My oh my, why an MRI?
Entry posted by Sue BB in Living with lung cancer
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Well, this was it — the beginning of what would be several months of “dis-ease.” It began with that phone call from Dr. Russell.
I never met Dr. Russell. He was the doctor that my primary care physician called right after the first suspicious x-ray. He called Feb. 23 and said there was nothing he could do for me. It was cancer.
“Call an oncologist.”
“I don’t know any oncologists,” I said.
“I will ask my nurse to schedule an appointment for you.
“Thanks,” I think.
Next on the agenda was to find an oncologist. Do I know one? Why would I know one? The only person close to me that had cancer was my Aunt Alice and she lived for 20+ years after her diagnosis. My Uncle Ed had a big party for her. He said rather than wait till a funeral we were going to celebrate Alice while she was still alive.
Hey, if I survive the next eight weeks, maybe that would be a great idea. To have a party, see my friends before I became too weak or ill to be around. I want to go to my own funeral.
I miss her so much.
Dr. Reynolds was her doctor. I guess I did know an oncologist. He went to my church and we went on youth ski trips together as chaperones. He told me Aunt Alice was a cancer miracle. I believe she was here so long because she cared for everyone else above herself. She never complained and rarely said anything about her pain. She selflessly prayed daily for all her children, nieces and nephews. Alice was well-known in the community because she continued to work as an ER nurse for many years while fighting cancer. Now it’s my turn. I didn’t feel very hopeful at this moment in time. I felt adrift in a world I never expected to be a part of.
A nurse named Kayla called me the next day. She told me about nurse navigators; a term unfamiliar to me. Wow, first the PET scan space ship and now a “navigator.” I needed a pilot.
It’s a cool name for someone helping you find your way through everything that you don’t understand about health care. For me that meant a lot. Having experienced nothing but the best of health for 66 years, hospitals and clinics and tests and doctors are on an unfamiliar planet.
When I stepped off the PET platform Thursday, I entered “space — the final frontier.”
The nurse navigator called and said she would call back with an appointment. The alert that new information was in MyChart came before that second call. A person shouldn’t always read those notes before talking to a navigator. Kayla’s notes were “regarding incoming urgent referral to Dr. Kurniali for newly diagnosed lung cancer.” Dr. Wos was on call that Friday for urgent concerns — declined. Dr. Kurniali would return on Monday.
What did that mean? They declined to help me? Were there that many spaceships with patients circling the planet waiting for a turn to land in a doctor’s office? It was a long weekend for sure.
I took my phone off silent, something I never do. It’s possible I held it in my hand the entire weekend waiting for a call from the clinic. On Monday, the nurse navigator did call. Finally.
She said there was a new doctor in town taking patients. Just arrived from Mayo. The spelling of his name was difficult to pronounce so she said to call him Dr. Rocket. Seriously? First the space ship, the navigator and now Dr. Rocket. Coincidence?
The first oncology appointment was March 1 and all 70 minutes packed with more information than I cared to know. It’s difficult to listen to someone when there’s a tape running in your head, “you have cancer, you have cancer.” What Dr. Rocket and his nurses explained to me unfolded hour by hour during the next two or three weeks.
The one thing I do remember not seeing the PET scan, I didn’t want to know how much cancer my lung could contain. Without the scan Dr. Rocket simply said, “you have Stage IIIc lung cancer.”
“What? It couldn't be Stage I or Stage II? It was already at Stage III, that’s one step below Stage IV.”
But, those words were not as scary as, “lung cancer likes to move to the brain, we need to make sure the cancer hasn’t spread.”
Wait, what? That’s all I needed. An MRI was scheduled for that afternoon. After plowing through the remains of an overnight snow storm to get to the first of many 8 a.m. appointments, our stay at the hospital was extended by four or more hours. There was no choice, we had to get it done.
MRIs freak me out.
As silly as this sounds, there are two things that cause panic attacks, fear of heights and fear of enclosed places. When we ski, which I love to do, I white knuckle the chair lift ride to the top of the mountain. But, my biggest fear is being buried alive in a small box. You know like you read in some many horror stories.
Naturally the nurse said I could have something to relax me. Thank goodness I had a driver. Medications, even over the counter pain relievers, were used sparingly at our hours. A controlled substance was sure to quickly put me into orbit. We, the nurse and I, after discussing my sensitivity to drugs, decided on .5 mg of Adavan instead of a one milligram tab she first suggested. It was a wise choice. The prescription was for two tablets just in case.
There was plenty of time, and no dietary restrictions, for lunch before the MRI. Instead of pancakes we had Panera. I should have gone for pancakes. Pancakes seemed to sit better with my churning stomach.
We waited for the prescription to be filled before heading to the MRI building across the street from the hospital. We were early. The nurse called my name before we had a chance to settle in, so I swallowed the first Adavan tablet. Then, more fill-in-the blanks again. Same questions, different clipboard. Always name and birthday.
During the intake conversation, I said something opening the door to the nurse asking, “where are you planning on going?” She didn’t mean shopping or out to eat.
“I know where I am going. I’m on a fast-track to eternity.”
“Would you like me to pray with you?”
“Absolutely.”
The next 45 minutes were spent trying to stay awake for the MRI. It was a struggle and I paid for it later in stiff muscles from holding myself upright dressed in one of those flimsy gowns and sitting on a straight back chair. Thank goodness I refused a one milligram tab of sedative. The staff would have had to pour me on the MRI platform.
It was time. The young man who helped into the next room had a familiar voice. Maybe it was his face as his mask was not properly covering his mouth.
“I know you from somewhere.”
No response.
“Did you go to BSC?”
“I’m not from here.”
“Hmmm.”
He was explaining how the test was going to work. As usual, lay down, really loud noise, inject dye, really loud noise, finished. I have had an MRI before.
“I can do it.” Newer machines are not the dark tubes that cause such panic I have to visualize happy places or count backwards from 100 to survive. I keep telling myself if I move halfway through the scan, the techs will have to start over and that would be bad. So I endure the 20-25 minutes. It was over.
As, I was positioned on the machine’s hard surface, it hit me.
“You buy sauerkraut from me at the farmers market.”
He conceded. “I don’t usually like people to know I work here. I still have some of that sauerkraut left.”
The MRI was loud, even with ear plugs, loud. I was very happy when that ended. I was thankful for the arm offered as sitting up too fast makes me dizzy, even before I take any drugs. This young man with the southern accent walked me to the dressing room just in case.
“Hey,” he said before going back to work. “Do you mind if I tell my girlfriend I saw you.”
“Not at all.” Nothing would make me happier.
As usual, the test results were in my online medical chart by the time we got home that day. It was a long day, but not so unbearable. The paragraph of findings at the bottom of the narrative included many unfamiliar words and five sentences that began with no.
The first ray of hope — my brain was free and clear of tumors.
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