This week I had the MRI that marks 5 years since the start of my brain cancer treatment. Thankfully, all is stable, no signs of change, flair, growth, enhancement or any other adjective that indicates anything has changed. It's good news. And I'm thankful.
Now that I only have to go once every 6 months, it's really easy to forget how horrible it is being tied to a medical facility for treatment, or bloodwork, or appointments on a much more frequent schedule. I walk in to the hospital for my MRI and I am immediately reminded of a time when I was there at least once per week.
Lucky for me, my MRI days are now pretty routine. In the spirit of sharing, here is how a "normal" MRI day goes. Not that anything about having MRI days is normal.
I get the kids off to school. Get in my car and head to my local MD Anderson. The new facility that is much closer to my house, which has been a complete game-changer for my scan days. The building is easy to access, free to park and is really a sparkling new, modern place to be. There is this artwork hanging on the ceiling of the foyer. It's really cool, but it just reminds me of all of the twists and turns a person's life takes after a cancer diagnosis. You don't know which way you're going, it's all sort of random and scattered and chaotic. I wonder if that is what the artist had in mind.
You are given a mask (still), a COVID screening and a bracelet. Then you go to the waiting hallway. The waiting hallway is lined with these contemporary paintings on the walls. All of them look like the letter "T" which just makes me think of tumor.
A text message tells me to report to a specific door. Get weighed. Any new tattoos? Magnetic eyelashes? Pacemaker? Pregnancy? No - then change into this lovely blue number and proceed to the IV stage.
IV complete, good return, time to move to the important room. A big, heavy door with many warning signs on and around it opens to a frigid room with a huge tube-shaped machine. I get to choose the music they play. I can't hear it, but it's nice of them to ask. Lay flat, earplugs in, head-securing foam in place, warm blanket on, mask off, here's the panic button if you need to stop.
Somewhere between 30 - 40 minutes later it's over. IV out. Change back into my clothes. Go to Costco.
It seems to be sort of a rite of passage after an appointment to drive the additional couple of miles over to pick up the basics at Costco. I see other members of the printed-out-plastic-bracelet club, many of whom I just sat with in the waiting hallway. Instead of waiting for a blood draw or radiation session or scan, now we're just perusing the aisles of a big box store contemplating how many raspberries we need. Surreal and routine; I would have never known of this order of events before, but now it is part of MRI day.
Step 1: Get MRI
Step 2: Buy 250 fishsticks
But hey, I'll take it. I'll keep scanning and shopping as long as possible. And while there is always a reason to celebrate, 5 years felt like the right time to pause and enjoy a night out with some of the many players that have been with us through this unwelcome part of life. These lovely ladies joined me for a beautiful dinner outside while we caught up on the current, reminisced about the past and talked about plans for the future. What a gift, to have so many wonderful people in our circle to call on for help. Sometimes it's help with hard things, but more often (thankfully) it's help with celebrating the now.
