>Hey. Remember That Time When I was Dying?
>I had a CT scan yesterday. I went alone, sat in a waiting room with a half dozen other scared-looking adults, and finally was called back to The Room. You know what I’m talking about, right? The room you see in all the movies, where the person lies on a stretcher that slowly moves into the big round x-ray machine? The room where it is confirmed that the sad hero or heroine is, indeed, doomed? Yeah, that room.
“Where are your swollen lymph nodes?” the technician asked me.
“Right here,” I answered, putting my hand on a part of my neck that I’d felt a hundred thousand times over the last few months.
“And how long have they been swollen?”
“About five months.”
“Okay. Lie down on the stretcher and I’m going to put an IV in your arm. We’ll be injecting some blue dye into your veins. You’ll feel a warm sensation moving through your body and into your pelvis.”
Wait a second. I had never seen anything about blue dye in the movies…
“Hmm. Well. Okay,” I said, doing my damnedest to seem brave and impassive. In went the IV and into the machine went my head. The technician went into another room to take the pictures, then came back. As she took the IV out of my arm, she sniffed once.
Was she fighting back tears? I looked up at her suspiciously.
“Your doctor will have these pictures this afternoon or early tomorrow morning,” she said without meeting my eyes. “You can go now.”
Why won’t she look at me? I thought. She can’t! She can’t look at me because SHE KNOWS I AM DYING!
I left, got into my car, scrunched up my face and burst into tears. Then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Dammit! Someone was sitting in the car next to mine! Quickly, I pretended to have a coughing fit. My breakdown would have to wait.
I tried to stay calm yesterday, watching movies with the girls, cleaning the tub, reading to the baby, making dinner. But my stomach was in knots. I had looked up swollen lymph nodes on the Internet and was certain I was dying. I realized to my great disappointment that I was not a good die-er. I would not be brave and hopeful like they are in the movies. I would be a teary-eyed basketcase. I would be depressed, unable to enjoy a beautiful sunset or my baby’s laughter. I would be irritable, snapping at friends and family members. By the time I finally kicked the bucket, everyone would be secretly grateful.
Yesterday came and went without a phone call. I imagined my doctor, looking at the pictures and sadly shaking his head. I had brought Baby with me to my appointment with him the week before and I knew he’d be heartbroken about giving me the news.
“I’ll give her one more night of normalcy,” he’d think to himself. “I’ll wait to call her with the news until tomorrow morning.”
This morning, I called the doctor’s office and left a message. I waited two more hours. This was unlike my doctor. I imagined his nurse was trying to secure an oncologist to be on the phone when my doctor called me back.
Finally, the phone rang.
“Lucinda? It’s Anne from Dr. Gower’s office.”
“Hi.”
“The pictures are totally normal. The radiologist and Dr. Gower didn’t find anything to be concerned about.”
“Oh,” I let out my breath. “Oh Anne. I thought I was dying. I thought you weren’t calling me back because you didn’t want to tell me.”
She laughed. “No, it’s the opposite. If it’s serious, we call right away! But we didn’t even get the pictures until this morning.”
“Now,” she continued. “If you’d like, I can set up an appointment for you with the general surgeon and let him take a look and decide if he’d like to biopsy the node, just for peace of mind.”
“Okay, let’s do that,” I said.
“All right,” she said. “But looking at these pictures, I think he probably won’t want the biopsy.”
And so. It looks like I’m not dying, after all. But I still feel shaky and sad, because I am imagining how many people are getting phone calls today with the news that they do have cancer. That it is serious.
And now, I know just a little bit about how they must feel. And it is not good.
Yesterday, I thought about the lessons I was learning in this process. I made a list of the things I wanted to remember about this time, in the event that I was, in fact, going to be okay.
Here are a few:
-I will wake up every morning thanking God for this day that I am alive and healthy.
-I will realize that the little trials that come with every day just arenβt worth getting frustrated over, and are never as bad as I think theyβll be.
-I will remember how scared I am right now, how depressed and uncertain I am, how my stomach hurts from fear and how Iβm afraid to go to sleep every night. I will have more compassion for others in my situation and try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, because anyone could be going through the very same thing without my knowledge.
-I will realize how temporary and fleeting life really is, and realize that it could all be taken away so quickly. I will appreciate each moment that I have and savor it.
Oh and one more thing. I will remember that the song Live Like You were Dying is a piece of shit. Because living like you’re dying is more likely to involve sitting huddled and forlorn in a Barcolounger, compulsively munching on Corn Nuts and analyzing every little ache, than skydiving and riding in a rodeo. Or is that just me?
