Tag: MRI

All I Want for Christmas is No More Auras

(Title image: Photo by Brian Suh on Unsplash)

This was supposed to be a post for USA residents about how to find some harmony during the Thanksgiving holiday amidst the tensions brought by relatives with strongly differing views of the world. Such disagreements are always a possibility when families get together, but likely even worse this year.

But, no. Instead, I’m sitting here wearing sunglasses in a darkened room as I plink out this post.

Remember those shimmering scythe-shaped mosaics (auras) that I wrote about intruding on my vision some weeks ago? The ones that are associated with ocular migraines, but in my case minus any headache? Well, they’re still happening and with greater frequency.

Depending on which of my healthcare professionals you talk to, they either want to (1) wait and see how things progress or (2) shove me into an MRI tube ASAP.

Trying to keep my sense of humor…

And me? I really want to not be dealing with this issue. After seven years of putting a lot of space between my cancer diagnosis and the present moment, I am getting stressed by the possibility of this being something quite serious. And all I wanted was to enjoy the upcoming holiday season.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Here are the details: I’ve now had seven of these episodes in about two months—I’m not even sure when the very first one was. After the last one (which was the second of two last week), I left a message with my ophthalmologist.

However, it was my oncologist who happened to call a few hours later, completely coincidentally, to give me unrelated scan results.

So, since I had him on the line, I told him about the auras. He sounded sad. And you know what? You never want your oncologist to sound sad, especially when they’re usually so good at being neutral when delivering news.

And then my ophthalmologist called back late that afternoon, urging me to see my primary care doctor as soon as possible and also schedule an appointment with her for the next day.

Next day, I snag a morning appointment with my primary care provider, explain the situation and the fact that I have no other symptoms other than the auras. Her take: this is very weird, yes…but it’s a hard sell to get this to qualify for an MRI at this time, even with the frequency. With my consent, she wanted to wait for a little bit and see whether the auras continued.

Or, I guess, until my head exploded or something.

Find a happy place, find a happy place, find a happy place…
(Photo by serjan midili on Unsplash)

When I saw my ophthalmologist that afternoon, she was extremely concerned and incredulous that an MRI wasn’t the first course of action. I could tell that she felt waiting was a bad idea.

But ultimately, she acquiesed to the notion that we’ll wait, although she’s sending a synopsis of her findings to my primary. She instructed me to take excruciatingly detailed notes the next time one of these auras occurs

And if you’re still reading this far down and are convinced that my goose is cooked, maybe it isn’t. Sure this whole experience is stressing me out. But there are far too many confounding variables present to resign myself to the fact that I’ll be getting my head shaved again soon…variables which I might be writing about in a future post…

…or I’ll be talking about my ride in the MRI tube and subsquent diagnosis.

But for now, I’m going to rest my eyes in a darkened room and think of silky fur on a contentedly purring kitten.

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For everyone in the USA, have a wonderful Thankgiving with your lovely families this Thursday…and let’s all try to keep it civil.

February: A Great Month for a Diagnosis Reenactment

(Title image: Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash)

It’s February and that means it’s the start of “diagnosis season” for me. At this point in cancer survivorship, I don’t get as affected by everything that happened “on this date X years ago“. However, I have an oncologist appointment and my yearly 3D mammogram around this time, so I can’t forget what this month means.

You would think that since 2024 marks seven (!) years since my initial diagnosis, I’d feel pretty good about having made it this far past my treatment…and you would be right.

Seven years down and still going strong!
(Photo by Frankie Lopez on Unsplash)

I’m now living the feeling that I so desperately wished for seven years ago when everything felt devastating and out of control. My outcome, even with the many pesky moguls that I’ve had to clear, is something I’m so thankful for.

But of course, even as mellow and relatively unconcerned as I am now, there are little reminders of the rough and tumble past that unsettle me.

