Reprise, Snaky Pin Cushion, PET/CT, Bacon

Me, thanking God for my latest biopsy results.

So, tonight I was back by popular demand at Chico Theater Co. Okay, not quite by popular demand. More like by casual prearrangement. Nonetheless, I got to go on stage and be a nun, an aristocrat and Fraulein Schweiger the abiding bower, none of whom have breast canser.

I was again substituting for Kathryn, who was celebrating her parents' 50th wedding anniversary tonight. Both of the times I have played her role, someone has approached me after the show and asked how Ashley and Amber (Kathryn's daughters) are doing. That was an awkward conversation to have . . . twice. "Um, I'm not Kathryn, I'm filling in for her tonight. Clearly you don't know her well enough to recognize that I am indeed an entirely separate human being, but I'll be sure to tell her you said hello." Ha! (No disrespect intended to Kathryn, her daughters or their well wishers. On the contrary: the inquiries speak well of all three of them.)


Okay, show's over. On to business.

DR. MAZJ'S OFFICE GETS SCHTUFF DONE!

Not only did they get the authorization and appointment for the PET/CT in a jiffy (more about that in a sec), they also already scheduled my port placement! On Friday the 15th I will be having a device installed in my chest that will be the mode of delivery for all my chemo medications. I don't know yet when we'll start to use the device for that purpose, but I'm sure Dr. Mazj will tell me when I meet with him this coming week to go over my PET/CT results.

It occurs to me that Dr. Mazj deserves a nick name. I'm thinking The Taj Mahazj. Will someone please research for me whether that would be a politically/culturally appropriate thing to call a thin, hairy Turkish oncologist who practices in an Adventist hospital? If it turns out to be terribly offensive, I'll take your ideas for alternative nick names in the comments below.

Anyway, here is what a chemo port looks like:

The cute purple part goes under the skin of my chest and acts like a pin cushion, and the snaky part is threaded into my vena cava, the vessel that takes stuff to my heart. All this so that I won't have junkie tracks on my arms from too frequent IVs.

I was assured by Tara, who called from Enloe to prepare me for the appointment, that the installation of this snaky pin-cushion is not a surgery. It's a procedure. I couldn't believe she actually used those words, because one of my all-time favorite Billy Crystal bits pokes fun of that very thing. Watch it here. 

The PET/CT was rather uneventful. Better to tell of it in pictures.

Here I am waiting an entire hour to be called from the waiting room:

Making me wait an hour is why North State Advanced Imaging will never have a cool nick name like the Taj Mahazj.

 Here is the barium cocktail I was given so that my intestines would glow during the scan:

All it needed was a toothpick umbrella.

Here I am drinking said barium cocktail. It actually wasn't half bad. It reminded me of a Tropicalada from Orange Julius. Then again, I'd been made to fast all day and this was a 1 p.m. appointment which didn't start until 2, so they probably could have given me Valvoline and I would've thought it tasted good.

Here is how happy I was to finally be called in and getting changed for the scan:

Imagine my delight when I noticed the scrubs they provided matched my socks like a diva!

Well, I was too chicken to bring my iPhone to the rest of my stops, so words will have to suffice. First, I got to sit in a cozy recliner and get an IV that pumped radioactiveness into my vessels so that everything outside my intestines would also glow during the scan. The cool part was I had to rest for 40 minutes so it could spread to all my parts. The technician, Joel, covered me in wonderful heated blankets and told me to feel free to sleep. Coconut cocktails and warm naps must be how they compensate for making people sit for an hour in their waiting room.

Too soon the nap was over and I was taken to another Great Scott room with a scanner that made the MRI machine from last week look frumpy. Joel had me lie on a table on my back with my arms extended up behind my head resting on what he probably thinks was a comfortable pillow. I had to remain unmoving on that table for 32 minutes. 

The first ten minutes were a bit like a feeble amusement park ride, where my table slid back and forth through two imposing circular structures. Lights occasionally blinked and sounds temporarily whirred. A series of tiny signs on the inside of the circles announced "laser aperture - do not look directly at beam." 

For the remaining 22 minutes the table moved four inches every two minutes. I had been told this would be the case, so I thought counting it out would be the best way to pass the time without moving. Apparently, two minutes takes about 170 seconds to pass. And I was disappointed to learn that keeping track of the 11 sets of two minute periods was beyond my ability. 

Joel wished me well and said if he runs into me again he hopes it's in Trader Joe's, not at his place of employment. I left the building with no fanfare. I probably should start shopping at Trader Joe's since I have canser and all, and I ought to exercise too. But my wise RN sister pointed something out to me that I hadn't considered. 

Last year I lost 20+ pounds. I'm probably going to lose that much again in the next six months on chemo. If I want to have enough abdominal fat left with which to make two my-size boobs in the Fall, I might want to chub up a bit.

Hey, it's as good an excuse as any to order more bacon! Which reminds me of a shirt I think I ought to add to my infusion wardrobe: