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liver?Because we have had chemo before, the doctor will need to know what drugs and how much. This is because there are lifetime limits for certain drugs.My wife is already at her limit for some. That makes potential future treatment difficult. Risky. We don’t want to think about this now.The way to deal with this tsunami of information is to shut down most of it. To focus on one thing at a time. We’ll await the results of the PET scan. Until then we’ll try to keep our lives going as usual.If chemo is required, I know the tears will return with a vengeance. Anger and acceptance will follow but they are just waystations.Once started, the chemo train won’t stop till the last bags of chemicals are drained and the follow up scans/biopsies show no more danger. That will be months away.First things first though, they’ll have to put in a port, a catheter that is lodged in a large blood vessel. This is because infusing chemo into a smaller vein can damage it.A large blood vessel is preferred because the volume of blood there will rapidly dilute the drugs and cause less damage to her body.Drastic physical changes come with chemo. Hair falls off. The last time her eyelashes fell off. The hairs in her nose too. Her fingernails loosened. Her toenails lifted off permanently.The drugs induce horrific vomiting. More drugs will be prescribed to stop the vomiting.They will monitor her blood panel constantly. Chemo often affects the bone marrow. Her immune system can be compromised. If it is, more drugs will be needed to prop up her white blood cells.With the vomiting comes weight loss. Masks to go out in public. Wigs or head scarves. It’s traumatic and heartrending and pitiful.As a partner, all you can do is be there. To help. To witness. To support. To encourage until it’s over. Until remission.During the chemo her urine will contain traces of chemo-active drugs. It may be in her sweat. Her tears. As her caregiver, I have to be careful of exposure. It can affect me by simple contact.I may not be able to sleep next to her. Even our laundry has to be managed differently. Separately.<h2 id="1c32">The Present</h2>I woke up at 2.30 sharp this morning. 4 hours of sleep. The appointment for the PET is at 7.30. Somehow we make it to the office.The actual scan takes half an hour to get done but prep takes 2 hours. We

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got there on time and finished at 11.30. I sat in an overstuffed leather sofa in the waiting room and waited.On the way home she said we should update our will. I didn’t want the tears to start so soon. But they did.After any major diagnostic scans, your entire family will find itself in a strange place. It’s somewhere in between the past and the future. It’s where you wait to be judged.Life and death hang in the balance. All you can do is hold your breaths and pray.It could go either way.What a PET scan picks up is sugar uptake. Regular cells have a predictable range of absorption. Cancer cells are different.Cancer cells are greedy. They want more energy than any others, so they suck sugar up faster than any others.They gave my wife a special kind of sugar, one tagged with a dye that shows up in the scan.If she has lesions, those spots will light up brighter than their surroundings. That’s how the doctors will know if her Lymphoma is back.For now, the scans are done. Biopsies are likely to be next. But we both know, if the scan shows up multiple spots, it’s going to be an almost conclusive return of her lesions. That means chemo.In the pause, we try to eat. Try to be normal. Play a few games or watch a movie. But we’re really waiting for the other shoe to drop.It shreds your nerves. Sleep won’t come for either of us. Every day this past week, I’m up at 3.00 a.m. I toss. Turn. Use the bathroom. Try to read. Nothing. I can’t go back to sleep. I might as well get up.Medium helps. I read poems, stories. I lose myself in the lives of others for a while.She’s on her phone at this hour too. Playing pool with strangers online. A giant book of Sudoku is on the nightstand with a pencil sticking out. She says it takes too much concentration to actually work them out. She prefers something mindless.In the meantime, we wait. It’s out of our hands entirely. And that’s a feeling you never quite get used to.I’ll stop now. If you’ve read this far, I’m sorry for taking you through my family trauma. Writing this helps me to settle. To collect my thoughts. To prepare.It’s not a situation I wish on anyone. I’m hoping you never have to go through this. But if you do, at least you’ll have an idea of what’s involved.I’ll end by wishing you well.Walk good, Mitch.</article></body>

Life | Life Lessons

When Your Loved One Needs a PET Scan

A few things you need to know.

Trigger warning: I’m going to delve into some of the details of chemotherapy and how it affected my family. It may be upsetting to some.

As a partner, all you can do is be there. To help. To witness. To support. To encourage until it’s over. Until remission.

$10,000.

That’s the figure we were given for a PET Scan. Thank the sweet dear Lord for Obamacare. Without it we would be in serious trouble. But that’s the least of our worries.

The Past

We’ve been down this road twice before. We know the way. It’s literally through the valley of the shadow of death.

PET scans are used to diagnose cancer among other things, and my wife has previously had two rounds of chemo based on various scans and biopsies in the past.

After the chemo, if they can’t find any more cancerous cells, they say you’re in remission.

