The wait is the worst part

 

The day started early. I woke at 6 a.m. and tiptoed into the kitchen to have my devotional. My sweet husband had taken the day off work so he could accompany me to the hospital for the test. I didn't want to disturb him. He'd set his alarm for 7 a.m. and that extra hour of sleep would be good for him. 

The kitchen was dark when I entered. The red light from my head lamp made things take on an eery glow. Pulling out my devotional book and my Bible, I sat down at the table and began to read. 

The time went by quickly and before I knew it, I heard hubby's alarm going off and a few minutes later, the shower running. While he got ready, I went back in the room to make the bed and get dressed myself. We needed to leave the house as close to 8 a.m. as possible so we could arrive at the hospital in time to find a parking space, get registered, and pay our co-pay. 

As I busied myself with small details, I tried to keep my thoughts in check. Of course, I was worried, but I did my best not to show it. 

When we arrived at the hospital, the parking lot was already pretty full. We couldn't find a space up close, so we parked a good distance away. Thankfully, as soon as we cut off the car engine, a hospital volunteer, an elderly man, pulled up in a golf cart. He asked if we wanted a ride to the front door. We took him up on it and were amazed at how quickly he drove. 

At the registration desk, I gave my name and other information. The receptionist printed a hospital bracelet and attached it to my arm. Another volunteer, a very white-haired gentleman, escorted us to the radiology department. I wanted to tell him I knew the way already, but I didn't. 

We checked in at the radiology desk and about 2 minutes after I'd sat down, a technician called my name. Rising, I turned to Phil and said, "I love you," as I followed the young man through double doors. 

I was asked to take a seat in the blood draw chair, a large, vinyl chair with a pull-down arm. I sat down and proceeded to tell the tech about my lymphedema and my arm restrictions. He didn't balk when I said my only option was the left hand. Taking my hand in his, he began to slap the top of my wrist and hand. I knew he was trying to coax veins to stand up so he could find them better, but he explained to me anyway. After finding what he thought would be a good vein, He pulled out a syringe and proceeded to jab me working the needle side to side hoping for flash - blood flow back into the needle indicating a vein had been hit. There was none. He apologized and moved the needle to another site. I watched as the sight of the first prick swelled and turned blue. Once again, he couldn't find a vein. I laughed and told him 5 tries was his limit. He said, "No. I won't try again, but I'll call a nurse in." The nurse came and hit the vein on the first try. I was glad. I hate getting stuck over and over again. 

When the needle was in, she threaded an IV and the tech injected the radioactive tracer. It only took a few minutes. I was told we could go home but would need to return around 11:30 a.m.

Phil and I left the hospital and went home. I did a couple of loads of laundry and tried to guzzle water as I'd been instructed by the tech. 

When it came time to head back to the hospital, I began to feel anxious. I knew this was going to determine my future. 

We checked back in and my tech, Doyle, met me at the double doors. As we walked down the cold corridor, he said the test would be about an hour. 

Doyle helped me climb onto the scanner table and covered me with a warm blanket. I'd had this type of test several times before, so I was familiar with what was going to happen. The table underneath me began to vibrate slowly as the machine came to life. Doyle's cell phone went off and he left to answer it. He came right back and we got started. 

The machine moved very slowly over my face, down my sides, over my chest and trunk, then down my legs. After the first set of scans was complete, Doyle ran extra scans of my hips, spine, knees, and ankles. He said he could see degenerative changes in those areas, which my last scan had revealed. 

Finally, it was over. Doyle reminded me to drink a lot of water to flush out the radioactive tracer and we left. 

We ran by a local restaurant to pick up lunch, then headed the Cancer Treatment Center. There was a nice covered pavilion there and we planned to use it. 

It was so quiet and breezy beneath the pavilion. I talked with Phil about our future asking him if he thought I should do chemo this time if the cancer was back. He told me he didn't think I was going to need it. Secretly, I hoped he was right. 