Like that point in my mammogram when the tech finishes up and leaves the room to consult with the radiologist, and all of a sudden I don’t feel great anymore. It’s maybe 5-10 minutes or so of sitting in a quiet room all by myself, wrapped up in that bathrobe-y gown made out of fabric that seems like it should be less scratchy, trying to focus really hard on the tropical ocean video that they have playing on the tv screen on the wall.

No matter how warm the room is, there is a cold spot in the pit of my stomach. The hospital does its best making the surroundings seem inviting. Really they try. But it’s kind of hard to mellow out the echo of an impending sense of doom.

Same goes for every time my oncologist says something like, “Hmmm, should we do another chest MRI?” No, no we should not. That’s about 45 minutes of being stretched out like superman on a surface that’s clearly meant for a woman much shorter than me, while getting my ears blasted.

In case you’ve never taken a ride in the tube, this is what it’s like. Don’t forget your earplugs. Bonus for chest MRIs: you’re lying on your belly with your arms stretched past your head for almost an hour, giving you plenty of time to reconsider your life choices.

My husband says the MRI sounds like a broken dot matrix printer. I think if your printer is making sounds like that, it’s time to evacuate the building.

Ah the memories. But again, I am talking about this from the vantage point of seven years away. It is nicer being up here above the fray. It also gives me a great view of the potential rollercoaster disaster that this season could become, if my scans go south.

But seven years into this, I’m betting it probably won’t. So far, so good.

Surviving Another Ride in the Tube

During my last oncologist appointment, I was told it was time for a chest MRI.

The last time I had one of those, I was barely holding it together–it had been a couple of weeks since my breast cancer diagnosis an dI was in an emotionally fragile state.

But that was four and a half years ago. This time, I was fine. I thought.

In case you’re never experienced one, the bilateral chest MRI is not particularly comfy. You lie face-down, your breasts hang between two open slots beneath you and your arms are outstretched in a “superman” pose.

I was a bit taller than they expected…things didn’t completely fit.

And you hold that for a specified length of time. I seem to recall almost an hour last time in 2017, but this time it was only a half hour. Which is good, since I had a hard time getting comfortable–based on how the MRI bed was set up, they hadn’t expected me to be quite so tall.

And since I needed “contrast” in my MRI, I was hooked up to an IV for infusing gadolinium. But the veins on my right arm (which is the only one I’m supposed to use) have seen a lot of wear and tear. Yes, they bulge and look nice and juicy. But it’s a lie. Only after some false starts–the first vein the nurse tried was a bust–did we get the IV going.

The MRI machine looked shiny and competently high-tech. I got to listen to spa music through headphones, which is kind of funny, since it’s like being at a spa where they also bang pots and jackhammer while you’re getting your treatment. In case you’re not aware: MRIs are LOUD.

Ironically, there’s something quite positive about that: the percussive nature of the noise has an almost lulling effect–if you let it. This worked quite well with my strategy of meditating throughout the procedure. Breathing was not particularly comfortable because of pressure on my ribcage (again, due to my height and positioning on the bed), so I chose not to focus on it.

The dressing room was cute, but I couldn’t help feeling so alone in it.

Instead, there were many other bodily sensations that I could pay attention to. At times, I could “feel” the MRI in my hips and spine. I focused on the weight of my body on that bed and on releasing tension whereever I sensed it. Compared to the previous chest MRI, I felt a sense of grounding.

But there were little cracks in my composure. I took a picture of the cute little dressing room where I changed and left my clothing. It was lightly decorated with homey touches. At the same time, it looked so empty: my gown on one chair, my belongings on another. Briefly, I felt small and alone.

After unsuccessful attempts, the IV was connected, and I remembered the feeling of expecting that things were just gonna hurt.

After I got home I removed my bandages from the IV arm and looked at the crook of my elbow, and it reminded me of all the pokes that I’ve endured. All the discomfort that I learned to expect and not question if it was necessary, because it always was. And I fought back feelings of helplessness.