They never tell you you’re cured. Remission is a weasel word. It means you’re good for now. They always leave the door open. We’ve been in remission for more than 10 years.

The trade off is that we have to be constantly vigilant. Regular checkups, CT-scans. Careful monitoring for any changes between results.

The last CT picked up a growth. Something wasn’t there a few months ago and the doctor is concerned.

For us, scans and surgical biopsies are harbingers of death. Though we have hope, it’s hard not to suspect the news will be bad. We see it in the doctor’s sad smile as she sits with us.

It doesn't help that there’s a box of tissues right next to the chairs in her office.

Tears always come.

If the news is bad, a battery of doctors will be called into action. Life or death questions need to be answered. Will her heart survive the chemo? Will her kidneys allow this drug or that? What about her lungs? Her liver?

Because we have had chemo before, the doctor will need to know what drugs and how much. This is because there are lifetime limits for certain drugs.

My wife is already at her limit for some. That makes potential future treatment difficult. Risky. We don’t want to think about this now.

The way to deal with this tsunami of information is to shut down most of it. To focus on one thing at a time. We’ll await the results of the PET scan. Until then we’ll try to keep our lives going as usual.

If chemo is required, I know the tears will return with a vengeance. Anger and acceptance will follow but they are just waystations.

Once started, the chemo train won’t stop till the last bags of chemicals are drained and the follow up scans/biopsies show no more danger. That will be months away.

First things first though, they’ll have to put in a port, a catheter that is lodged in a large blood vessel. This is because infusing chemo into a smaller vein can damage it.

A large blood vessel is preferred because the volume of blood there will rapidly dilute the drugs and cause less damage to her body.

Drastic physical changes come with chemo. Hair falls off. The last time her eyelashes fell off. The hairs in her nose too. Her fingernails loosened. Her toenails lifted off permanently.

The drugs induce horrific vomiting. More drugs will be prescribed to stop the vomiting.

They will monitor her blood panel constantly. Chemo often affects the bone marrow. Her immune system can be compromised. If it is, more drugs will be needed to prop up her white blood cells.

With the vomiting comes weight loss. Masks to go out in public. Wigs or head scarves. It’s traumatic and heartrending and pitiful.

As a partner, all you can do is be there. To help. To witness. To support. To encourage until it’s over. Until remission.

During the chemo her urine will contain traces of chemo-active drugs. It may be in her sweat. Her tears. As her caregiver, I have to be careful of exposure. It can affect me by simple contact.

I may not be able to sleep next to her. Even our laundry has to be managed differently. Separately.

The Present

I woke up at 2.30 sharp this morning. 4 hours of sleep. The appointment for the PET is at 7.30. Somehow we make it to the office.

The actual scan takes half an hour to get done but prep takes 2 hours. We got there on time and finished at 11.30. I sat in an overstuffed leather sofa in the waiting room and waited.

On the way home she said we should update our will. I didn’t want the tears to start so soon. But they did.

After any major diagnostic scans, your entire family will find itself in a strange place. It’s somewhere in between the past and the future. It’s where you wait to be judged.

Life and death hang in the balance. All you can do is hold your breaths and pray.

It could go either way.

What a PET scan picks up is sugar uptake. Regular cells have a predictable range of absorption. Cancer cells are different.

Cancer cells are greedy. They want more energy than any others, so they suck sugar up faster than any others.

They gave my wife a special kind of sugar, one tagged with a dye that shows up in the scan.

If she has lesions, those spots will light up brighter than their surroundings. That’s how the doctors will know if her Lymphoma is back.

For now, the scans are done. Biopsies are likely to be next. But we both know, if the scan shows up multiple spots, it’s going to be an almost conclusive return of her lesions. That means chemo.

In the pause, we try to eat. Try to be normal. Play a few games or watch a movie. But we’re really waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It shreds your nerves. Sleep won’t come for either of us. Every day this past week, I’m up at 3.00 a.m. I toss. Turn. Use the bathroom. Try to read. Nothing. I can’t go back to sleep. I might as well get up.

Medium helps. I read poems, stories. I lose myself in the lives of others for a while.

She’s on her phone at this hour too. Playing pool with strangers online. A giant book of Sudoku is on the nightstand with a pencil sticking out. She says it takes too much concentration to actually work them out. She prefers something mindless.

In the meantime, we wait. It’s out of our hands entirely. And that’s a feeling you never quite get used to.

I’ll stop now. If you’ve read this far, I’m sorry for taking you through my family trauma. Writing this helps me to settle. To collect my thoughts. To prepare.

It’s not a situation I wish on anyone. I’m hoping you never have to go through this. But if you do, at least you’ll have an idea of what’s involved.

I’ll end by wishing you well.

Walk good, Mitch.