We sat and talked for about an hour, then went home. The doctor's office told us we wouldn't get a call until later that day or perhaps the following day. 

At exactly 4:30 p.m., I got the phone call from the oncologist's office. When the phone ran, my caller I.D. did not indicate who was calling, but I answered it anyway. The nurse said, "Hi, this is Kelly, Dr. P's nurse. He asked me to tell you what your scan showed." At that very moment, I felt my heart begin to race and I held my breath. I was so scared! She said, "The news is good, there's no evidence of cancer!" It was all I could do not to drop the phone. Tears welled up in my eyes. Phil came running over and I had to motion to him that everything was okay. 

I don't remember how the conversation with the nurse ended, but I do remember, as I hung up the phone, I gasped for air. I'd been holding my breath the entire time. 

Phil and I both began to cry and hug each other. We were so very grateful for the good news and immediately began to praise and thank God. 

Waiting on test results is such a hard thing to do, especially when those results could change your life forever, in a split second. 

I have no idea why God, in His mercy, has given me another chance at living life cancer free, but I am so very grateful. I haven't taken a second of life for granted since my initial diagnosis and I'm not about to start now. 

I group messaged all of the kids with the good news. Their texts of gratitude started to pour in. 

It was such an emotionally stressful day and I was so glad it was over, but even more glad that it ended on a good note. 

The fear of recurrence is a horrible thing. None of us like to live in wonder. 

I really want to learn to thrive this year instead of merely surviving. Hopefully,  this will be the year I do that. 

God is teaching me to number my days. I don't want to waste one of them. I hope you don't either. 

When can I be free of worrying about a recurrence of Cancer?

 

Bone scan with bone metastases 

A cancer recurrence isn't something anyone ever expects and as a survivor, we do our best to not think about the possibility of a recurrence. But occasionally, we get a reality check. Though we want to believe we're completely and utterly cancer free, a random test or procedure can break that glass bubble reminding us that there's always a possibility of its return. 

For the past few days, I've been anxious. I've tried to overcome the nagging feeling that something is about to happen. I don't know what the "something" is, but I definitely feel like something is just over the horizon. My feelings of anxiousness are probably related to the upcoming full body bone scan my oncologist recently scheduled. Though I've had them several times over the past 7+ years, I never once gave a thought to the possibility of them finding something. 

It's strange how God works things out. I'd been having issues swallowing and the ENT wanted to do a CT scan. That scan didn't reveal my swallowing problem but did reveal a possible tumor on my right lung. That's when I was forced to think about the big "what if." 

After contacting my oncologist to let him know about that test, he scheduled me for a chest CT with and without contrast. Though he was wanting to clarify the potential problem in my right lung, which was later determined to be scar tissue from radiation treatments,  a new area of concern appeared on the T6 vertebrae. 

Those test results caused his office to schedule a nuclear medicine full body bone scan. (That's a mouthful, isn't it?) Though they didn't tell me why, I assumed it was to look for cancer. Since hearing the words uttered, "area of concern," uttered by the oncologist's office, I've borrowed a whole lot of trouble. I've let my mind wander, letting it dip into the vast ocean of what ifs. 

It's funny, but I assumed when I reached the 7 year cancer free mark last July, that I was home free. I mean Biblically speaking, 7 is the number of completion right? But was I being naive in thinking my bout with cancer was completely over? I wanted to believe that trial from God's hand was over but what if...

Three days from today, I'll go in for the scan. They'll inject a radioactive tracer into my vein and 3 hours later, I'll return so they can scan my entire body. I'm praying that nothing lights up. I'm hoping that the "area of concern" at T6 is just degenerative disk disease or osteoarthritis or something minor like that. If it is cancer, I don't know what I'll do. 

I have several friends who've gone long stints of being cancer free only to have the cancer return many years later. One of the longest periods of cancer freedom was in my friend Bonnie Ferguson's life. She went 22 years without a recurrence and I can still remember the day she told me it was back. I could hear the tremor in her voice. I could see the worry on her face. 

