It’s been over a week since I got my results for my midpoint PET scan.
As you may recall from a previous blog posting, my doctor thought the mass would be gone by now. The truth is that the mass is not gone, but it is half its original size. As my doctor mentioned: this is by no means bad news. It’s still progress and it appears that it has not spread, which is also good news.
The battle plan has changed a bit in light of this news. Rather than just continue with 4 more chemotherapies, I’ll be going forth with 2 more and then have another PET scan.
I have yet to see the photos of a PET scan but have been given the reports in written form, along with verbal descriptions. In order for the scan to work, the body must have a lower level of glucose than normal, hence the 6 hour fast prior to the procedure. Then, radioactive glucose is administered, in my case via an injection. Any tumors and masses seek the glucose and absorb it. After a 45-minute nap in a dark room, you are put in what looks like a tightly closed MRI machine. This is not a joy for the claustrophobic. I’m mildly claustrophobic and the first time in the tube, I had to convince myself that I was in a water tube ride so I didn’t hyperventilate. Staying in there 45 minutes to an hour, while strapped in so you don’t accidentally roll off the “bed,” presents more of an opportunity to nap. The PET scan machine takes incremental pictures of the body, which for me is from my thighs to the base of my skull. In order to interpret the results, the doctors are looking for not only the size of the cancer but also the density of color. The “brighter” it appears, the more activity it contains.
In my case, the cancer has shrunk and is less bright than before. I could almost liken it to a dying star in my chest, which is pretty much the outcome we want.
However, if the PET scan after the 2 chemos still shows activity, a stem cell transplant might be necessary. This would require a trip to MD Anderson in Houston, most likely, and more bone marrow taken in order to harvest my stem cells. Apparently, having a stem cell transplant allows the body to handle more aggressive chemotherapies by administering them back into my body post-chemo to rejuvenate my cells. I forgot that for other cancers, blood transfusions are used, but in the case of leukemia and lymphoma, since they are blood cancers, this is not an option.
In the last weeks, I feel like I have been floating through the days, some of it has been cancer paranoia; some of it is just plain weakness. I can feel my brain not working as well as it once did (chemo fog?). I made this analogy to some of my coworkers: you know how you can open multiple windows on a computer and have them all run at once? Well, my brain can only open and operate one window at a time these days.
I am also beginning to look more the part of a cancer patient: I have dark circles under my eyes and a more sickly pallor. I am trying hard to stay active and eat good things, but there is only so much I can do to prevent these symptoms.
This has presented some challenges between how my soul and body feels. It’s a weird situation because for the days when my body is beyond exhausted, my soul has to convince my body to just rest and fall asleep. For the days when I feel broken beyond depression, my body convinces my soul: really, I’m not doing that badly, so cheer up.
I know for some cancer patients, depending on their situation, they name their cancer. I really hadn’t devoted much creativity and time to creating a cancer alias. I think for some of the days, I just referred to my cancer as the “little monster”. In the face of pop culture creativity, I think I shall refer to my cancer as my Death Star.
It’s entirely appropriate because it’s the bad guy. It is suspended in space, as my cancer is suspended in a space. It’s round and my cancer is roundish. Most importantly, we all know the ending of A New Hope so really it has a more positive connotation.
Now, where is Luke Skywalker when you need him?
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