The nuclear medicine tech's name is Angie. She's gotten me ready for all of my PET scans, and she's the bomb-diggity IMO. She's nice, knows how to start an IV sans pain, and is as big a Blackhawks fan as I am. The lapel of her lab coat is speckled with Blackhawks pins. I'm still trying to get her to give me her Halloween pin...the Blackhawk Indian head wearing a witch hat (it's soooo cool), but she won't budge.
Angie: Here for a follow-up scan today?
Me: Not so much. Had an abnormal MRCP last week. There's something there. The scan today is to see if there's anything else.
Angie: Oh, I'm sorry.
Me: Me too.
So the life of a Stage III (or is it IV) melanoma patient goes. Scans every few months, regular visits to the dermatologist and frequent visits to the oncologist. I would have been perfectly happy to continue on that path. The stinking melanoma, however, had another plan.
I don't think the scan results today will show a single mass. I think there will be more. I pray that I'm wrong, but either way this f'ing (yes, the word of the day is still the "F" word) melanoma is in for a big fight either way. I'm terrified of what that might mean in terms of treatment, but I'll fight like hell to kick melanoma to the curb.
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I found this during my flight to Vegas to see my buddy, Denise. I remember typing it the day of the scan after the injection while I was waiting for the radioactive stuff to attach itself to whatever cancer it might find. I guess I got so caught up in what came after the PET scan that I forgot to post it.
I WAS wrong, thank God. But that was 5 months and a few days ago. I have scans coming up again in a few weeks, and it will start all over again. The doubt, the what-ifs?...the outrageous, obnoxious, undeniable fear. And I'll take it. Because if I get to keep having scans it means I'm alive.
