Dont Fear the MRI-per! (sorry! lost my pun mojo)
2011-12-05, 7:16 p.m.
Here�s the latest, then, dear internet family.First was the jolly fun of �seeing the oncologist� which coincided neatly with a day of �being on strike�, which meant the school was closed. As I�m not in the union (don�t ask), I didn�t strike, but there weren�t enough of us to have the school open safely, so there were no kids in, just a few of us teachery types trying to look busy (and mostly failing miserably). For my part, that might be because I was actively engaged in making some fabulous invitations for Wee Treacle�s birthday party, which is fast approaching. In the long-standing tradition of �my kids are bizarrely undemanding�, she�s asked for a sleepover, with added �watching of Pirates of the Caribbean on DVD�. Simples!
Dad came to pick me up from school as I still don�t have a car and I got to the hospital at about 11.45 for my midday appointment. Sat in a really chilly waiting room flipping through some of the dullest magazines known to man�Oooh! Apart from The Word which seems to be written by everyone who ever used to write for the NME when I was a teenager and was actually pretty good in a �skimming over the top� kind of way. Nothing to set the world on fire but enough to pass the time, and funnily enough that was what I had plenty of as I didn�t get to see the sodding oncologist until just after 2.
And, of course, by two o clock I was starving hungry, anxious as hell and really not dealing at all well with the whole business. The oncologist was nice enough; asked a load of questions, wrote down a load of answers, but he still wasn�t able to tell me how my treatment�s going to go because I hadn�t had my MRI yet. He explained what the options will be, depending on how far the tumour has spread and then he basically just sent me away.
Walked back to my parents house to give me a chance to get my head together but I really needn�t have bothered as, when I got back, mum said �sit by me over here, I want to tell you something�, which is not something my mother generally says. Then she put her arm round me and I started crying straight away as, again, that�s not something my mum usually does so I knew it must be serious.
Some of this stuff�s hard to write about.
Mum told me she�s been talking to my dad and they�ve decided I must have a new car. Dad is paying for it and I can�t argue or say no, or he will buy it anyway and post the keys through my letterbox. He�s done some kind of deal with Stepfordbro and its pretty much out of my hands. Mum is also giving me some cash so that I can do a few of the things that I wouldn�t normally do, without feeling like I cant afford it � she suggested �have a massage, get a taxi, buy a bra that costs more than �2�. I cried so much. Mostly because its such a nice thing for them to do, but also because I don�t want to be a charity case and by becoming a charity case I have to acknowledge that I�m properly sick and not just the sort of sick that everyone gets and which can be cured by a few pills and a couple of days off work, lying on the sofa watching black-and-white films on BBC2.
Mum was trying to cuddle me, but she doesn�t do that very often. Actually, like, never so it was a bit awkward and I was aware that while she was hugging me I was as stiff as a post because I�m not used to her doing that, and all I really wanted to do was cling round my mum�s neck and wail my head off and I couldn�t do it, which was making me cry more. Eventually, she gave me one of my dad�s nice linen hankies and I got mascara all over it which made me feel even more guilty.
They�ve gone to Bruges now for the weekend and they�ll be back tomorrow � just as the guilt is starting to wear off about being 45 years old and still taking handouts from my parents. They did such a good job, bringing me and Sis and Stepfordbro up to be self-sufficient but its very difficult after a life of being everyone else�s �go-to guy�, to suddenly be the helpless one.
I talked to my sister for a long time on Wednesday night and I did end up feeling much better, which meant I was a bit calmer when it came to Thursday and the MRI scan.
I had to go on the train as there was nobody to take me (I found out afterwards I could have asked about half a dozen different people, who were all willing and able to take me but�well�I�m just not good at asking) but that was OK � I left plenty of time for the journey, bought a newspaper, all that sort of thing and, to be honest, it was a bit of a day out!
If you�ve never had an MRI scan, let me tell you good things about it, because its actually pretty much OK. There were no bits that were scary or hurty or otherwise not-wanting-to-ever-do-that-again-ish. In fact, if they said I had to have another one tomorrow, it would be OK.
First off a nice Chinese man took some details from me. This was a bit of a problem as he�d been trained to use my name as much as possible (presumably to make me feel at ease) but my whole name has an awful lot of S�s in it and quite a lot of R�s and L�s, too, and at the risk of sounding like a big ole racist, he was MANGLING my poor ole name at every turn. Each attempt was worse than the last until he finally gave up altogether and just added a load of cheery �Okaaayy�ee?�s at the end of every sentence, which was quite sweet. I�m pretty sure he was relieved when he handed over to the next bloke who was English, at least, but seemed to be a bit nervous around women.
I was wearing a hospital gown, which isn�t the most sexy of garments but he was obviously blinded and struck dumb by my staggering beauty, thus rendering him completely unable to insert a cannula into my arm. When he did finally manage it he said �then I just press here for a moment so the blood doesn�t flow back when I let go�, then he let go and blood flowed all down my arm. I�m not squeamish or anything so I was laughing as he was trying to press down a bit harder and trying not to swear. I said �C�mon, Man Up!� and did a little manly �GRRRRRR!!� and he did try to press a bit harder, whilst fumbling with the other hand for the funny cork thing that goes in the end and properly stops things coming out and he was laughing a bit but was still all fingers and thumbs and not really pressing hard at all. Then he stood up, did a bit of �Right! Ok! Err��OK!� and sort of pressed his hands together like a geography teacher just about to give out some tricky homework, and went away again. The Okaaayy�ee? Man came back (presumably to make sure I was Okaaayy�ee) and handed me over to a South African lady with too much make up on, who was a dead ringer for
No Offence Lady, except that she was proper nice and not just pretending to be.
