September 9th and I'm ready for my latest CT scan. I've got my cell phone turned off because that's what the sign in every Hospital waiting area requires. However my wi-fi enabled Android player is on. And my wi-fi enabled eReader is looking for hot spots. Fortunately for the Hospital, I didn't bring my Netbook or Tablet!
Back in May I did the first of two visits required by my post-cancer protocol. During the prior visit I was basically poked and prodded by my Oncologist. For the upcoming visit, I would need something more "medical-ly" ("medical-ish"?): a CT scan. CT exams have the remarkable ability to peer inside a human body by blasting it with radiation. The downside of course is that they blast you with radiation. Apparently Protocol required I get Yet Another CT Scan.
A letter from the Cancer Centre arrives, with details indicating the date and time of my CT. I'm instructed to have blood work before the CT, outside of my normal quarterly procedures. I would also have to purchase the whimsically-named "Redi Cat" contrast drink. Foremost was a requirement that I call the Cancer Clinic and report that I had received and read the letter. Which I did and a question arose: Did I really need to drink the Redi Cat. I was pretty sure I didn't last time (or was it the time before? I can't remember -hint: RECORD EVERYTHING!) The person on the other end of the call made some inquiries on my behalf, and they decided I didn't need to drink liquid chalk after all.
I avoided the busy Clinic day that would surely occur on the Tuesday following a Labour Day weekend, and my cleverness to go mid-week for blood work was rewarded with a 15 minute in-and-out process. All good, everything clicking along like clockwork so far. My CT was on the following Monday. I am not worried about CT exams, veteran that I am, it's just that if you keep looking I suppose you will eventually find something. I'm not keen on surprises anymore.
I am not supposed to eat or drink four hours prior to the exam. So you change your morning routine, you skip breakfast, you skip that morning cup of coffee. You also need to be at the hospital at least 30 minutes prior to the start time of the procedure. Although a CT occurs in Diagnostic Imaging, the first place you go to is Admitting. In Admitting a pleasant lady asks me for my OHIP card, my address, and why I'm in the Hospital today. My responses earn me a smile and a piece of paper. I then walk over to Diagnostic Imaging, where I hand this paper to another smiling lady. In return the smiling Diagnostic Imaging lady hands me a pager. This device will flash it's lights when the technicians are ready for me.
I can't get comfortable sitting, so I stand up and pace about. I'm always cold in the Hospital. I am hungry and really thirsty. As if reading my mind, a clerk asks if I've brought my Redi Cat drink. I'm sure the clerk has seen bewildered and uncomprehending looks on patients faces before. But she's never seen my look of bewilderment. It appears that I misunderstood the requirements: I needed to drink the RediCat. Technically I was supposed to drink some before I arrived, and then drink the rest just prior to the exam. I was mildly reproached that the Hospital runs the examinations, not the Cancer Clinic. Since I hadn't followed the proper preparation the scan couldn't be done at the scheduled time, but I was presented with two options.
The first option would require rescheduling the exam (and buy the RediCat in advance). The second option would require I drink an elixir kept in the Vault of Terrible Tasting Concoctions just for people like me. I chose to drink the Terrible Tasting Concoction. After that I would be required to wait another full hour before they could examine me.
The drink wasn't that bad, and helped to reduce my thirst a bit. I only had another hour to wait, but it would be a miserable hour. I was cold and kept standing up and moving around. I couldn't get comfortable. My attention span is measured in microseconds, so lugging 8 pounds of electronic gadgets with me wasn't my best idea. Eventually all annoying things come to an end and my pager went off, displaying the room location I needed to be at: Room Zero.
Room Zero is the preparation room where an IV is inserted. While the CT shoots radiation through you a contrast material is pushed into you via the IV during various parts of the CT scan. This contrast material interacts with the contents of the Terrible Tasting Concoction I drank earlier and when hit with radiation produces a Warhol-esque picture of your insides. I would microscopically glow in the dark. From the inside.
Earlier in the week I had blood work. That day I also received my montly B12 shot. The IV I was about to receive would be the third puncture in the Injection Triad. It's not the needles, it's not the blood, it's not what they pump into my system, it's the tape that bugs me most. Tape is used in hospitals to securely fasten IV's to patient's arms so the needle's don't spurt out at critical times. Like in the middle of a CT. Therefore the tape needs to be strong and adhere well to skin. Which means peeling it off will remove all the hairs between the tape and the skin. And probably some of the skin as well. It will also leave gummy gray residue for days that neatly outline where your bandage once resided. But it's only tape.
The exam is routine by now. I remove anything metallic from my pockets. Since the exam is my midsection I simply have to lower my pants. A light cover is provided for my modesty. Which is pointless given that a CT looks though everything. I still take the blanket. The technician has me lie down on the table feet towards the entry tunnel of the CT device. My IV port is connected, ready to receive the contrast injection. My arms are flat back. I'm completely streteched out, looking upwards. The table begins to move towards the entry. I always close my eyes during this exam...
A voice comes over the intercom telling me to take a breath and hold it. The table moves out of the ring and I'm instructed to breathe normally. The contrast injection is next, the voice makes the same breathe-and-hold request. I can feel the warmth of the liquid as it's infused. I'm warm around my ears, my neck and my lower butt. Fortunately it's not what you might think and after another pass through the ring my exam is over. The IV is removed, and that industrial Hospital tape covers the site. I get to pull my pants up and go home.
After these exams I'm always wound-up, thinking that every phone call might be from the Cancer Clinic, saying they found something. As days turn into weeks with no such call, I finally return to normal. Or at least my version of normal.
I won't know my results until I meet with my oncologist in October. It's only a few weeks away. The vague worries I periodically experience are probably the same for every Cancer patient after a test. But I feel OK right now. And that's good enough to live with.
