Valentine’s Day

There’s a lot of pink around Valentine’s Day, and today I get to have an IV-infused MRI. Surprisingly, my robe today is green.

After I changed into the scrub pants and green robe, the MRI/medical tech directed me back to a room and asked me to sit in this big chair that looked strange for an MRI. So I asked him, “Am I going to be sitting up in this for the procedure?” He was kind. I am totally not myself. Of course, this isn’t where they do the MRI!! This is where I’m getting the port for the IV. Duh!

I have terrible veins – they always roll and I have never been good at blood draws or IVs. I let him know. He took his time examining where would be the best spot. He tried my right arm – no luck. Then my right hand – nope. He asked me if he could try one more time or if he should get an RN. I told him that it was up to him but that he was running out of options on my body. He left and brought back Matt, the RN.

Matt is handsome. He is Alex Karev (although they look nothing alike). Matt has full sleeve tattoos and long hair. I’m back in the movie. While Matt is distracting me and asking what I do for work, at some point, I imagine he is going to ask me to go out for coffee or lunch sometime. It is Valentine’s Day, after all. Then he started talking about his wife. So, clearly, the movie I’m in isn’t on the Hallmark Channel, but he successfully got the port in.

They whisk me back for the MRI – it will take about 45 minutes. I’ve had an MRI before for my ACL, so I knew what to expect. She hands me headphones, and I ask her if I’ll be listening to music. She said – nope. When I had my ACL MRI, they had music ones, but that was at a different facility. I lay face down and have to position my boobs just perfectly in this little box, arms stretched out above my head and I have to lay perfectly still. No deep breaths. Wait – what? How am I supposed to relax and be perfectly still if I can’t take deep breaths? I felt like I held my breath throughout the whole procedure, although clearly, I couldn’t hold my breath for 45 minutes. I took short, tiny ones.

Halfway through, when she asked me how I was doing, I asked her if I could have a second to take a deep breath. They were getting ready to inject the dye. She said okay. I got an inhale count of 1…(going for 3), but she said okay, we’re starting now. Dang – I barely got a second. Just don’t breathe too much, or they’ll have to take new images. I’ve never felt a sensation like that. The fluid burned and was cold, and I could feel it going in my veins, but only on my left side. At the end of the procedure, she asked me if I had any questions. I asked her if my urine would be blue. For some reason, I imagined they injected me with blue dye. She said no, but I should drink a lot of water to flush it out. Again, my mind is always wanting more information. Why is it safe to inject if you have to flush it out? Does it have a color? The dye is supposed to tell them if they missed anything or if it’s spread (I think).

If you haven’t had an MRI, it’s not scary unless you’re claustrophobic, but it is loud. I note to myself that I want to research how the machines work and why they were designed like they are – what is it doing that makes them so loud?

I went home and back to work. It was a long day. Later that night, I was scrolling on Facebook and my friend, the one I called about insurance options, posted that she is 2 years cancer-free. Apparently, it was longer ago than I remembered, but I’m not going to go back to correct that post. Mainly because it reminds me of how 2020 & 2021 were for me. Tasha’s son and my son wrestled together in middle school and we carpooled and cheered them on at tournaments. Our sons are now in their 20’s. She’s a good human. Although we don’t hang out or spend time together anymore, the day I called her, she told me I was her boobie buddy and I could reach out to her anytime for anything. I think she was referring to me when she mentioned in her post in the screenshot below that she would tag people, but noticed that they hadn’t publicly announced it on Facebook. Out of respect for privacy, she said, ‘ you know who you are.’ I appreciated that. There were so many people that I wanted to tell personally.

When my mom died, my cousin sent me a message on FB. I’ll never forget that day. I was at work, and a notification popped up. I don’t usually hear from him, so I opened it. He said he regretted telling me that my mom had died. I didn’t even know she was in the hospital. I will write about this later.

FB is not a good place to share bad news, but it is where everyone (at least people my age) goes to get updates on your life. Life isn’t often insta’ worthy, and many people I know post about the good and the bad in their lives. My Facebook is totally ‘Mom Proud’ moments, and I’ve used the platform as my digital scrapbook. That’s why I’ve chosen to share here. It’s up to you if you want to visit my site and read along my journey – it’s not in your face. I also chose to build my own website because:

This is what I do for a living – project managing website development. Although, let me make it clear — I manage the work between our agency and the client. I’m not a developer and
I’m not ready to be a cancer person. I don’t want to join caringbridge.com (although an amazing organization), and I won’t wear those little turban hats either.

I am still wrapping my head around all of this. I don’t look like I have cancer. Other than that little kumquat in my breast & feeling tired all of the time – I am still me —The me before the diagnosis. Fatigue can be adrenal or stress or lack of self-care/discipline to get enough sleep. I have definitely lost a lot of sleep since Dr. Evans Day, and I appreciate every single one of you who took late-night calls to keep me company when my mind was reeling.

I want you to know how much I love all of you.