Here�s some weird shit about MRI scans when you have breast cancer:
They stick what appears to be a cod-liver oil tablet on your right-hand boob with a bit of surgical tape. This is in case the images get flipped and they cant tell which side the cancer lump is. The cod-liver oil thingy is always on the right-hand side so they can always tell where the lump is (same side as capsule = right hand side, opposite side as capsule = left hand side). This seemed like a brilliant idea, except they also need to explain to their staff that, when theyre explaining that to a patient, they need to also use the terms �correct� and �incorrect�, or something similar, otherwise friendly but evermore flustered South African ladies will say bollocks like,
�We stick it on the right side so that even if the pictures get flipped the right side is always right. Even if the left side is the right side, we always put it on the right side so we can tell it�s the right side. The left side (where your lump is) is the right side, but we put the sticker on the right side, even tho that doesn�t look right. Most people say �you haven�t put it on the right side!� but we have because the right side is always the one with the sticker on even if that isn�t the right side.�
In the end, I had to explain it back to her, using �correct� and �incorrect� as well as right and left and then she looked relieved and said �yes! That�s right!�, which wasn�t very helpful.
The MRI machine itself is a bit like a massage bed, with a big-ass canopy over it. You lie on your front and, instead of a hole for your face, like a regular massage couch, there�s two holes that you put your boobs in. That�s OK for me because I have fairly average size boobs. I imagine anyone with a particularly fulsome pair of funbags might have to practice first by putting a big pillow into a too-small pillowcase, or maybe have someone handily placed underneath the couch to yank �em through by the nips.
*thinks*��.Maybe its something like that experiment where you get a hardboiled egg to go into a milk bottle by using a vacuum. Hmm. I wonder.
Anyways, then you put your arms up over your head, a la Superman and just have a bit of a nice lie down. There�s a sort of breeze that blows over you and its all relatively comfy and quite pleasant. You aren�t allowed to move so the best thing to do is just shut your eyes and drift off a little bit. They give you a kind of panic button thingy to hold in one hand in case you get claustrophobic but, if your eyes are shut, there�s no reason why you should.
They also give you some earplugs. Those damn things never stay in my ears (or I wouldn�t still be bitching about L�s thunderous snoring after ten years � I would just pop those suckers in and be away to the Land of Nod) which is a big ole pity cos, ladies and germs, MRI Scanners ARE LOUD!!!!!!!!
The scan itself is in little bursts; five minutes here, two minutes there, three minutes someplace else, and each little bit makes a different deafening noise!
First off there was a bit which sounded very much like a Chinook helicopter had taken off in the room and was circling my head. I don�t mean �it whirred a bit like a helicopter�, I mean it was like a Massive Military Cargo Copter was IN THE ROOM WITH ME!
Because I had my eyes shut and a bit of a breeze blowing on me and I was tired and bored and I�m sick and I need things to occupy my mind, I started to think about how General Noriega must�ve felt, when the US military were circling overhead 24/7, playing Bon Jovi or whatever the hell it was that finally made him throw up his hands and go �Oh, ferfucksake, ENOUGH already!� and give himself up.
After that, there was a few minutes of
Image by FlamingText.com
which was a bit like being at the beach when some bugger sits down next to you with a boombox and starts playing some really shit Ibiza rave �music� at full volume. In fact ,if they�d given me a glow stick and a whistle and a couple of E�s there�s a good chance I would�ve tried to dance, which isn�t advisable as there isn�t a whole lotta room in an MRI Scanner for shaking your booty.
No sooner had that stopped than (I assume) some large and powerful men climbed on top of the MRI Scanner and commenced a spirited and high speed table tennis rally
Image by FlamingText.com
with billiard balls. On a car bonnet.
And so it continued, for about 45 minutes � the shitty rave, the ping pong, the Chinook. The Chinook (with added rave), the ping pong, the Chinook on its own again, bit more rave, little rest while I wiggled my fingers as they�d gone dead and I couldn�t hold the panic button properly, bit more rave, couple more passes of the Chinook etc etc.
Oh, and I almost forgot. About halfway through, some dye ran up a wee tube and into the cannula so that they could check the blood flow to my boobs. I couldn�t see what colour the dye was but the South African lady told me to drink plenty afterwards to help flush it through, which had me dashing for the loo every five minutes to see if I was doing purple wee. Or green wee. Or blue wee. Sadly, I wasn�t.
When they�d finished, they let me get dressed and I went home.
On the train on the way home I gave my newspaper to an old lady who was sitting opposite me and was looking bored. She said she was going up-country and had to change at Brockenhurst. I was already walking up the street after getting off at Chigley before I realised the train on which we were both travelling doesn�t go to Brockenhurst.
I hope she found her way home�.or at least had time to finish the newspaper.
Oncologist again on Wednesday, when I�ll get the results of the MRI. It could be very bad news or it could be kind of OK. Ive decided it�ll be very bad, in the hope that I will be proved wrong.
Later
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