Marathon of Tests

Today was a marathon of tests. We were gone from the house from 9:30 this morning until 7:30 this evening. I had bloodwork, CT scans, chest x-rays, and the much-dreaded MRI. (The last time I had one, it took 3 tries because I was so frightened.) Other than just being downright tiresome, the day went well. My only major difficulty was vomiting between rounds of the MRI. The technician brought me out of the machine to inject the dye, and the nausea swelled up without warning -- a combination, I suppose, of nothing-to-eat-or-drink-after-midnight, berry-flavored barium, CT contrast dye, MRI contrast dye, fear of the MRI, and physical exhaustion. I was so relieved to get the tests and the hospital trip behind me. Don and I celebrated with a nice, quiet dinner before driving home. In spite of my mouth sores, my appetite cooperated well and I was able to eat most of my dinner for a change.

Thanks to everyone who sent me messages, called to wish me smooth sailing for the tests today, or offered up prayers on my behalf. I am actually feeling much better today, although I suspect it will take a few more days to quell the exhaustion. Sleeping in my own bed last night (with my oxygen machine that I missed so much during the trip) was a nice comfort to me. My chair is a welcome friend, too, and hopefully will help the swelling subside in my giant foot. It's so big right now that I can barely squeeze on a shoe over it.

I am going to concentrate for the next little while on getting life back to a normal routine for all of us, with a focus on taking care of myself with regular meals and rest and time to relax and savor all of the great things about summer. I haven't been to the pool in several weeks, because I didn't feel well after chemo and then things were just so busy. And yes, I have forgiven myself for my emotional outbursts on the trip. After all, I am trying to navigate a difficult and treacherous journey into the valley of the shadow of death. There are no road maps in the land where I tread, and rare is the soul who makes it out to offer any advice to the rest of us who walk this lonely path. I can't prepare myself ahead of time for everything that I am going to feel or how I am going to react to the simplest of things, like photographs of my family without me in them. Sorrow and grief IS part of my journey, just as darkness and shadows are part of the light. It is a necessary, albeit sometimes inconvenient, part of my life with cancer.

:-) Sharon