>I’m really glad the results were good… Really glad! And I dont even know you! lol This is just another reason why I am involved with the American Cancer Society, people who are in your situation day in and day out. Thank you for sharing your story…
>Thanks for sharing this. I’m glad you’re okay, and sorry you had to go to your appointment alone (sounds like). What a scary thing. *hug*
>PARANOID!!!!!!!!!:P
>One word: Whew!
>Excellent news!
>Glad to hear that the CT scan didn’t turn up anything serious, Lucinda! I hope everything else turns out ok too. Thanks for the reminder about keeping our lives in perspective. Hope all is well.
>Great news. I always think there is someone worse off then ourselves – my Granny used to say that.Like my cousin Jessica…poor thing is at home, in pain, after surgery on both legs. Her 10th surgery. I wish I could take it away for her. Okay, tearing up now. Must go.
>Thank goodness for good news! You must have wanted to cry in relief. And then hit the ice cream. Or is that just me?
>woooooooo!live like you’re living girl.
>Wow! How scary! You’re pretty brave to do a gig like that by yourself! I always think about that woman on Oprah who was dying of cancer and did all those cool things with her kids, like eating cherrios in the middle of the night and making tapes about their weddings and stuff, and I just know I’d be a really lame dying person~!
>Good lessons to learn and remember! I’ve had plenty of reminders, but another one is never a bad thing, so thanks!
>I’m really glad the results were negative. I got kind of freaked out when I started reading this because that’s how my mother was diagnosed with cancer.So glad you’re okay.
>I am so glad to hear that all is well. Nothing like a kick in the pants to get you to REALLY ponder life, huh? I had a similar experience last year when I had to have a mammogram because of a lump in my breast. OY!
>I’d have been a basketcase, and never mind who was sitting there watching me. Great news for you.
>I’m very glad your result were good news. I know how scary it can be, and how it sucks to be waiting.(((Hugs)))
>So glad to know your results were benign. Two friends of mine are not so lucky this week; one has pascreatic cancer which has spread to her liver and the other has a recurrence of colon cancer which has gone to her lungs. We should all be happy and feel blessed everyday, if we don’t have anything like that to worry about.
>So glad… You can see my daughter’s and for weeks it freaked me out. Then I took her in and he said that it’s normal for many kids. I still stare at them anxiously however….Damn internet sometimes. Will scare the shit out of me everyday.
>The wait can be awful, I know. Having gone through an emergency MRI after my son was dumped on his neck playing sport on the weekend (he’s fine), you get every negative thought running through your brain. So glad it’s all good for you, though. Have they said what it could be?
>Wonderful post. You’re right, we should all live each day like it might be the last!I am glad you aren’t dying!
>Well, it’s either an infection or a virus. I had recurring sore throat/cold all winter and now have worse allergies than usual, particularly on that side, so I’m assuming it has something to do with that.And there was a part of me that knew there was a good chance it was related to that, but it was overruled by the wringing hands, hysterical part of me.
>Great news, Lucinda. Good lessons, too. I’ll keep those in mind.
>Oh my gosh…I don’t think I breathed once during your entire post….*takes huge breathe*Thank God you are alright! I’m sorry you had such a worried day of not knowing.
>Having frightening symptoms, scary tests AND no call from the doctor is horrible.Whoever (*whomever?) came up with Web MD should be shot.
>Lucinda, that’s really scary. I’ve been there before. I like your “lessons learned”. Good for all of us to keep in mind.
>I’m so glad you’re not dying! Great news on the results…
>This is wonderful and real and true. If I hadn’t already nominated a perfect post for May, this would be it. I’m so happy that you are all right, but man going through something like that is tiring, no?Do something nice for yourself this weekend.
>What a scary thing! I’m glad things look pretty unscary.I remember when my husband was in grad school and we attended this Wednesday night young adults (mostly undergrads) group at our church and something was said about living each day like it was your last, and I said, then, that that was a stupid thing to say. Everyone (idealistic 18-21 year olds – I was probably 31) looked at me like I was some kind of criminal. I said, “Think about it. If it were your last day on earth, would you go to work? Would you pay your bills? Wouldn’t you just find a phone, call your loved ones, say I love you, then sit and eat chips or donuts while you watched the sun go down or something? If we lived each day like that, everything would pretty much come to a halt in fairly short order.” They tried to tell me about enjoying life and all that, but I stand by my feelings.
>I had a similar scare several years ago and I have a pretty good idea of how you are feeling. It’s scary as hell but it also makes you appreciate your life so much more.Glad the CT came back okay π
>I had an MRA a while back, to test for a cerebral aneurysm; I was very calm and upbeat (everything was FINE, of COURSE!) until the neurologist’s office called me, on my cell phone, the same day I had the test. He was calling to say that everything was, indeed, fine, but I hung up the phone and sat in my girlfriend’s kitchen and sobbed for twenty minutes.Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that it was entirely possible that everything was NOT fine.I’m glad you’re not going to die. I would miss you. No one else makes jokes about corn nuts and Barcaloungers.
