I Hate Getting PET

I had forgotten just how lonely PET scans make me feel.

I got up at 6am like always.  I'm starving.  I ate at 4:30 the day before and had only water the rest of the evening.  I begrudgingly made the kid's lunches and fed them breakfast.  I put on my metal-free attire and drove them to school.  As they each kissed me good-bye my mind shifted into overdrive, down that dark, dark path.  I drove off with tears and made my way to the hospital.  I put on some Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros to calm my soul and after a few songs, I felt myself starting to steer away from panic.

I got to the hospital and checked in.  It is so quiet in the Nuclear Medicine department.  I suppose that's nice for some, but for me it's an opportunity for the chatter in my head to begin.  As a tech walked me to my little dark room, she  explained everything.  I wanted to tell her just to get on with it, that it wasn't my first rodeo, but I sat quietly, focusing my mind on staying calm.

Enter the "nuclear" part of nuclear medicine - the tracer.  She carries in the iron thermos and I almost laugh as she tells me there's no side effects.  Yeah, that's why you can't even take the syringe out of that iron tube.  No side effects.

During the first 1/2 hour of sitting in a dark room "relaxing", I swear I can feel the shit working it's way around my body.  I've always thought that.  There were moments when I'd get a pain and I'd think to myself that maybe the tracer has found it's target.

There's nothing in this room.  A recliner, a table, some medical supplies and a call button.  Nothing else but the chatter in my mind, which continues to increase as the first 1/2 hour passes.  The tech brings me some water, indicating the 1/2 way mark for waiting alone in this dark room.  The second 1/2 hour seems longer.  I can't feel the tracer anymore, so I don't even have that to distract me and all the voices in my head have joined forces into one big voice.  I try to think lightly, hum songs, breathe deep, but nothing can bring me back now that I'm heading downhill into the darkness of my mind.  Just as I feel myself on the brink of panic, a tech comes along to take me to the machine.

The room is about 15 degrees colder than the rest of the department.  I'm instantly aware that I am not wearing a bra.  Of coarse this tech is a man.  He pampers me for all of five minutes - giving me pillows under my head and knees, a heated blanket, and making sure my arms are comfortable above my head; as if that's even possible for prolonged periods of time.  Then he straps me in and with a smile, he flees to safety.

Up I go.  Up and in and out and in and out and in, in, in, in, in, in, in.  I try to doze off, but either the movement or the voices wake me up.  My hands are numb and cold.  There should be a tv on the ceiling or music in the room, or let a friend read you a book.  It's so, so silent in there.

When it's over, the tech tells me "good luck with everything" and sends me on my way.  I welcome the exit of this cold room.  I walk as fast as I can to my car; as if that would make any difference in the results.

Afterwards a calm came over me.  One I'm afraid to speak of, and afraid to acknowledge, but it was there.  Now, time to eat!