MRI HELL

I’m a scan junkie, OK?  I love learning things about my own body.  Measure, scan it, peek inside of it, observe it — go for it!  

The staff at Imaging were all very professional.   But, then in hindsight….

Short story?  I spend all of Tuesday afternoon miserably ill.  I felt dizzy and nauseous.  I couldn’t lift myself from the couch to a sitting position.  I had splitting pains tear through my head when I lifted it too quickly.  I had that cellular deathly feel I remembered from when my blood counts dropped so low after that first chemo in 9/2008.

“I need cheese!” I gasp to Francois from my supine position on the couch.  I’m thinking the almonds, chicken and broccoli I have aren’t going to go well with my nausea.

I’m on a non-carb all protein and fat diet for the PET scan the next day.  I came home and ate an entire bunch of asparagus and a chicken breast — roasted in a lovely olive oil.  So I hadn’t been fasting.  But something feels like it’s starving in my body.

“What kind of cheese?” he asks.  “Any!”  I gasp.  “Get me cheese!”

Things go downhill for me from there.  I’m on the couch, wondering if I should call 911 or not.  Where IS that cheese?  Where IS Francois?   I lay in a soupy fog of malaise.  “Paul!?  Call Papa.”   He tries to hand me the phone.  “I can’t call.” The phone is beyond me.  I can’t figure out how to use a phone or dial.  I tell him he has to call.  I can’t figure out how to tell him why I can’t call.  Paul, looking a bit annoyed, calls Francois.

HE’S AT THE GAS STATION!  HE’S MEANDERING AROUND TOWN DOING ERRANDS WHILE MY BRAIN STARVES HERE ON THE COUCH!

All I could think about was that my DAD NEVER would have put other errands ahead of my mother’s comfort and well-being.

And now am I going to have to have my 9-year old call 911?

Cheese eventually gets home.  It helps.  By late evening I am starting to feel well enough to stand up and walk around.    I’m drinking water like crazy to prepare for the PET scan tomorrow.

Seeing me laying on the big leather couch in front of the TV, lifting a hand towards him and uttering “cheese!  I need cheese!” didn’t communicate to Francois the seriousness of my request.

I feel irrationally betrayed by this information.

I tell Francois we need to create a safe word.

I.am.not.looking.forward.to.the.PET.scan.   What kinds of funny unannounced side effects will I get to enjoy tomorrow?

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