She went straight back into warrior mode and began treatments at the cancer treatment center. For the first few weeks, she was hopeful, but as her body began to weaken, she decided it wasn't worth it to do chemo again. When she stopped, she felt better but it was only months later that she grew extremely ill and eventually passed away. I don't want that to be the case with me. 

When my brother was diagnosed with cancer, he only did 2 chemo treatments before giving up. They made him so sick he couldn't continue. Cancer and the treatments wreak havoc on the body. 

So, I don't know what I'll do. I guess I'll have to wait for the test results. If they find more cancer, I'm sure I'll be shocked, especially after almost 8 years, but I'll also have to trust that God has a reason for allowing it into my life. 

I'm no saint, believe me, but I do know, from past experience, that God handpicks our trials. I just hope He doesn't have another round of cancer on His agenda of scheduled trials for me. 

We can't understand why He allows such hard things into our lives sometimes, but if we try to look at them as teaching tools, they're a little easier to accept. 

Please say a pray for me on May 31st at 9:00 a.m. That's when I go for the radioactive injection. They always have trouble finding my veins, especially since I can only have injections in my left hand. And then later that same day, around noon, please pray again as I go in for the actual scan. Pray that if there is a problem it will be illuminated clearly so the doctor can see it. But if I had my druthers, I'd like to ask for a completely clear and perfect scan result. I know God's able. 

Waiting isn't my strong suit, never has been, never will be, but I'm going to do my best to wait patiently. I'm also going to do my best not to worry. A friend told me earlier today that worry will just rob my day of strength. I think she's right. Worrying never accomplishes a thing other than giving us something to do. 

Thank you in advance for your thoughts and prayers. I'll keep you posted. Now off to do some crafting!

Accepting Results Gracefully

Yesterday was the big day. I was to receive the results of my bone scan. It had been a year since my last one, and I was nervous. I’d been having a lot of spinal pain and was concerned. I didn’t want to admit my worst fear – the fear of recurrence. After a lot of prayer, I finally resigned myself to the fact that the news was either going to be good or bad and there was nothing much I could do about it. I was determined to accept the outcome gracefully.

Seated in front of the oncologist, we went through the customary formalities of greeting one another. When that was out of the way, I sat on the edge of my seat. I wanted the test results. The doctor could tell I was eager and said she wouldn’t beat around the bush. I braced. I was prepared for the worst but expecting the best. Thankfully, I received the latter. As Dr. N shared the good news that there was no evidence of active disease, I was filled with joy. She could tell by the look of relief on my face that she’d given me a huge blessing. I thanked her and we moved on to the next subject, the one I knew was coming…Arimidex.

Dr. N asked if I was going to take the anti-hormone therapy. Since my specific cancer had been fed by estrogen and progesterone, she explained that I needed to do whatever I could to prohibit the production of those hormones. I listened as she explained the cancer could come back at any time if those hormones were not in check. I mustered up the courage to ask her a question. “Since I’m three years out and I’ve been doing everything naturally with wonderful results, is it necessary for me to take this drug?” She looked at me and said she wanted to show me something. Pulling her laptop onto her lap, she began to type. As she typed, I waited and wondered what she was going to show me. It only took her a few minutes to pull up the website. She entered some data and flipped the computer around for me to see. Pointing to the screen, she explained that she’d entered my age, the type cancer I had, the stage of my cancer, and the hormones that fed my tumor. After she’d entered that information, she’d clicked enter and the computer program had pulled statistics to indicate specific results. The results showed the percentage of women with breast cancer over a five-year period who’d not take anti-hormone therapy vs. women who had taken it. The recurrence possibility for both categories was assessed and displayed on the screen. As we looked together, the doctor and I saw that taking the anti-hormone therapy drugs only would buy me a 2 percent increase in life expectancy.