>No, it is NOT just you. That is exactly what I’d be doing, too. So thankful you are ok, i’ve been through something similar, and yes, the cornuts were calling my name.
>I’m so glad for you that it came out OK – I had horrible headaches a few years ago and had to have a head CT. The whole time I’m in the machine, I’m thinking, “Tumor. It’s a tumor. I’m dead.” Oh hey, and how about that “I just peed my pants” feeling from the dye? Even though they warned me ahead of time about that, I still thought, oh crap, I just peed myself…….
>Glad you’re ok.
>Amen. Glad you are okay. Sometimes it IS these little wake up calls that make you realize it’s good not to sweat the small stuff. And how blessed you are every single day of your life.Gosh, drama, drama, drama. Imagine if it had been Baby having the scan? You would have been hystercial. As any parent would. Good Lord. Life is just crazy.
>Oh, I am so glad that everything turned out OK! The fear of being sick or of dying really puts everything into perspective and makes you appreciate everything that much more. I’m sure the sky looked much bluer the day you got the good news.
>So glad you’re not dying. Really, truly good news. π
>I am so relieved by your good news but I can imagine that it must have been the longest few days of your life. Thanks for sharing this and hold on tight to those lessons…
>Good to hear it’s all fine. And Live Like You Were Dying is a gigantic, stinky, piece of crap and LIKE country music in general! π
>Wonderful news!!That song? I don’t like that McGraw guy anyway.I love your appreciation for every day now though.
>So happy the results were normal. This is one thing to which you can point and say that you are, indeed, “normal.” A badge of honor!Hard lessons to learn, aren’t they?
>Thank you for this post. I am going through something similar. Feeling like I am dying when I’m not. For some strange reason, I have noticed that my fear is amplified when I am ovulating. Strange, I know.
>It’s not strange, Scarbiedoll. I read a recent post from Miss Doxie about a tumor scare and it made me feel so much better about my fears. I was hoping I might provide a little bit of relief and compassion for someone else. I think all of us have had a “dying” scare, even if it’s a small one, and for most of us, it’s too terrifying to speak of aloud. My husband is still mad at me for not telling him about the lymph node for several months.
>So, a little over a year ago, I did get the call that said “it’s cancer”. My test results were delayed because my doctor was hoping so much that they were wrong that he actually went and re-tested them. In my personal experience, when the test results take longer than they should, it is never good news! I am so glad you are fine! It DOES suck to have a doctor tell you over the phone that you have cancer! Even if your doctor is super cute and you are totally in love with him and would leave your husband for him in a second. Cancer still sucks!
>Whew! Thank goodness you’re OK! Where would we get our daily snark?
>Oh, wow, I’m so glad to read that you’re okay. I know how worried you must have been. I’ll keep you in my prayers.
>Excellent post, Lucinda. Ever since I saw my dad die of cancer last year I am a CHANGED PERSON. True, I am no longer ignorant and blissful, but I am also sp much more appreciative and less dramatic about the STUPID TRIVIAL stuff. If it won’t kill us, it’s no biggie.You’re a bright girl. Most people don’t pick up on this life lesson like you did. Now, go enjoy your babies. …until they piss you off again. π
>It is scary – itβs scary as hell! I’ve had exactly two of those moments. The first when they found a (benign) tumor in my breast – the other when my yearly sonogram showed a shadow in my uterus (also benign). I will never forget the heart-pounding, sick to the stomach, cold sweat fear that left me shaking and unable to drive back home. I wept both at the initial fright, and the subsequent phone call saying I was OK. So I do understand how you felt. And I am very glad you got that ‘OK’ phone call. I cannot even imagine how frightened I’d be trying to deal with the alternative.
>Oh man, Lucinda.I am so glad that you are okay. That is so scary.And I HATE that song also. HATE HATE HATE it. I want to punch the singer every time it comes on the radio. My sil died a few years ago after fighting lymphoma for 18 mos. I can tell you she was not up for any freaking sky diving.Ya think I have anger issues π
>I agree, I hate that song. But I’m glad to hear that you are okay.
>I can honestly say that I agree with being snappy, and depressed at impending death.I’m glad your okay. I’m glad that I can say “I’m glad your okay.”…
>Hi! I like what you are doing. Maybe we could exchange tips on Peace of mind. You can have a quick look at http://www.wellnessmaster.com so we can exchange ideas.