all day i've been trying to think up a good name for the period of 48 hours between getting a life-determining scan and receiving the results. "limbo" seems too weak. "purgatory" gets a bit closer. "scanxiety" gets a lot of visibility, but i feel like there needs to be more than one.
in theory, if you'd had a bunch of scans already, it would get easier. it doesn't. today, i had a CT scan to see if the drug i'm on is working (if you recall, the last drug i was on was working! but then i got a blood clot and it was deemed too dangerous for them to co-exist. this is a newer one). the getting of the scan is relatively painless. you lie on a table with your arms above your head, and a creepy machine voice tells you when to hold your breath and when to breath normally as it pushes and pulls you into and then out of a tunnel-looking scan machine. then you get injected with contrast dye, which they tell you in advance will feel warm and make you think you have to pee, but you won't pee. that is all the true. then you're done.
i learned a long time ago not to look at the faces of the radiologists behind the screen who are taking the images. there's generally nothing to be read, and if they knew something, they are bound by their jobs not to tell you, anyway. this time when i got up off of the bed to go home, the radiologists were both gone. i'm just going with, it was their lunch break.
and then the waiting begins. you try to distract yourself with work or crap tv, but you fool no one. how to distract yourself when it's literally your life being looked at and interpreted and you cannot know anything for the next 48 hours. why 48? i suspect it doesn't actually take that long to be read, but radiologists could have many scans to read. also, if there's a spot or a lesion or a tumor that shows up in, on or near another organ, your doctor needs time to consult with a specialist of said organ. and she also needs time to consider the next course of action.
the way you find out is no picnic either. if you can make it to your oncologist's office without throwing up (debatable), you go in, and sit down in a predictably bland corporate hospital office chair, with your heart beating at 80 decibels and your foot tapping to rhythm of your heart. (this happens for us on Thursday morning).
when the doctor opens the door you immediately scour her face for a sign -- is the news good or bad or somewhere in between? i have to be honest with you. occasionally it is good news, but most of the time, it is not great news. why? well because you have fucking cancer, right? the kind where the 10-year survival rate is not 85% (that'd be breast cancer, and yes i know, not all breast cancers, we're speaking quite generally here), but uh, less than 15%. (this is why they tell you from the very beginning not to look at statistics!)
best case scenario: your scan shows stable disease, i.e. no new growth, maybe some existent spots or tumors shrinking. your body is responding to whatever treatment you're getting and you can "relax" until it is time for the next scan (3 months is standard, but if your tumor marker is going way up and/or if you feel like crap physically, it could be sooner). obviously we're hoping for that.
what makes me think it could go that way: i feel physically fine: appetite is good (pretty much always), no pain anywhere, just going about my "regular" days.
what makes me think it could not go that way: last week's comment from the nurse practitioner, asking me if my doctor had called me the previous week to tell me my tumor marker had taken a sizeable leap. no, the doc had not called me. no i don't want to see the numbers. yes i feel fine. or at least i did before i came into your office. "we haven't seen this week's numbers, so it could still flatten out, though!," she says, and i give her a look that says, do not play that game with me, sister.
i mean, it's not a bad thing to try to give someone hope, but seriously, read the room.
so we'll head into Thursday's visit not really knowing and fervently hoping while also mentally preparing for the fact that i may be looking at Chemo Summer #3. it's quite the mental balancing act. but, as i am really trying not to be a colossal downer all the time, i will end with things i am grateful for: i still feel good, i'm still writing poems, there are still more treatment options, i still have this incredible amazing support system, and the most obvious, of course: i am still very much ALIVE.
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