After reviewing the results, Dr. N expected me to make a decision. It was an easy decision for me. I looked her straight in the eyes and said, “My Daddy always said if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. What I’ve been doing is working. You have evidence of it with my latest scan. I think I’ll continue to take the natural supplements and do exactly what I’ve been doing for the past three years. I don’t want to take Arimidex or any of the other anti-hormone therapy drugs.” The doctor smiled and nodded. I was surprised at her reaction. I expected to receive a dismissal as I had from my previous oncologist but as I asked if she’d continue to be my doctor, she answered in the affirmative.

It felt good to fight for my rights, although I hadn’t had to fight hard with my new doctor. It was my body and I was the one with the right to choose the treatment best suited for me. I’d tried three anti-hormone therapies in the past and each of them came with wicked side effects so I knew I didn’t want to travel that path again. The statistic chart did not impress me, although I was surprised to find there was such a thing available online and to know doctors use it. The program is called Predictor and you can find it by visiting this website. You’ll need to enter your age, tumor size, grade and other information. If you don’t have it all, enter as much as you do have but be forewarned, this is only a statistical tool. It is nothing other than that. It was interesting to see the results, but they did not affect
my decision. I’d made my decision right after I’d been given my Oncotype DX results.

Each person has to make their own choices. Do what feels best for you. Consult your doctor and make wise, informed decisions. If you don’t want to implement a recommended treatment, talk to your doctor and weigh the pros and cons. What’s worked for me may not work for you but I’m thankful my oncologist supports me in my decision. I’m blessed to be doing well after three years and I’m thankful to claim the status of NED right now. I could say if that ever changes, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, but why entertain negative thoughts? Today I am cancer free and hopefully I’ll be able to say that for years to come. God only knows what tomorrow holds. I’m glad I don’t shoulder that responsibility.

God Sent Mr. Browning

My signature on the gloves

I had been in a hurry to get to my appointment with the oncologist. Traffic in the mornings here is always hectic so I wanted to make sure and leave early. I grabbed a frozen smoothie, got dressed, put on my makeup and dashed out the door. I didn't have time to ready my Bible and have my devotional as I usually do but on my way to the center, I began to pray and asked God to give me a verse to hold on to today. I felt Him impress Philippians 4:13 on my heart, "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength." So I meditated on that verse until I reached the center. (I had been nervous about getting the results of my bone scan but had surrendered the results to God and had told Him earlier in the day that no matter what they showed, I'd accept either good or not so good from His hand because I knew He'd have a purpose for either result and I trusted Him completely.)

Armband and nametag

When I entered the cancer treatment center, it was extremely busy. There were people everywhere. As I looked over the sea of people, I saw so many cancer victims in various stages of treatment. It made me sad to see there were so many gathered in one place and all I could think about were the hundreds of thousands across America that I couldn't see.

I made my way to the oncologist's office and sat down to wait. In the waiting room, chairs filled every few minutes until the waiting room was almost to capacity. The last couple to come in were African American. They sat down close to me and I smiled to greet them. I watched as the man pulled out a full sized Bible and I smiled realizing he was a man of faith. I assumed he was going to read to himself while his wife went back for treatment but was I ever wrong. Mr. Arthur Browning (all CTCA patients and visitors have to wear name tags) began to read Scripture aloud! At first, I watched to see how others in the waiting room reacted. There were some wh

o were visibly uncomfortable as they squirmed in their seats and cast disdainful looks in his direction. Others ignored him completely but I was extremely grateful! God sent Mr. Browning to personally bless me.

Sweet Mr. Browning reads the Bible

For about ten minutes, Mr. Browning read Scripture. When he was through, he and his wife closed their eyes to pray. (That's when I captured their photo) After he raised his eyes, I went over to Mr. Browning and whispered a quiet "Thank you." I explained to him that I'd been unable to read my Bible before coming and I was expecting to receive my test results today. Although I was unsure whether I'd receive a diagnosis of a recurrence of cancer or if I'd get a clear bill of health, his Scripture reading had blessed me and I wanted him to know it. He smiled a big smile and the medical assistant called Mrs. Browning back.

