Because of the cancer, I’ve become way more familiar with the inside of my body than I ever imagined I would – even though, most of the time, I have no idea what my innards really look like.
It’s been roughly six years since I was diagnosed with endometrial cancer. I was subjected to several different types of scans during the diagnostic process. Some of them produce xray-like images, transparent blobs of white and gray on a smoky black background that look like some kind of modern art. One other type of test (MRI? CT? IDK) turned out a peculiar animated GIF made up from horizontal snapshots of my body, as if someone fed me through a deli slicer starting with the top of my skull. (Accurate but ew.)
For me, these routine-to-me tests leave me feeling triply helpless. First, more often than not, I have to get an I.V., I have tiny veins, and the poor nurse who has to stick me is forced to move the needle around to hit said veins. Second, I’ve developed an allergic reaction to the contrast dye (the reason for the I.V.) I get immediately nauseous and dry heave for what feels like an eternity (about ninety seconds. I asked.) Thirdly and finally, most of the thorough scans take place in the torpedo tube-type machine and not the claustrophobe-friendly Stargate.
As you may have guessed from the title of this post, I’ve developed some concerning new symptoms and been subjected to some diagnostic tests. The most recent one was a PET scan, designed to make potential cancer light up against a murky black background like neon. According to that scan, there are small-ish areas at the bottoms of both of my lungs that lit up like spilled fluorescent paint.
Shit.
For my sanity and your benefit, I’ll repeat the word potential with emphasis. There are four possibilities and all of them are, well, possible, given my medical history. So let’s run through another list.
It could be scar tissue. In 2017, the same blurry shapes in my lungs showed up loud and clear on a non-cancer-diagnostic kind of scan. Furthermore, there’s been no change to the shape or size of the blurs – no change at all in eight years. Also – this is key – these lung-blurs didn’t light up as cancer on the PET scan which revealed the endometrial cancer in my abdomen. All of that is good.
It could be some sort of infection. I use a CPAP machine. If some sort of bacteria or fungus got into the reservoir, it would get pushed into my lungs. That’s not good but hey, it’s not cancer.
It could be generic inflammation. I have Crohn’s Disease so random bodily unhappiness, including inflammation, is my daily reality. I also tested positive for COVID in December of last year, rebounded in January, and I’ve struggled with lingering respiratory symptoms ever since.
Finally, to be completely honest, it could be cancer. Endometrial cancer can turn up in the lungs if someone (such as me) has had all their lady parts removed, i.e. there’s no actual endometrial tissue for it to latch onto. Or it could be bona fide lung cancer.
A biopsy is the proper way to figure out which of these four possibilities is correct, and I’m going to get that test done in five days. After that, it takes seven to ten business days to get the results. So: that’s twelve to fifteen days of waiting – waiting, not sleeping, stress eating, intermittently freaking out, and coming back to center feeling exhausted. I’ve been in this mental space before, but this time I know where the worst-case outcome might lead.
I decided to post this blog entry – and start up this blog again – because I realized that I will go through this kind of scare from time to time for the rest of my life. The blissful ignorance of a cancer-free life is long gone. The experience of diagnosis, surgery, chemo, and radiation is baked in, just like all the other traumatic experiences I’ve gone through. All of that, collectively, has contributed to one conclusion in my mind: if this latest scare is not a fatal kind of cancer, then I’ve got learning to do.
I’ve got to get better at this specific experience–the waiting, the anxiety, the bloodcurdling idea that my first go-round with cancer might lead to another one whether it actually does or not.
Whether it actually does … or not.
medicinal sausage 