June was a hot month of ridiculous humidity, no rain and hazy days. Steamy heat aside, I still had a number of medically-related appointments scheduled during the month. In between medical visits, I managed to arrange for some therapeutic chess and some emotional perspective regarding what Cancer means to me.
Back in May I had gone for blood work to have my cholesterol levels checked, per a routine request from my family doctor. My appointment was on June 5th, and I took the opportunity to cluster together some of my other medical visits: the Port Flush and the B12 shot, the core of my monthly regimen. So early that morning I headed off to the clinic where I expected to get my usual needle-into-the-chest, followed by sucking-blood-out and pushing-it-back-in routine.
My port's been in me for two years now and a monthly flush is boring. I've detailed all the things that have happened from no blood return to blood return (OK, there are only two things that occur in a Port flush..) But this time there was a novelty: a recall was issued for my particular kit. Now the kit I usually receive does not have any drugs, just bandages and sterile flush syringes and bits and pieces of medical fluff. There was no explanation why the kit was being recalled. I suppose that my imagination could contrive some sort of scenario where my kit was mixed up with one that creates a strain of Super Mutant Zombies...."mmmmmm Brains...."
A time was set to pick up the old kit and give me the new. But a week after receiving the replacement kit, another one showed up! I was confused. The delivery agent was also confused but still gave me the second kit. Later on I would get a call from the clinic folks again asking me when they could deliver another kit...I was being overwhelmed with Port flush kits! It gets odder still: my replacement kit was only one component: a Heparin syringe. Now Heparin was something I received while in the hospital but it's never been part of my monthly Port flush kit. But I carried all this along with me for my scheduled visit to get flushed.
As expected, when my nurse examined the p.f. kit she was doubtful I needed the included Heparin. After consulting the doctor's notes for my case she confirmed that the newly-added item could be ignored. The port was flushed and I was rewarded with a good blood return. My port still works, sitting there against the day I may need to call upon it again. With one item off my list for that day, it was off to my next appointment and a B12 shot.
My B12 is taken monthly, via injection. I bring my little vial of B12 with me to the doctor's office, and a nurse gives me the injection. This kind of B12 is administered via syringe into the muscle (or in my case where muscle should be on my upper arm) so I try to wear short sleeves or easily-rolled-up shirts. After the shot a little bandage is applied to cover the miniscule hole from the needle and I'm done until next month. With this months obligation fulfilled, I was set to meet with the family doc to discuss cholesterol numbers. There was also an additional item that I wanted to discuss with him.
For some time I've been complaining about some lower back pain. And a sore left hip. And my right pinky finger is achy too. Plus my tailbone feels painful after sitting and trying to stand up. In short I can't always find a way to comfortably sit or stand for prolonged periods; but walking and bike riding, even extended sessions, were OK. My fear of course is that new unexplained pains herald the return of Cancer. I wanted to let my doctor know what I was feeling, I wanted reassurance that I was going to be OK.
So I was poked and prodded, and asked to stand and twist (no hula hoop gyrations required). I was asked about my sleeping, if I had any sweating at night or difficulty breathing. Maybe I had early onset arthritis "I'm only 52 I'm too young for arthritis" I thought. I would be scheduled for a bone scan later that month.
A Bone Scan is a new procedure for me, it's a Nuclear Medicine procedure, which requires an injection of a radioactive solution. Fortunately there was no special preparation required for this procedure, so I could eat and drink normally. The process itself was in two parts, the first was the initial 'snapshot' and the injection. I would then return in a few hours and have a full body bone scan. I was also advised to drink lots of fluids during the day and avoid crossing the border. For those who live near the US-Canada border, the highly-sensitive radiation detectors at these crossing will pinpoint the radioactive markers circulating in your blood. Hijinks and hilarity are sure to ensue if that happens. Fortunately I never left the hospital during my wait.
This bone scan is a lengthy process, and you are required to lie flat on your back, not move, and oh yes, your arms and legs are bound by velcro straps. The table doesn't move, but a sliding camera goes under, around and over you. Your legs and arms shouldn't dangle, so you're in quasi-mummy mode. Except the velcro fasteners for the band supporting my arms began to slip. Every few minutes I could hear the distinctive sound as the velcro's bonds lost a little more cohesion. It became really interesting when whatever mechanism moving the camera caught on the band and I could feel the tension building against my arms. Fortunately the tension lessoned and the camera completed its scan without further impediment.
At one point the process was stopped while the technician placed a lead apron over my abdomen. My arms were then freed of their restraints and placed on top of this apron. Scanning was just for the arms and wrists and hands I guess.
A final scan was taken that went around and over me. It felt like I was in a reverse roller-coaster, where the car stays still and the track changes orientation. Weird experiences, but I can say that about all my Hospital visits this past couple of years.
In terms of procedures I think I would have been happier if the table were slightly wider so my arms could rest naturally flat without the velcro, or maybe a contoured ledge would make the patient feel better. Perhaps someone who makes these things will read my blog and ask for my input...
My medical procedures in June were not the only reminder of my experiences with Cancer. An awareness and fund-raising event known across the country as The Relay For Life was held for the Windsor/Lasalle area. While I have yet to formally participate, I've attended these ceremonies to remind myself that I am not the only one affected, not the only one who has to deal with sorrows this disease brings to people's lives. Most moving for me is the Luminary ceremony, as it honours everyone who has been touched by Cancer's shadow.
At its heart the Luminary ceremony is more than a memorium for those whose lives have passed or been affected by Cancer. It's about keeping the light of Hope shining, holding the shadow of Cancer at bay. Metaphor becomes reality when just after dusk the Luminary candles are lit by the efforts of dozens of volunteers. A single flickering point of light seems fragile and insubstantial on its own. But an array of thousands of such points, arranged in a continuous ribbon circling the large outdoor track brings a tightness to my chest. I am sad and proud at the same time.
The Relay walk will continue through the evening to morning. I will walk only for a short time however, as this event is not yet my event. I will pause my walk occasionally to read the messages written on the Luminaries. The phrase "In Memory of ...", is repeated in endless variations. I stop at the Luminaries I did for my parents. For me I can deal with my own Cancer. But why does it take the ones you love? It is enough for one evening, I go home, tired, proud, sad and contemplative. Next year I will do this again.
One thing I want to do is participate in the Survivor's Victory Lap. This is the start of the Relay For Life events for the night, and as implied, the first lap is walked by those who were determined to beat Cancer. Traditional wisdom supposes that a Cancer Survivor is one who is Cancer free for five years. Yup, I'll be doing that walk in 2015, for my 55th birthday. No problem.