My turn came next and I went to talk with the oncologist. She didn't beat around the bush but got straight to my results. There was no evidence of active cancer!!! I was so thankful to hear that good news. My degenerative disk disease had gotten worse and the scan showed a herniated disk, two bulging disks, osteoarthritis, and arthritis in my knees and heels (weird, I know).

Although I'm struggling with the extreme spinal pain, I'm so grateful for NO CANCER! I have to continue to see the oncologist every 6 months unless things change but I am blessed and highly favored!!! I'm being sent to a spinal specialist to see if we can find a way to manage the pain so I'm hopeful. Thank you for your prayers.

The Never-ending Fear of Recurrence

The fear of recurrence looms overhead like a brown turkey vulture on a Georgia, hot summer’s day. Swooping and diving, she circles. I can feel her, a living presence. I walk daily in her shadow. Some days the ominous darkness overwhelms me.

I never thought myself to be a fearful person. I’ve always done my best to walk by faith, not by sight, but when the oncologist scheduled a complete body bone scan three years after my initial diagnosis, doubt and worry crept in. Thoughts I’d failed to consider became reality. What if? What if cancer returned? How would I feel? What would I do? The more I thought, the closer I felt the brush of her wings. I wasn’t ready.

Do all lives touched by cancer feel this fear? At diagnosis, does that great bird of destruction perch idly on shoulders waiting for an opportune moment? Do we carry her with us for days, months and years, unseen and quiet, or am I the only one sensitive to her nearness? Am I overly sensitive?

I’d prefer not to think about recurrence, but how do I suppress truth? One solitary cancer cell. That’s all it would take. Just one. Floating carefree in my system, reveling in the precious flow of my life’s blood. And that minute cell has the power to decide when, where, and if. It seems so unfair.

Cancer was an uninvited guest. I don’t know how or when it decided to reside in my breast. It could have been there for ten years or more according to the doctor. I never felt it. I had no idea until that fateful day in the shower. As my fingers trailed over my soapy breast, the hardness of the solid mass stopped them. The discovery life altering.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to the hospital. The technician will inject a radioactive tracer into my vein. The tracer will travel through my bloodstream and into my bones. A special camera will scan my body and take pictures. Areas that absorb very little of the radioactive tracer will appear as dark spots. These places could show a lack of blood supply to my bones or could indicate a problem. They could pinpoint a recurrence of cancer. Areas of increased absorbency will show up brightly. These are called hot spots and may indicate problems such as arthritis, tumors, fractures or an infection.

At present, the fear of recurrence is circling. She floats silently on the breeze feeling the updraft beneath her wings. As she dips and dives, moving ever close, I watch. In my mind’s eye, I see her clearly. She is hideously ugly. She is ravenous. She frightens me but I can’t spend my time watching her. There are things I need to do. I have a life to live.

Take one day at a time, wise advice I received years ago from a friend who lay dying. She was stage 4, metastatic. Her frame wracked with disease, yet still, she loved. She was the epitome of brave. A young mother with four little ones. She fought valiantly, but cancer fought harder. On the day she succumbed to breast cancer, I sat by her bedside. Our friendship touched by unbearable pain and suffering, I needed to be with her. The last words she said to me before leaving this earth still echo in my mind, “Take one day at a time, Bonnie, just take one day at a time.”

If there was one word I wish I’d never learned, it would be the word cancer. But to be ignorant of the word would not negate its power. I’ve been fearful, especially this week, as the bone scan looms in front of me but as I look up, toward that dark figure in the sky, I hear the words of my sweet friend whispering in my ear, “Take one day at a time, Bonnie, just take one day at a time.” And that’s exactly what I intend to do. I can’t worry about tomorrow. Today has enough troubles of its own. One day at a time, that’s all I can handle right now and that’s enough.

Good news!

