The Backstory (Part 4)

January 16, 2007: This is the day of the bone scan, which Mike talked about in his post. I'll just add that there is humor in being radioactive. If we shut all the lights off, will you be able to see me still? Actually, I'll be radioactive again on Monday when I get the PET scan and again for the surgery when they do the sentinel node biopsy. I checked to be sure all this radioactivity wouldn't make me glow. I learn they're far enough apart that no harm will be done. Well, that's comforting. Good thing they're not all stacked up next to each other. Maybe I'd look like that glow monster thing from the old Scooby Doo episode.

We go down to the basement of UMC, to Nuclear Medicine, for this one. It's very dim down there (many of the lights have been deliberately turned off) and you feel a bit like you're in a cave. I'd find it very depressing to work there. When we come back after the three-hour wait, they take me back and I lie down on the machine. It's dark here but maybe that means I'll sleep. The tech is really nice and makes every effort to make sure I'm comfortable - even offering me a blanket in case I'm cold. The machine is a bit like a CT machine except that instead of you moving in and out of it, it moves back and forth over you - and it isn't donut-shaped but more like a square. You have to lie very still for about 45 minutes, so they make you hit the ladies' before you lie down. The tech then adjusts the machine so it lowers all the way down but still leaves room to travel over my body freely. That makes it pretty close to my face and now I remember being disconcerted by this last time. The tech tells me the first scan will take about 20 minutes and it will start at my head and move to my feet. He cautions me not to move my head until the machine travels lower.

I close my eyes, thinking maybe I'll fall asleep. Then I worry if I fall asleep, I might accidentally move, snore, drool, or twitch. I also try NOT to think about peeing. Somehow knowing that I can't get up has the potential to make my bladder demand it. To avoid this, I just try to zone out. When I open my eyes a little while later, the machine is half-way down my body. I think about moving my head, but what if some other body part moves when I do that? I really don't want to risk them having to do this again, so I stay still. It occurs to me that being short has its advantages, as the machine doesn't have to go as far as for some tall person. The first scan is done quicker than 20 minutes, I think, because it's just sitting over my feet (which have now fallen asleep) and not doing anything after only a short while. I can't move my feet, though, because they're trapped by the machine. Finally, they come check on me and tell me there will be four more scans - side views of my skull and ribs, which is standard for patients who have or have had cancer.

I have to keep my head still again and by now I'm getting pretty bored. I strain to hear the muted conversations of the techs. I can't. Dang. Where's good gossip when you need to be distracted? Now I try looking around just with my eyes. I can sort of see out of the corner of my eye a little sign. I strain to make out the words without moving head, which end up being something like: "In case of neuron gas leak, this room something something be evacuated something 2 minutes." I want to laugh at this. Greeeaaat...so what about the people trapped by the machines? How could they possibly get us all out from under them in 2 minutes? These thoughts entertain me until the scans are done. At this point they let me get up. Even though we have to wait some more (see Mike's post), at least there was no gas leak and aside from the needle stick, all I had to do was lie there. Not so bad for today.