First the lovely technician took a finger prick to test my blood sugar (103, woohoo!), then he started an IV of saline. I could already feel myself needing to go to the bathroom. Then he returned to add the radioactive glucose into the IV. Next he settled me into a tiny dark room with two recliners. He put a blanket on me and left me to sleep. I’m not good at sleeping upright but I tried. It was like sleeping in first class on a redeye to London, just without the food service. Finally I heard him bringing in a new patient. He set her up on the flight to nowhere, and now it was my turn to get scanned.
This whole time I was feeling fine, because I've done scans before, and I made it through each one just fine, so I figured, no big deal. Once the scan began, I closed my eyes and tried to stay calm. The long bed slides you in and out, and frankly I no longer felt like cookies on a tray, but more like a sick dog in the bottom of a boat. With my eyes closed, I could feel myself getting motion sick, but with my eyes open, I could see the tunnel around me. I started to panic and then panic about panicking, which puts you in a panic loop and that's a challenge to get out of. I tensed up my thighs (an old fighter pilot trick to keep the blood flowing to the brain) and stayed that way for almost 20 minutes. I gave myself the pep talk of the century and prayed I didn't freak out or move unexpectedly. By the end, I was exhausted and ready to cry from keeping it together so long.
You can tell, there's no smize (smiling in the eyes).
I was wiped after and reminded of just how fragile I am and how everything won't be easy, but I still have to do it. I'm scared because I suspect tomorrow will be even harder, but I have to do it. So I'm gonna go and cry and nap and get over it, and when you hear from me next, I'll have my port in. Please pray for me.
By the way, I'm radioactive for the rest of the day, no relation to Peter Parker.
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