Looking for a little positive energy.

Ok, this is it. I’m actually asking more of you people than usual. Do I want comments? Yes, of course. I always want comments. However, this time I’m also asking for some positive thoughts. If you pray, pray. If you don’t…I don’t know…cross your fingers, scatter some chicken bones…do a ceremonial dance. I don’t care. Just send the positive thoughts my way. Why am I wigging? Tomorrow I have my second PET scan. And believe it or not, I’m terrified.
Now, I know what you’re all thinking. Elizabeth doesn’t get terrified. Ah, ah, ah. That’s not true. I do, in fact, become frightened and, on occasion, I have been known to scare the s&!# out of myself. (Look, I censored!) However, those occasions are few and far between. But this,…this scares me. I should probably give you a little background on the PET scan so that you can all be terrified with me. It’s one of the donut machines. It is basically a full body scan. Hm, how to explain… So, your body is made up of cells. Cells use sugar as fuel. Cells with quick turn over rates absorb and burn sugar quickly while cells for the rest of the body are more gradual. Since cancerous cells are of the “quick grow” variety, they consume large quantities of sugar in short periods of time. So, for the PET scan, they shoot me up with radioactive glucose (AKA: sugar) then stick me in a donut for 30 minutes to see where I glow. Where ever the “glowy” sugar concentrates is the site of my cancer, and the size of the glow is proportioned to the extent of my cancer. This is also how doctors determine staging. I’m stage 2. Meaning it is in two sites in me. I don’t know the extent, simply because asking about it …when they did the original PET,…scared me. And since I had no basis for comparison it would have been a pointless discussion anyway. However, back to our original point, I have another PET tomorrow. And besides my sudden fear of enclosed spaces, I am dreading it. On some level I know it’s going to be good news. Logically, I know it’s going to be good news. I know that they must be smaller. I know that Fred is smaller. However, part of me still worries. And part of me is scared that …maybe…they haven’t shrunk enough. I’m no doctor, but is there a time table for these things? I’m half way through. Doesn’t that mean that I should show a …I don’t know…50% decrease in cancerous masses or something? What if it’s only 40%?Or less? If it’s more do I get to stop chemo early? Do the results from this test decide whether or not Dr. Ahmed will decide on radiation for me? , A course of action which he has already expressed in interest in not doing on someone my age and gender. (Something about long term side effects. Yay.)
It’s all going to be fine. I do know that. Really. That doesn’t mean it’s any less scary. On a terrifying meter it’s between finding out I had cancer, and ..oh..let's say…needles. Yeah. That’s about where it is.
I even had a nightmare about it. Which is, oddly enough, a mixed blessing. Sure the nightmare scared the crap out of me, but the fact that I am finely sleeping deeply enough to dream again is sort of …reassuring. Doesn’t change the fact that in my dream I was stuck in a dark tunnel underwater and could only watch the rest of the world go by through a plane of glass I couldn’t break, as I slowly drowned. (Shivers in reaction. I never used to be claustrophobic. Stupid donut machines)
On top of all this fun anxiety, I had a not great Monday coming off my prednisone. I spent way too many hours sleeping, and when I was awake I was …fuzzy. Amy calls it the chemo fog. But fog isn’t the right word. Fog implies that there is something clearly discernable. That muddled feeling of Nyquil. This isn’t that. I’m calling it the chemo hangover. Not that part of the hangover every one knows about. Headache, dehydration, blurry, blood shot eyes. No, I’m talking about the other part. After you’ve re-hydrated, the headache is gone and you have emptied the entire contents of a visine bottle into your eye sockets. There is still a feeling. You’re no longer in pain, it doesn’t hurt anywhere. You’re not sick. It’s just that something isn’t …right. That’s the only way I can describe it. Something isn’t right and my body knows it. I mean I guess I should take it as a good sign that my body recognizes when it is being poisoned and goes through the effort of alerting me, but it’s frustrating to not be able to explain to people why I’m irritable. Why I’m not “Okay”. (Don’t give me that look. I am not always irritable.) When people ask me if I’m alright, or how I’m feeling, for the most part, I answer with “It’s a good day”. And it’s true. I don’t go out on the bad days, so for the most part, I’m not lying. However, I’m not really telling the truth either. I’ve just redefined “good”. Trust me on this. My version of good and your version of good are no longer the same. My version of good now is more like…the nausea is not so bad, as long as I don’t move to quickly; the pounding headache has subsided to a dull throb behind my right eye; for the most part, my muscles are listening to me and I’m not going to fall down any time soon; my bones are aching but the Tylenol makes it bearable; and provided I don’t over exert myself I won’t need a nap for another three hours. That is my definition of good.
And to be completely honest. I’m a little ashamed to be posting this. I have to keep reminding myself that this is my blog and it’s for me to vent on. But …damn it…sometimes I feel like such a fraud. I should be jumping for joy. On the scale of cancer I have a …head cold. Maybe the flu. It’s treatable and my oncologist is incredible and quite literally world renown. People fly in from other countries to be treated by this man. When other oncologists make mistakes he’s the one that fixes them. If he says I’m going to be fine I should just suck it up and deal. But NO. I have to be the whiniest chemo patient ever. Amy did this and she has three kids, Jessica did this and she has children as well. Me. I am currently unemployed, not going to school and have no children to look after. I don't even have a pet to look after. This should be cake for me. I can’t even make it through the stupid solo at church with out taking 3 times that amount of breaths as I usually would. I mean…I realize that this is cumulative and that this week is worse than last week, but it’s still nothing compared to some who go through chemo. …It’s just such a …horrible way to have to cure a body. I understand that all chemo’s are different. I know that my bug juice is nasty stuff. Six rounds of that should kick my ass. But I should be able to handle this better. A third of lymphoma’s have no cure. I could have just as easily gotten one of them and only have been able to kick back and welcome the end. But I lucked out and got an easy one. Shouldn’t I be happier about that?

Sorry to rant. I'm done now. I’ll fill you all in on the results of the PET tomorrow night.
-Elizabeth