The phone rang at 8:00 a.m. and naturally, I expected the worst. I had been waiting for a call from my oncologist about the results from my recent bone scan. I assumed, since they were calling so early, that the news must be bad. They were probably going to ask me to come into the office to discuss the test results and come up with a strategic plan of attack for the recurrence of cancer. I had steeled myself for this news and when I received just the opposite, had to ask the office to repeat the information to make sure I'd heard clearly..."Mrs. Annis, we have the results back from your bone scan. There was no evidence of metastatic disease. There was no evidence of a recurrence of cancer." I listened intently and thanked the caller for the good news. Before the call ended, I was told I needed to see a spine specialist to address the pain I'd been having. I'd take that any day over chemo or radiation.

When I got off the phone, I was overcome with emotion. The dam burst and all the feelings I'd held bottled up inside me for the past few days poured forth. I fell to the floor and lying face down, I began to weep. My weeping grew exponentially into torrential sobs of thanksgiving. I was so grateful to God for giving me such good news.

After regaining my composure, I wondered why I expected to receive bad news. Why didn't I expect to receive good news? Was I just preparing myself for the worst and hoping for the best? Maybe that was my coping mechanism or a survival tactic.  In any event, I was extremely blessed and I wasn't going to take this gift lightly. I immediately notified my family so they could share in my joy. My sweet husband wept openly and told me he was so worried and afraid he would lose me. I had no idea he felt this way and my heart ached as I watched him cry. The tears weren't sad ones but still, I felt his pain and the deep love he had in his heart for me. My children were happy and excited. I think they'd been worried the cancer might have returned too.

Thinking back to my initial diagnosis and the results of my Oncotype DX (a test that determines the possibility of recurrence based on the type of cancer and the hormones that feed it) I remembered my score was a 7 out of 100. The number 7 is very significant in Biblical times and is the number of completion. When I was given the results of that test in July 2 years ago, I felt God speak to my spirit and say, "It's over. It's done. It's complete, Bonnie." So I claimed it! I claimed that completeness but somewhere in the back of my mind, a little doubt started to fester and grow. That little doubt turned into a bigger fear and worry as time passed and things seemed out of control. But today, God reminded me of that day back in July. And that's why I was so overcome with emotion. God's promises are real and I know He is faithful. If I'd had time to focus on all of this before receiving the call from my doctor this morning, I would have answered the phone with expectancy. I would have looked forward to hearing the scan was completely clear instead of bracing for the worst. But even though I thought I was going to receive bad news, God blessed me with His very best. I am grateful. I am happy. And I am feeling very optimistic about my future.

As a breast cancer survivor, I can tell you cancer feels like it is constantly sneaking up on me. It seems to be lurking just around the corner ready to jump out and scare me to death. I can't live in fear because I know fear is the opposite of faith. I firmly believe God has honored my obedience to walk with Him in faith and that's why He's given me this wonderful test result. And this proves He isn't through with me just yet. There's something more He wants me to do to glorify Him. I don't know what it is just yet, but I'm going to be seeking His face and asking Him to guide me in the days ahead. Life is good and I am blessed. What more could I want?

© bonnie annis all rights reserved

Piedmont hospital, my home away from home

Time to visit my old friend, Piedmont Hospital again. Today it will be for a complete head to toe bone scan. I've been having a lot of spine and hip pain lately. The oncologist wants to do some testing to make sure the cancer hasn't returned. It's funny how cancer always seems to be lurking in the shadows ready to jump out at me at any given moment. I'm always on guard and I don't like feeling that way. I wonder if other cancer patients feel the same way. It's an eerie feeling, one you can't shake.

The lead tube housing the injection

At 2:00 p.m. I went to the Nuclear Imaging Center for my injection of radioactive phosphorous fluid. The injection is housed in a lead casing to protect the workers. When the radiology tech came out with it. My eyes immediately went to the radioactive symbol. I remember seeing that same symbol on the fall out shelter signs in elementary school in the early 60s. I thought of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The images of children on the front page cover of Time magazine with their skin hanging off their bones was fresh in my memory...nuclear fall out, radiation sickness...uggghhh! Shaking my head, I made myself jump back to reality as the technician was applying the alcohol swab to cleanse my arm. I watched him as he carefully wiped my arm and let it dry for a few minutes. There on the counter beside me lay the lead tube containing the injection. It looked ominous.

