Tag: MRI

My 1st MRI

My first brain MRI was in Chicago after being rushed to the ER. I woke from a seizure stuck inside a device that hummed and rattled with a disembodied voice telling me not to move. As I recall, it wasn’t a pleasant voice. However, in defense of the tech overseeing the procedure, I struggled to free myself. In my defense, however, who the fuck wouldn’t? I was reentering the world from a seizure; I didn’t know who I was or where or, for that matter, what I was. I was there, semi-conscious, with my head stuck inside an unknown object that seemed to be pulsating. “Jeremiah, don’t move! If you do, we’ll have to start the procedure again!” So, I stopped moving; instead, I just cried.

 What I remember, even more than the terrifying sounds, the somewhat annoyed tech, and the tears, was my thirst. My god, the craving for water was so intense. My tongue was leather-like in my mouth. When thirst surpasses fear, a new level of a primordial being emerges. That is the creature that remained on that MRI/scan bed, the being who rested motionless and withdrew inward. I do not know any other word to describe the sensation better, but “withdraw” is most suitable. It was as though Jeremiah split into two halves, the person being tested/scanned and the one full of desperation. In between these was where I ended up and withdrew, holing up in a chasm. I remember resting my hands by my side as if I were a windup toy that had just ended its cycle. I’ve always wondered what the MRI tech thought. Did they see me slip into that place, that point between two worlds, the chasm I mentioned?

 The “scanxiety” is everpresent; how could it not be? However, I understand that my genuine fear is detaching. I am concerned about stopping as I did before within that gap between the two halves amidst those two worlds. The horror of a potential recurrence is no longer as intense as it was, even with the tumor markers that are trending upwards ever-so-slightly. If it ever does return, I’ll deal with it. I dealt with it when initially diagnosed and again with the recurrence. After numerous hypnosis sessions, it is evident that my worry of withdrawing, psychologically and emotionally disengaging, far surpasses my concern of a recurrence.

 As I have discovered, and most already know, cancer can be managed and treated in numerous ways. The withdrawing, the derealization I speak of, isn’t controlled or cured in such a targeted manner. I feel more detached with each MRI. Amid each procedure, the tech, be it for an MRI, CT, etc., needn’t tell me to “stop moving!” as I keep finding my way back to that middle ground, to the chasm.

Body, Tell Me Things!

Waiting for an MRI or CT scan results is no fun whatsoever. Honestly, there is something about bloodwork that feels worse, more challenging, more painful. Perhaps because of the speed at which labs are drawn and the agonizing waiting period. An MRI, as well as a CT scan, require some form of preparation. Blood labs are quick: in / out / get out. I can’t speak for other facilities/clinics, etc., but there is a lengthy waiting period for results. I say “lengthy” because when you’re pacing around like a nervous wreck waiting on results, even if just for a few days, every second feels like an eternity. I had my labs drawn on Friday, February 1, 2019. So, considering the time delay with the weekend, I might not hear until mid-next week.

When I was first diagnosed, I was asymptomatic. As I have mentioned in numerous updates and blog posts, my only symptom was what I thought was a chest cold (cough, slight wheeze, etc.). When the recurrence was noted, I had absolutely no symptoms – none! At the time, I was shoveling snow off my roof, stacking wood, and going on lengthy treks in my beloved woods. There wasn’t a single indicator that something was even remotely amiss.

I don’t trust my own body. It is a sad thing to admit, but I don’t. I wrote a poem about this shortly after diagnosis, in which I kept repeating the line, “body, tell me things!” I was pleading with my being, physical or otherwise, to give me a sign, speak up, and present to me in waking life or dreams that something wasn’t right.

I know my body will eventually heal. “You are powerful, Jeremiah,” my oncologist recently told me. Without wishing to sound pompous, I know this – I already knew this.

In this manner, trusting my body to heal, I know it will always recover. Even after multiple, multiple rounds of cell-killing chemotherapy, a drenching so great I am surprised I survived my two stem cell transplants after the chemical bath I received during my initial treatments, my body bounced back. But somewhere, somehow, it doesn’t communicate what I need to know beforehand, which is most important.

Body, tell me things! 

Germ cell tumors, i.e., ovarian and testicular cancer, are hard to detect. Thus, they have often been called the “silent killers”. 19% of ovarian cancer cases aren’t detected in the early stages of development. Testicular cancer, being in the same family, is very similar. A “chest cold” is the symptom of metastatic lesions throughout my lungs; a seizure was my body finally communicating with me that the cancer had reached the end of the line.

Body, tell me things!

I want to trust my body. I want to know what is going on and developing within me. I am paranoid now. One day, I will exercise, usually in the form of cathartic dance/movement, and the following day my thighs hurt. Naturally, this makes sense; I had been dancing ecstatically 24 hours before. My mind, however, is wondering what else might be there or lurking below the surface.

Body, tell me things!

Sitting here waiting for results, I am in that place of treading water again. My MRI is scheduled for February 5, requiring a long wait. I don’t feel this is a life — no, I know it isn’t. Scans are three months apart. So, for 1.5 months, I have been delighted, I have been resting, I have been gaining strength, etc. The next 1.5 months are a time of wondering… questioning… fearing… dreading, sleepless nights, and days walking around trying to retain what’s left of my sanity.

Body, tell me things!

I want to slip back into that blissful state of nativity. The days, the years, all 33, when a chest cold was just that, when sore thighs resulted from exercise. The years in which I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night and dread the darkness because of all the unknowns it might hold.