Post #2 - Time Passes Slowly
It’s another long one. I’m trying to get through all that led up to where I am now…
The drive to Sloan Kettering on August 11th is a total blur to me now. I still couldn’t understand how I was going to a cancer hospital.
I had just celebrated my 42nd birthday in Ohio with my family and now I have to face my future. I felt like the visit with my family was giving me the strength to face this appointment.
It was explained to me that I was going to meet with Dr. S and then have blood work done and then I would go for CT scans of my chest, abdomen, and pelvis. In hindsight, my naiveté makes me laugh. Before my appointment, I downloaded the MSK app to my phone where I proceeded to fill out, what felt like a million, forms online and gave them my entire history. I knew the symptoms they were looking for, but I still knew I had none.
As I walked into the enormous building on 53rd Street, my heart was pounding so loudly that I could barely hear the staff asking for my name and birthdate. I didn’t have enough saliva in my mouth to even swallow. As I made my way up to the 5th floor, the voice in my head kept screaming that they must have the wrong person. I was 42 - I was in the best shape of my life; I eat only clean and only organic; I workout at least 5 days a week; and, I had no symptoms or pain.
After checking-in, I sat in the waiting room and could barely speak to Rich who was holding my hand and trying to reassure me. I couldn’t hear him. I kept staring at the door that said “Chemotherapy Suite” and looking around at the other patients. A kind woman called out my name, and I stood up to follow her down the hallway to an exam room. The hallway appeared to me like I was looking through a fish-eye lens. It was never-ending, and felt somewhat like “walking the plank”. She was kind and made small talk with me. After she left us in the room, a nurse came in to take my height, weight, blood pressure, oxygen levels, and then my temperature. She then left us and said Dr. S would be in soon.
He walked in with an entourage - 1 fellow, 1 nurse practitioner, and his RN. He was the rock star of this department. All I could see were his eyes, due to the masks we were all made to wear. He had kind eyes, but spoke in a very matter-of-fact kind of way. Dr. S reiterated what had been explained to me about my grapefruit. What he did explain to me was that it was behind my abdomen and pelvic wall - that’s why my surgeon couldn’t see it while removing my gallbladder. He did say that there are about 80 different kinds of tumors and that he wouldn’t be sure what it was until after an IR needle biopsy was done on it. He was patient and walked me through that procedure - I would be put under and rolled into a CT machine. At that point the doctor will go in with a large needle and take several pieces of the tumor while being guided by the CT images. This would be done the following Friday - August 21st. (I would have to get a covid test prior to the biopsy. It would be my second and I was not happy about this.) Things were moving and quickly. Dr. S explained that we couldn’t decide what to do until we knew exactly what it was and that it had not spread. He then said his good-bye (as did his entourage) and I went back to the waiting room to await a lab technician to take my blood before going to the radiology floor.
I know that while sitting in the waiting room, it was the first time I started crying about this. It seemed so overwhelming and life-altering. I didn’t even know what my grapefruit was yet, but I did know that nothing would ever be the same again.
The radiology floor was just as nice as the 5th floor. I waited just for a bit, and then it was my turn. I kissed Rich and left all my stuff with him. A nice young man walked me to the changing room and waited for me. When I came back out in my very chic hospital gown, he led me to another waiting room. I sat quietly with 2 other women and we avoided eye contact and small talk. Maybe they felt the enormity of this moment as much as I did. Maybe not.
My name was called out again, and I was ushered, by the nice young man, to a nurse’s exam office for another round of questions and blood pressure measurement. The young man went and grabbed me a heated blanket, as he said that he knew it could get cold for the patients in this area. Before the young man left me, he said “Good luck on your journey, Ms. Gaster. I hope it all turns out well for you.” That statement punched me in the gut to the point where I had to catch my breath. I think this was the point where I knew I had a journey in front of me. I could no longer look back - I just had to look forward. As my mom always taught me, “Chin up, shoulders back, chest out.” Basically, face life head-on and handle what gets thrown at you. It is always her voice I hear telling me to take it on.
I was taken back to the CT room and told to lay on the bed with my arms over my head. The scans did not take long, but my arms had fallen asleep from being over my head. A different nurse came in to take out my IV (as I had contrast) and asked if she could ask me my age. I responded that I had just turned 42. She then told me that I was much too young to be going through all of this and that she wished me her very best on my journey. Again, my breath was taken from me.
I had to wait 3 days for those results. Every single day felt like a week long. Every phone call made me jump. The butterflies in my stomach had turned into a beehive swirling with anxiety and anticipation. I finally called the office on day #3 and spoke with the doctor’s nurse practitioner. She was able to tell me that there were no other surprises and nothing had spread. Short of my grapefruit disappearing, it was the best news I could have received. My next hurdle was my biopsy.