Monday 01.04.2010

The radio woke me at 0750. I had heard Dan get up and leave, though I didn't stay awake. I got up and got ready to go to Ingham Medical Center to have that MRI of the breasts.

I get there in good time, stop at the registration desk "please have a seat, someone will be with you...", get called into a cubby "have a seat, we'll verify your information..." When the questions had been asked and the computer information tweaked, she handed me my papers and directed me down the hall to the radiology reception area. Thanks.

I waited my turn in back of someone whose appointment was really tomorrow at 0900. Hm. If it had been today, he would have missed it, as it was now 0925. I hand the lady my papers, she tells me "please have a seat, a volunteer will be right out to take you back..." She hands me the papers back, I thank her, and wander away from the window. I'm getting anxious, so I loiter around, looking at the "artwork" on the wall. The volunteer appears from a hallway and asks "who's going to MRI?"

I respond that I am, and another woman does, too. He escorts us both through the lefts and rights of the halls, which are starting to look familiar to me. Yep, this is where I had the bone scan, and down here, this is where... "Here we are" he says, and shows us to the waiting area there. "Have a seat..."

A nice lady named Carol was just behind us. I said hello, my name is Katherine, for a breast MRI. The other lady told her her name. Carol didn't recognize her name, looked on her list, made a phone call. She was supposed to be in a different area. Carol excused herself, escorted the woman to the appropriate area, then came back for me. We continued down the hall to where I remembered was the MRI machine.

We went in. She got the "questions" paperwork--have you had an MRI before? yes. Here? yes. Is all the information the same? Yes--No--the previous one was diagnostic. I went on to tell her the time line of diagnosis, surgeries, chemo, radiation. She wrote all of that on her paper to enter into the computer. When she was almost done, I asked her if I needed a gown. She said yes, and I reached into the cupboard to get one. She was surprised, I think, and I apologized. I'm definitely anxious. She fished out a gown from the back and handed it to me. I changed while she finished the paperwork. Sign here, initial here... I did, put my things in a locker, and we went across to the machine room.

Another nice girl, Eileen, who was about 5'10", and Carol who is smaller than I, got me ready for the scan. Eileen wanted to put the IV needle in my left arm. No, I told her, that's my affected side. She looked at Carol. Oh, we don't use their left arm for IV's?? (I'm wondering what's up here) Carol told her no, that if they've had lymph node dissection, or if the patient tells you you can't use it, you don't. Oh, Eileen said. Then Eileen said to me that she doesn't usually work down here with the breasts.

She was skillful, though, in putting the IV needle in. Even though she had to look for a vein, it was a one-poke event (thank you God, and Eileen). The coiled tubing was attached to me and they had me stand up to get positioned on the table with boob holes.

Wait!!! This table doesn't have boob holes--there's a molded/foam/sheet covered/form thing with boob holes, about 3 feet long, the width of the table, on top of the table. I asked if this is different. No, it's the way we've always done it. Hm. It sure isn't what I remember. I thought I was on the hard table with boob holes. I remember a sheet being on top of it, but not that it was foamy soft/firm. They assisted me to climb onto the narrow table, face down, get my chest just so, with the breasts loose within the spaces created for them. This still didn't feel familiar. And trying to get my head supported--they were using some other molded piece that was not fitting my petite size. We ended up turning it a little differently and got me somewhat comfortable. Which was just that, somewhat. Only my forehead was resting on it, supporting the head. Which I now know is less than optimal.

My arms were down to my sides, fingers tucked under legs. The IV tubing was across the small of my back. One of the girls had gotten a pair of the yellow foamy earplugs for me and put them in. They had offered the headphones, but they work intermittently, at best. My left hand was given a small soft ball on a cord, to squeeze if I needed them. Ok, here we go...

The table moved slowly forward. Of course, I couldn't see anything other than straight down. And that looked different, too. The same color, and the light, but not the same shape and shadow as I remember. Odd, isn't it??

Before long, the loud chatter of the machine started. Repetitive noise, like a jackhammer. For many minutes, then quiet. Whirring, soft thunks, a slight movement of the table, and the loud noise again. Two or three of these cycles, maybe more, then quiet. During one of the quiet interludes, one of the girls tells me that this next cycle is when the contrast is going to be infused. You'll feel it cold going in, then maybe warm. If you feel any pain at the injection site, squeeze the ball...The machine chattered and indeed, the cold solution going down my arm, then back up my shoulder, warming as it moved up my arm. That was an odd sensation, too. The machine continued it's rhythmic chant, accompanying my conversation with God.

Finally, the table moved backward, and Carol was talking to me, saying we were done. She helped me to sit up, regain my bearings. This still doesn't feel the same as the previous time.

She takes my iv out and tapes a cottonball over the inside of my elbow. She picks up the room, and we exit, going over to the monitors.

I don't see Eileen, and Carol has answered the ringing phone, so I go in to put my top back on. When I come out I remind her that I had wanted to see my images, if that was still ok. Sure....

She pulls them up on the screen and manipulates the images to move through them like a flip book. It is so fascinating to me to see that. My untrained eye doesn't see anything glaringly obvious, except for the "dents" of the existing woundbeds. It looks to me like the dents are going to be mine to keep. That's ok--much better than the bright white area that showed up two years ago....

I thanked Carol and turned to leave, surprised to see that Eileen had brought in a woman in a wheelchair. The woman looked at me; I smiled and wanted to say that I loved her bald head, I remember when...

But I didn't, as it seemed to be a private place back there. I hoped that in that split second of eye contact she could see my heart. I asked the Lord to be with her.

Carol escorted me back through the winding turns of the hallways back to the lobby. I thanked her for taking good care of me, and she said "Of course; and next time too, if we need to." (That's all good and well, Carol. I don't want a next time.) I stopped at the restroom before going through the lobby to the exit, breathing, surprised that her comment unsettled me.

I went out into the cold air that smells like winter and found my car in the lot. Whew. I was more anxious about that than I realized. I sat there a minute or so before leaving.

Next stop Meijer. I went in and got what I wanted. I'm really ready for a coffee.

Back at home I put groceries away, heated a cup, had lunch. I've been drinking water to get the contrast stuff rinsed out, and have been going frequently. I'm also tired this afternoon. I wanted to lay down and sleep, but when I did lay down I felt restless, so I got back up. Ugh.

After a while I fixed dinner. I was ready to eat before Dan got home, and he had called, so I ate anyway. Not yummy, but not yucky, either. Just food.Dan thought it was good, though.

We had a quiet evening and he's gone to bed.

I was able to talk with someone at Colvin's Heating in Hale about the furnace. They are available to come out whenever we are there; I scheduled for Friday late afternoon. So I work Wednesday and Thursday, massage Friday morning, then I'll leave to go up. I don't know if Dan will go. If the furnace gets fixed I just might stay overnight...

Tomorrow is unplanned, so far. Hopefully I'll feel better after sleeping tonight.

Thank you for reading. You were with me today, surrounding me with your colors. Hugs.