Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series
May 1st, 2019
I suppose that today, of all days, it’s appropriate for me to scream May Day! May Day!
It wouldn’t help my situation, or make any difference though, would it?
I started chemo in late August 2018, which means that I’ve just entered month number 9 of chemotherapy (these days, “treatment” feels too much like a euphemism).
Yesterday, I went to have my 4th CT-Scan done at the CHUM (including the original diagnostic scan). Since I began chemo, I’ve had a CT-Scan every eight weeks—a requirement of this clinical trial. By that count, I’ve passed 32 weeks of being poisoned for the sake of survival.
Yesterday started off just after lunchtime in such a weird and inauspicious way. With my scan scheduled for 3 pm, I planned to go first to the hospital’s open eating area on the first floor, where I’ve spent hours this year, waiting for whatever was next. It’s a vast, windowed, very bright space with dozens of tables where people sit—including many hospital staff—to eat and unwind.
This time, however, before I had even reached the escalator landing, I could see that there was something crowding everyone (they all seemed bunched up) and creating shadow. When I reached the top at last, I was met by an 8-foot high, 25-foot-long puffy pink tube, with lumps and bumps here and there on its surface. This was the monstrosity that was responsible for making seating far scarcer than it should be. When I walked further into the hall and found a spot to sit (I shared a table with a nurse who was on her lunch break), I realized that the big pink tube was a shadowy tunnel that people were visiting. But what I felt when I read the signage in front of it…
It was a giant section of intestine, made to be strolled through. It was there to educate hospital staff and visitors about colorectal cancer.
Fuck. Really? (That IS what I thought) I mean…really? It was hard to see it as humorous. It felt more…ominous. As mental preparations for a colorectal cancer CT-Scan go, this was truly awful. And definitely unwelcome. And I didn’t visit it! There seemed no need to go see tumours and polyps up close and Godzilla-size.
Thrown off somewhat, I ate quickly and then went up to the 14th floor for a blood test that’s now required by Bristol- Myers Squibb before each scan: a simple embryonic enzyme test, which, I think, measures tumoural activity (my results have so far been good, dropping steadily, which is what the oncologists want to see).
The only good, fat surface vein I have for blood tests is on my left arm. Just the one. There simply isn’t anything visible to work with near the surface of my right arm. This, as time goes by, will become a problem. My poor univein is beginning to harden, though up to now, the CHUM’s phlebotomists (drawing blood is an art!) say that it still has bounce (they say: Elle est encore rebondissante!”). But, because I knew that a catheter would be inserted into my champion vein for the Ct-Scan, I asked the nurse if he could perhaps use a vein on the surface of my right arm, one that Chantal, my research nurse and guardian angel, told me was big enough. He opted instead for a vein on my right hand. With his magic hands and a tiny needle, he managed to get what he needed. It was only when I entered the Tomodensitométrie area (in English, that translates as “computed tomography” or CT), that I felt pain and throbbing in my right hand. When the nurse installing the catheter in my left arm (in my plucky univein) saw my sore hand, she said: “Il vous a rupturé ça pas à peu près!” which translates to something like: “Whoa! He blew that one up good!”
There I was, back in an area I’ve written about previously, wearing a hospital gown, and not much else except my shoes and socks, in the company of close to a dozen others adults who looked about as attractive and gloomy as me.
But this, of course, is where it all gets so serious. And it’s when the culture clash between the worlds of medical professionals and the people they call patients is so clear to me. It must be hard to lead with your heart when the patients who stream through your department all look alike: gowned and pale, their education, work life and personal histories unrevealed. They, the medical staff, are so comfortable in their working environment and we, the patients, are anxious, and diminished, and longing to get out and go home. And the technicians who operate the super-high-tech diagnostic equipment are generally kind and polite and concerned that we fare well while inside the giant, noisy scanners and imaging machines, and tolerate the claustrophobia and the chemicals injected into us, while we lie there terrified of what these machines will tell the radiologist who will decode their data…
Yesterday, I sat waiting, in my gown, between a fifty-something man and an older, heavier woman, who gave off signals of wanting to be left alone inside her bubble. The man seemed content to sit in silence too. It makes so much sense: aside from each person’s disease or reason for being there, what is there to talk about? Apprehension was the elephant in the room and it was visible to each of us.
And then, the first woman was taken to her test, and another woman, younger (perhaps in her late forties), sat down beside me. We didn’t get to speak for long, because I was soon called, but in the brief time we had, I mentioned to her that I could see that this wasn’t her first scan, because she was sporting the same regrowth of grey-white hair that I was— though hers was shorter than mine. I just wanted her to know that I saw her as a sister-patient, that she had all my empathy.
Then she said: “And I’m going to lose it all again. My treatment isn’t working. It isn’t working And I have to start chemo again.”
It was such a heavy, meaningful, ominous thing to say, and as she spoke, there was still the trace of the smile that her face was meant to wear and that might otherwise come so easily to her…
My name had been called. What could I say? All I could manage was (in French): “We’ll see each other again here, with our beautiful pink complexions…” and then I was led off to the CT-Scan area.
What will her scan show? What will mine?
I should have taken her in my arms and just held her.