 23 minutes of sound from inside an MRI machine. Between now and then, I’ll do my best to simulate the experience, in order to stick with it, this time.

To play along at home, click the MRI MP3s URL on the Quack-free Reading list at right, download the file, get naked, lie face down on a hard surface, cover yourself with a sheet or towel, plug in your earphones, close your eyes... and try to relax.

Ups and Downs on the Cancer Coaster

The Dutchman’s assistant called, yesterday, with a fist full of information. First – and most fabulous – a surgery date: January 26. Sooner than I’d expected, which is dynamite. And more than two weeks in advance of my planned Olympic departure, which is even better.

Second – and far less exciting – an order for another biopsy. ANOTHER biopsy. A THIRD fucking biopsy.  Four months in on Monday, and they're still sticking pins in my breast-shaped voodoo doll.  If the strategy is to perform a lumpectomy five cores at a time, they’re on the right track. I thought we’d done all of that we needed to, but this go-round they’re apparently looking for evidence of invasive cancer (i.e. something other than DCIS). If it’s found, my surgery will be adjusted to include a sentinel lymph node biopsy (http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/therapy/sentinel-node-biopsy), in order to determine whether the cancer has spread. My third date with The Dutchman is set for January 7; no dinner and a movie, just biopsy results and a confirmed plan for surgery.

So, back on the table, but this time at Princess Margaret Hospital. I’ve now sampled the biopsy suites at three facilities: PMH wins, hands down. They were able to squeeze me in (pardon the mammographic pun) today, rather than make me wait ‘til the new year. I hated that idea, yesterday, but now, on the other side of the procedure and a lousy night’s sleep, I’m glad it’s over.

Third – and most annoying – I’ll be scheduled for a do-over on the dreaded MRI. But, this time, I’ll go armed with a sedative. Crap, I hope it’s a strong one.

I Got an F in the MRI

No more than 5 minutes in the machine and I’m frantic to get out. Face down, eyes closed, breasts in a cage, forehead resting on an inverted face cradle, ears plugged against the horns and sirens and buzzers, breathing only through my nose, arms extended above my head, feet first into the machine, commanded to be still.

I have an IV needle in my left arm into which dye will be injected at the 15-minute mark, and a rubber ball in my right hand with which to call for help, if I need it. And I need it. I want out. Now.

I’d open my eyes, but there’s nothing to see; it’s dark and I’m only three or four inches away from the sled on which I’ve been fed into this contraption. I’m afraid if I open my eyes, I’ll raise my head, and bang the back of my skull on the top side of the capsule, which will truly make me panic. I’m breathing deeply through my nose – unable to breathe through my mouth, which remains pressed against the white sheet covering the top of the cage in which my breasts hang like pale puddings.  My heart is hammering.  It’s cold, but I can feel sweat pricking my skin from scalp to toes.

I’ve already listened to the machine cycle a complete series of whatever it’s doing – warning bells, sirens, silence, buzzing, more silence, whirring, silence again – and it’s begun a second set. I’ve no idea how long a cycle takes: two minutes? three, tops. So, a dozen more before the dye, and fifteen more after that. I can’t do it. I can’t stay.

I’m faint. If I was vertical, I’d be woozy. I’m frightened. And, apparently, I’m a quitter. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to squeeze the ball, or press down with my thumb on what might be a button on its upward end. So, I do both. Repeatedly. The technician asks me if I need help, and I tell her I need her to take me out. When she does -- almost quickly enough -- I’m weak and wobbly and chilled and on the verge of vomiting. And I can’t imagine another 30 minutes in the machine. Children can do this; why can’t I?

I capitulate. I apologize. I leave.

More Tests I Can't Study For

Second verse, same as the first.  Another ultrasound (warm gel, this time -- you can always tell the finer establishments by their upgraded amenities), and another biopsy.  I had expected this biopsy to be done during a mammogram -- kind of a catch and release program -- but it was done under ultrasound, just like the last one.

It seems pretty evident that there's lots to look at under the magic wand -- other than the obvious, I mean.  And I'm told I'll be scheduled for an MRI to follow.  My research indicates that's all about lymph nodes;  it's hard to know whether they saw something they'd like to follow up on, or whether that's all about ruling things out.  Naturally, the docs (two radiologists, this time -- both broads) and technicians (only one of those) won't have a meaningful conversation with you.  When I asked what they were looking at so intently, the response was that they were deciding on the optimal location for the biopsy.  I refrained from a "well, duh" response, as the doc was the one with the needle in hand!

On the upside, they got what they were looking for;  there are definitely microcalcifications in the samples, this go-round. They put a rush on the analysis in the hope that The Dutchman will receive the results by the 17th -- our second date.  If that doesn't happen, I imagine there won't be much to talk about.  I hate those awkward silences.

So, I'm now the proud owner of two identical adjacent puncture wounds in my right boob. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was part of a soft core version of the Twilight saga.