The CT scan today is just another step on a long journey. Nothing special. Something I've done before. And yet! I felt an unfamiliar tension grow inside me as the appointment drew closer. When the nurse connected a bit of tubing to the port in my chest to facilitate the administration of the contrast agent and the drug that will keep my allergic reaction to it in check, I was stiff as a poker.
The CT scan is an exam like any other, but the results matter. If the scan is negative, if no growth can be seen, chemotherapy can be considered a success. It wouldn't mean I have beaten the cancer. The resolution of the CT is too low to even say whether all malignancies have been killed. But it would mean that the therapy is working, and that I'm definitely on the right track. It would give me great confidence to continue with the therapy and certainly also with the fasting.
I would draw a similar conclusion were the scan to show growth where and to the extent it was previously observed. This would mean the cancer has been halted. No progression is progress. I would imagine that pushing it it back would then only be a question of a few little changes though this is obviously overly simplistic.
Both these outcomes would make me happy. They would be unambiguously positive. Over both scenarios looms the frightening third, the possibility that the cancer has continued to grow with little inhibition and now occupies a larger part of my body than before. The chances of this happening are high.
I'm not pessimistic by nature, but I have to face the facts. I have undergone a treatment program very similar to the current one. It wasn't a success. Then there is the generally bleak outlook for patients of metastatic colon cancer. I don't want to remember the prognosis the doctor gave me at the very beginning, but I do. It doesn't fill me with much hope.
There are dozens of little things that I could interpret as bad signs. Sometimes I feel a stitch in my lung. Then there is a bit of discomfort in my gut. I feel a slight pain on the toilet. All of these symptoms could have innocuous explanations and I tend to ignore them. Today, as I sit in the radiology department slowly emptying the beaker of contrast agent that will help visualize the details of my intestines, they come back to me, assume undue significance and make me feel apprehensive. Right now, I would much prefer to continue my therapy without this additional information. Hope gives me strength.
This is one of the reasons why I declined an appointment later this week to discuss the results of the CT scan. We'll do it next week when I'm back in the hospital for my next chemo session. No need to rush anything. The results are not going to change. Others might suffer from the uncertainty, lose sleep or get stressed. I prefer to have another quiet week where I can forget about all this and ignore anything potentially painful.
As a nurse asks me to stretch out on the table that will be rolled into the big off-white donut of the CT scanner, I relax already. I must be a bit sleep-deprived. Any time I lie down feels good. It soothes me. I'm cool, at rest and ready for the exam, unworried about the results. The knots in my stomach have disappeared, the tension dissolved. Later this afternoon I'll hopefully find the time to treat myself to cappuccino and cake in town. This is the life I like to live.
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