The tech opened up the lead tube and readied my arm to receive the injection. A bright orange tourniquet was placed above the crease in my elbow. (I'd reminded him earlier it was important for him to only use my left arm because of the lymphedema.) I prayed he'd find the vein quickly. For some reason I'm the one with the tricky veins and usually end up being poked and prodded until a willing vein jumps up. I watched as he overshot the vein and had to draw the needle back to make contact. As he was working, he said he'd been doing this for 23 years. He was a medic in the U.S. Army. I thanked him for his service as he finally made contact. Blood leaked out of my vein onto my skin and he quickly swabbed it up and depressed the plunger on the syringe. I watched as the radioactive liquid swirled into my vein. I was instructed to leave the hospital and drink large quantities of water.

At 5:00 p.m. I returned to the hospital. I'd taken an anti anxiety pill around 4 because I knew it was going to be challenging to be in that tight space for over an hour. I hated being claustrophobic. (I'd never suffered from that in the past, only recently after having been trapped in an elevator for several hours.) When I lay down on the scanner table, the tech took a draw sheet and wrapped it over me tying up my arms tightly. I didn't like the feeling of being restrained. The tech told me it was to keep my arms in proper position for the scan. I closed my eyes and tried to relax as the heavy equipment lowered over my body. I was tempted to look but didn't want to because I knew the machinery was just an inch or two from my face. Using my imagination, I placed myself on the beach. I began listening for the shore birds and lapping water. I felt myself melting into the imagery and almost falling asleep. Before I knew it, the test was complete and the tech was raising the scanner as I moved out from under it.

I sat on the edge of the scanner bed and got my bearings. The tech asked if I had pain in my hip, leg, and foot. I wondered why he was asking this. Did he see something concerning in those areas? I had already mentioned my spine and hip pain but had not mentioned the shin and foot pain. I knew he was forbidden to share any medical information with me because the radiologist had yet to read the films. I dismissed his questions and left for home.

I'll have to wait until Monday or Tuesday for the results of the scan. I hate waiting. I'm concerned because I don't want anything to show up but then again, if there's something that needs to be addressed, I'd rather it show up now and know we can get on it right away. If cancer is evident, I'm going to have to do a lot of praying about my treatment options. I don't want to have to do chemo but I will if I have to. I'm going to rely heavily on my oncologist's opinion.

Tomorrow I celebrate 2 years of being in remission. I am excited about that. I didn't really celebrate my first year of being in remission because I was afraid to celebrate. It was too soon. But this year, I'm ready. We have a family dinner planned and then will come back to the house for dessert. I'm so thankful to still be here.

© bonnie annis all rights reserved.

I wasn't expecting this

Today I went for my three month check up with the oncologist. I arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. I always like to arrive a little early for my appointments and since mine was at 9:30 a.m. I relaxed and read a few articles in the waiting room. While sitting there, I glanced up now and then to see other patients arrive. There were some evidently in the middle of treatment as their bald heads announced to everyone in the room. There was a woman who could barely sit in a chair because of pain she was having in her leg and another in a wheelchair, doted on by loving children. I almost felt guilty being there and feeling as good as I did but I was thankful to be in my position.

Several minutes passed and I heard my name being called. The medical assistant stood in the doorway waiting for me to join her as we sauntered down the hall toward the scale. I was smiling to myself knowing I was 5 pounds lighter without my prostheses on today. I'd weighed this morning with and without them to see exactly how much they weighed. I decided not to wear them so Dr. F wouldn't fuss at me for gaining 5 pounds. It's the small things that matter. After being weighed, I was taken to the lab for blood work. The phlebotomist and I had a nice little chat as she was trying desperately to find a good vein in my left hand. Lymphedema makes it difficult for me to have blood work done and I always have to remind the techs to use a butterfly needle and use my left hand. You'd think by now they'd have notated on my chart these specific instructions, but they don't. After talking with the tech about summer vacations, family and holiday plans, my blood had been drawn and I was about to be escorted to my exam room .

