scan day in the age of coronavirus.

unfortunately, cancer doesn’t stop for covid-19. in the first two years of the post-treatment phase, i need to go in to the hospital for scans every 3 or 4 months. last friday was one of those days. scan weeks and scan days are hard emotionally. the pit in my stomach usually starts on the first day of the scan month, and then it goes away until about the week before. because i don’t think about melanoma all day every day anymore, the scans feel like an alien intrusion. there is a sense of barreling back towards life being all turned upside down again. will i lose it all for the second time? what will happen if the cancer is back but this time i’m stuck on the other side of the world by myself during a global pandemic? i usually don’t let myself follow these questions down the rabbit hole, and just busy myself with life and work. but…. they sneak back in during quiet moments, when i’m showering, or washing the dishes, or hanging up the phone after talking to a friend. i have convinced myself that being prepared for bad news will help me handle it if it comes — which i understand from the research is not actually true. that is a false positive belief about worry that in fact, increases anxiety. you can’t be ready for the worst news, and you also can’t be ready for the best news. you just have to live it and trust that you can handle it either way.

today, this post is going to be a bit different.

usually i bring a friend to the hospital so i’m not alone. but this time, i decided not to. i didn’t feel comfortable having anyone join me, and i also felt strong enough to weather it. instead, i captured my day – in pictures and words – so you could all come along with me.

going to the hospital is very different in these unusual times. i hope this post provides a window into my experience and some of the strategies i use to keep it together.

my alarm went off early, and i had slept well. i woke up groggy, had a shower, and got picked up by a driver from school. my early morning thoughts:

upon arrival at the hospital, i couldn’t enter through my normal door, and there was a strict entry protocol. i had to sign a declaration, have my temperature checked, and get a blue dot that cleared me for entrance. they even had two containers for pens to ensure that pens were not touched by multiple people.

after entry, my first stop was bloodwork. the hospital was almost completely empty. at the counter where there are usually a dozen nurses, there was only one. as per usual, they had trouble getting a vein, and awkwardly reminded me several times about how small my veins are. i’ve learned over time not to panic during this song and dance; i simply smile and distract myself by talking on the phone with someone or listening to a podcast. it often seems like the nurses are more nervous than i am.

my blood sugar needs to be at a particular level in order to have the PET-CT scan, and on this day, i fell in the right range. so… off i went to the scan area. social distancing norms were certainly in place, with all the chairs placed a few feet apart. even the little plastic containers of water were spread out so they weren’t touching. i changed into my semi-fashionable hospital uniform, got comfy in a lounge chair, and was injected with the radioactive substance:

then, i needed to wait for an hour in a semi-dark room. sometimes i fall asleep during this portion, but today i had a much needed catch up with my friend. my thoughts after 45 minutes:

next, it was time for the alien spaceship. i need to lie still for about 45 minutes as i am slowly moved through the machine pictured below; affectionately known as the donut hole. if you take a look at the ceiling you will notice the glare of an underwater scene that is supposed to be calming. i, in fact, find it horribly anxiety-provoking. the actual machine doesn’t make me feel too claustrophobic, but i don’t like being told that i can’t move. i use a variety of techniques that i’ve learned to stay calm: deep breathing, running through the alphabet and pretending to put food from the produce section in my grocery basket (apples, bananas, cantaloupe etc.), i also try visualizing. today, for the first time, and possibly due to music being played (and taking lorazepam), i fell asleep! for half of the scan!!

post scan, i had an hour or more to wait before i could see my oncologist:

here is the tradition bagel, with double cream cheese:

i had a good visit with my oncologist. she was in a good mood. my iron levels have gone back up, and we talked through some of my lingering side effects. she asked me a few questions, did a short physical assessment, and told me she expected there was nothing to worry about. i always find it reassuring when she says this, but i also know it doesn’t actually mean anything. the fact is: i probably wouldn’t know if the melanoma was back. i probably wouldn’t feel any different. but, it still feels nice to hear, even if it isn’t actually based in anything factual.

i zoomed with a friend, went to billing, and waited to be picked up to go home. once i got home, the overwhelming feelings start to set in, so planned distractions became helpful. some thinking about word study for work, online games with a friend, and planning a walk outside.

and, then, around 3:15 pm, my oncologist called:

it is genuinely crazy how high my adrenaline spikes on scan days. what is also bizarre, is that the pure feelings of joy and relief don’t last as long as you’d expect. in some ways, i wish the high lasted for days and days, but the truth is: after the high, and then a crash that usually lasts about 24 hours, life returns to normal.

i recently made a commitment to myself: that i would celebrate the #goodnews after scans. so, on this occasion, i walked to the new tim hortons that recently opened nearby, and gave myself a little piece of canadiana in thailand! i also spent the rest of the afternoon/evening/night talking to every friend on my support team google document. because for me, a celebration isn’t a true celebration, without the people that i love.

so, there it is, a scan day in bangkok in the age of coronavirus. there will be many more scan days in my future, and hopefully over time, they will come to feel like less of a threat to my entire existence. we are all on the precipice, and scan days just remind me of my own precarity. i hope you never have to experience your own scans days, but if you do, i hope you can find small joys like tradition bagels or support team google docs. i also hope you will remember to ask the technicians to play music during your scan, because that is amazing, and should be mandatory all over the world.

i also want to add, a HUGE amount of gratitude for all the doctors, nurses, technicians, radiologists, hospital administrators (and everyone else who works hard to keep hospitals going) who all continue to go to work and keep us safe. every day, people will (unfortunately) continue to get diagnosed with cancer, and they will be there for us. 

*the top photo was taken at bangkok hospital on friday, april 24th. over the past few years i’ve been given a number of different hospital garments to wear. often, they make me feel like a very sick person, and don’t even close at the back! this two piece number cinched at the waist, didn’t have 45 ridiculous ties, and made me feel human. plus, the mask really completed the look. win!