Pink wig and other shenanigans

I learned something important this past weekend: never underestimate the power of a pink wig.

Three of my closest friends and I went out of town for the weekend to San Antonio. Packing the car and driving to Hill Country provided such a profound thrill for me for many reasons: the opportunity to get out of the house and see some different surroundings, aside from connecting more with my friends.

It’s amazing how on road trips, passing through cities and seeing long stretches of land makes one feel somewhat insignificant. It’s a reminder that there are things at work greater than oneself, because everyone is living day to day, experiencing the same traumas and triumphs as the next person.

It’s also a reminder that I’m not stuck here in this space, physically and figuratively.

I have a pink wig on loan from a friend and I decided it would accompany me to San Antonio. The plan was that we’d dress up and go out to eat for a belated birthday dinner for one of my friends on the Riverwalk.

Setting out on the streets of downtown, we were dressed in our cocktail hour finest.

San Antonio is already a colorful city with its profound Mexican heritage. However, little did I realize how much attention a pink wig would garner.

Interestingly, I rarely saw a scowl or weird look. For the most part, people would smile at me. In the instance of passing a double decker bus on the way back to the car, multiple people called out, “I like your hair!”

My favorite moment, however, would be the man surrounded by friends who said loudly: “Hey! She has pink hair!” That had the four of us in stitches.

In a small way, wearing the wig prevents me from feeling like a cancer patient. It stands out, but in a different way from when I wear a head wrap. I feel a bit like a comic book character with it, but I sincerely love the escapism of it.

Snapping back to this past Monday’s reality, I had my third PET scan. This was the one intended to determine the next route of treatments. I was slightly less anxious about these results than the previous scan, but wishing, hoping, and praying that the Deathstar would indeed be destroyed.

Even as I lay in the PET scan machine, I visualized the mass crumbling. My preoccupation with these thoughts made me want to bust out of the tube fighting. I tried my hardest not to squirm as my muscles began to twitch. I squeezed my eyes shut and envisioned my ultimate zen moment: paddling a canoe on a serene lake at sunrise. Imagining the precise and steady dips of the paddle made me less aware of my tickly skin.

On Wednesday, I called the doctor to follow up and find out the results of my PET scan.

Let me begin by saying that the results weren’t quite what I expected.

The scan was inconclusive and appeared to indicate little change from the previous scan. Of course, my mind began to reel at this point. What does this all mean?

My doctor requested a conversation in person with my family and I the next day, to discuss the results and what to do going forth.

Come today’s follow up appointment, it became apparent that the main concern is that the PET scan does not show a decrease in activity. The doctor said a surgical biopsy would be required to take a sample of the mass so that we could conclusively determine its identity. It’s possible it’s just scar tissue; it’s possible it is still cancerous.

If it’s just scar tissue, I will continue with 2 more sessions of chemotherapy. If it’s still cancerous, I will have 1 or 2 rounds of aggressive chemotherapy that will require a hospital stay and monitoring before extracting stem cells from my blood or bone marrow. In the conversation about the process of a stem cell transplant, the doctor brought up that I would need another port with multiple “lines” on the right side of my chest. Anxiety began the “la la la la la la, blah, blah, blah” thoughts in my head at that point. I’d rather cross that bridge if or when I come to it.

I was sent over to another part of Denton to visit with a cardiothoracic surgeon who could complete the biopsy. After examining the results of my 3 PET scans and calling my oncologist for more information, he decided that he needed a CT scan to help him in the surgical process.

Thus, I await a CT scan tomorrow or after the weekend. I have a biopsy scheduled on Wednesday next week, with a hospital stay of a few days for recovery.

There is a small victory that my chemo tomorrow has been postponed as we await the procedure and results.

To bastardize a quote from the movie Juno: I already have cancer, what other shenanigans can I get into?