I entered the room and instantly my arms were covered in goosebumps. The room felt like a meat locker, it was so cold! The nurse began to take my vitals and I had to remind her not to put the blood pressure cuff on the upper portion of my arm, once again, you'd think they'd know this...When she was done, she left me alone in the room. As she exited, she smiled and said, "The doctor will be with you in a few minutes." I wanted to reply, "Yeah, right...like that's gonna happen!" but I didn't. I knew it would be a while before Dr. F came in. He's always late. I sat in the room for a long time and began to think I'd been forgotten. Forty five minutes later, I hear a tap at the door.

Dr. F enters and asks me how I'm feeling. I can tell by his demeanor he's behind in his schedule and he's trying to play catch up. This frustrates me and I want to tell him I've waited long enough and he can at least give me the courtesy of sitting and listening patiently while I talk, but I don't. He asks me what my main concerns are today and I hear the underlying, "Hurry up and tell me what you want me to do so I can go on to my next patient" so I comply. I tell him my main concerns are my fatigue, back and hip pain. I tell him I had an MRI done a few months ago and a PET scan and tell him the results of those tests. He excuses himself from the room and tells me he wants to go look at those tests for a minute. He's gone for a lot longer than a minute...in fact, he's gone 15 minutes. I looked at my watch, so I know. He comes back in and tells me all he could find was tests that were done last year. I explain those are the only ones I've had done but it seemed like just a few months ago because I've had so many tests and I can't keep up with all the dates. He smiles and says, "We need to do a bone scan then. I don't want to let anything slip." I wasn't expecting to hear that and thought he meant a bone density scan so I pipped up and said, "I had one of those done ten years ago." He tells me he isn't talking about a bone density scan and I get very quiet. Now I know he's looking for evidence of minute lurking cancer cells. He gives me a gown and tells me to undress. I obey and he's back in the room in a few minutes to do a mini exam. He listens to my lungs and heart, palpates my chest and underarms then he's done. He says, "I'll see you again in 3 months. If the bone scan is normal, I'll send you to an orthopedic to help get your pain under control. If not, we'll deal with that then." He tells me goodbye and walks out the door. That was that. And I'm standing there wanting a do over.

I walk up to the check out desk and the girl asks my name. I tell her and she types it into the computer. She says, "He wants you to have a complete body bone scan." I smile and say, "Yes." She gets on the phone and calls the hospital to schedule it. She listens intently as the person on the other end gives her instructions to pass on to me. I'll have to arrive at 2 p.m. next Friday and receive an injection. Then I'll return later that same day to have the scan performed. It will take about 30 minutes to an hour. Next she schedules my 3 month appointment. When we're all done, I head out of the office and to my car.

In the parking lot, I sit for a few minutes letting my air conditioner cool the car. I'm bewildered. I hadn't been expecting a bone scan. I didn't really know what I had been expecting other than to have had a chance to be heard. Is that too much to ask? I don't think so. I wish I were more aggressive sometimes. I wonder how much longer I'll be on this every 3 month schedule with the oncologist. I feel like I should be done with all this cancer stuff by now but it never seems to end.

On another note...
Sometime this week, I'll be in our local paper. I was interviewed by a news reporter the other day regarding my cancer story. I was honored to talk with her about my journey and humbled when she asked if I'd mind having my story featured on the front page. I don't want to draw attention to myself. I'm nothing special. I'm just one of the millions of women fighting the good fight, but if my story can give hope to someone out there, I'll be happy. Hopefully I'll sleep well tonight. There are no doctors visits to dread tomorrow and thankfully none on the calendar for another month. Life is good and I'm so glad to still be here. Oh, and by the way...the lumps I mentioned in my last post, he thinks they were just swollen lymph nodes, yay!

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