Waiting and War
I left off last week with the sweetness of bitter waiting.
I learned quickly after diagnosis that waiting is a large part of cancer: Diagnosis. Wait. Consultation. Wait. Tests, blood draws. Wait. Scans. Wait. And so on…
I decided the day I was diagnosed that I would not “let cancer get me down” for lack of a better cliché.
However.
However, the waiting and the anxiety around scans after diagnosis was a bit brutal for yours truly. I couldn’t get CT and PET scans scheduled until ten days after getting my diagnosis, which in hindsight is a relatively reasonable timeline. But I was not a “reasonable” human being at that point in time. My thoughts were something outside of reasonable. My fears roamed wild — especially at night. Having been someone who rarely struggled with sleep for most of my life, the sudden introduction to insomnia was tiring and incredibly unhelpful to my patience.
The ten days between diagnosis and my scans crawled, but finally arrived.
The scans were anything but fine, but yes, they “went fine.” The PET scan took a while; they inject you with radioactive tracers which work through the body for at least an hour before conducting the scan. During the hour when the tracers are spreading throughout your body, they keep you alone in a small examination room and keep visitors separate in the waiting room. The reason they gave for this is that the tracers will be better able to work through the body if they limit your talk and movement with other people in the room.
A very science-y explanation.
Not very human.
Did they not think it might be stressful for me?
To be facing such a startling diagnosis at twenty-seven?
And be waiting for the scan which will set off the treatment course dominoes?
All on my own?
For an hour?
Without my wife or family?
In a cold, sterile hospital room?
With freaking radioactive whosie-whatsies creeping through my veins?
“That must be what the warm blanket is for”, I thought.
This self-pitying wallow-wrought panic party lasted only a few minutes into my quiet waiting hour before I realized: cancer didn’t care. It didn’t care that I, as a human, would like to have a loved one with me so I don’t spiral out in the tiny radiotracer room alone. Cancer was waging war, and my comrades — the medical staff and my oncology team — were preparing for battle the best way they knew. They were getting clear pictures of the enemy so we could formulate the optimal approach for attack. In just a few brief minutes. In that puny, bleak exam room. Alone with my thoughts and radioactive tracers, taking position to fulfill their duty, I knew my role in the battle. I was to be a warrior. I would be on the front lines, and my comrades needed to see a warrior worth fighting for, worth getting behind. This is when cancer became bigger than a disease. And when I became bigger than myself.
Pulling the starchy blanket which still smelled like the warmer up to my chin, I took a few deep breaths and released the tension in my feet, legs, belly, arms, and — oh God — my jaw. My jaw was clenched so tight; I’m surprised I didn’t crack a tooth.
I sank into the chair in the lonely room and closed my eyes.
I was grounding myself.
I was preparing for a fight.
JFK said, “it is an unfortunate fact that we can secure peace only by preparing for war.”
Indeed. If cancer was going to be dirty, I’d have to get dirtier. I’d have to dig in and stop wasting energy fighting the wait. The waiting gave me time to mentally prepare.
(Cue beat cancer’s ass playlists.)