It’s not all bad. This time, I had a better grip on things. I wasn’t even thinking about the MRI the next morning when I went grocery shopping, until…

…I saw a call come through from my oncologist’s office. And suddenly my heart started racing. It was a pure knee-jerk reaction. The voice on the other end told me that the MRI looked normal and my oncologist would see me at my next scheduled appointment next year.

It took a bit for my heart to calm down. I hadn’t been worrying about the results, certainly hadn’t expected anything bad, but wow, when that phone rang, it was as if my brain yelled at me, “Time to PANIC!”

This ride in the tube had a happy ending. But there’s no mistaking all the anxiety bubbling under the surface. Try as I might, I am always going to associate these procedures with fear and possible death. Memories of what happened a few years ago are not going anywhere.

And that’s okay. Because even though my reactions to those memories may still be stressful, I can accept that this will be the case and not expect them to be otherwise. And that acceptance is one of the most valuable skills that I’ve learned.

After My Last Oncologist Visit, I Fell Off A Cliff

I had an oncologist appointment last Thursday that marked four years of being done with chemo for breast cancer.

During my previous onc visit in February, I had been a mess: depressed, stressed and miserable with joint pain and a feeling that my endocrine therapy was taking away from me more than it was giving me. At that point, he let me stop the aromatase inhibitors.

Now, half a year later, I felt so different. My blood pressure was 118/83, much lower than the 130s and 140s systolic numbers I was hitting after stepping into the exam room on previous visits. I was peaceful and more hopeful.

We discussed all sorts of “survivor” things. The joint pain had mostly resolved itself and was no longer a hindrance to exercise, one of the things most important to me. My libido could have been higher and my short-term memory was often lacking, but he felt that could also be attributable to working and sleeping in the same room for the past year and a half, coupled with menopause.

Finally, my doctor noted that it was time for another chest MRI. Not the most comfortable of scans, but I’d done it once, I could do it again.

I would love a pet, even if it means having to clean fur out of my keyboard.

It was not until around noon of the next day that I suddenly plunged off a cliff. I was talking to my daughter and randomly mentioned my willingness to look after any pets she might have in the future when she’s living on her own, were she to travel for work, because where we lived now we weren’t allowed to have pets…

…and I was slammed by a massive wave of sadness and regret.

My thoughts zoomed back to my first chest MRI, stripped to the waist, lying on my belly, arms stretched over my head, frightened and painfully vulnerable. All my focus was on breast cancer and what other horrible realities the MRI would reveal. All I could think of was surviving my upcoming treatments.

That MRI meant that my life was on hold. There would be no progress in my career for the foreseeable future, and no chance of moving into a bigger place, one that would allow us to get a cat (note: I’m a dog person, but I would have been happy with a cat!). Animals have always been a part of my life, but our apartment rules prohibited them. I yearned for the chance to have a pet again. It seemed such a small thing to ask, but even that wasn’t available to us now.

That brief discussion with my daughter underscored a profound feeling of loss and despair. Cancer had robbed me of a lot of things in my life that others took for granted.

This was my view before I realized I didn’t have to sit there.

And as I sat there in the depths, I forgot that time does not stand still, things are always changing, nothing is permanent…and I have inside me everything I need to climb out.

Curiously enough, I had recently attended a talk on managing anxiety aimed at cancer patients and survivors. The counselor who presented the information was herself a breast cancer survivor and she told us a story of doing a follow-up chest MRI, which she found very stressful. Afterwards, she was asked by one of the cancer nurses what sorts of mental tools she had used while in the MRI tube to calm herself down. At that point, she realized that even though she taught these techniques to her patients on a daily basis, she had completely forgotten to use them herself!

I had been sitting in the darkness for a few minutes when I remembered her story. Most importantly, I remembered that I didn’t have to feel this way, that it served no practical purpose and that I wanted be happier. The only reason I felt like this was because these emotional plunges had been a habit of mine.

So I twisted a rope out of all those grounding techiques that I’ve posted about and pulled myself up.

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True, I still didn’t have a cat. But I was able to take a deep breath and realize that at least I had a future. And that future might contain a cat.