First on the list was a colonoscopy to biopsy my mass and check for polyps, which came with printed forms of strict pre-procedure instructions that I read carefully and repeatedly before I bought the laxatives, Gatorade, and non-red Jell-O I needed for my liquid diet. Everyone says the prep is the worst part of the whole experience. For me, the fasting was the toughest part. Nothing but Gatorade, water, Jell-O and clear broth for 24 hours before. But once I got through that, I was promised "the best sleep" of my life by friends who'd had and survived colonoscopies.
Unfortunately, that didn't happen. I was given a sedative prior to entering the procedure room, but I was awake and alert for the entire, nearly hour-long procedure, hearing every conversation, seeing it on the screen over my head, and feeling the uncomfortable probing. I didn't fall asleep until later, after I'd left the hospital and gone home, when I dozed off unexpectedly and woke up an hour later feeling disorientated (as if my sedative had finally kicked in), unsure of the day and time.
Two days later, feeling like a human test subject, I returned to the same hospital for an abdominal and pelvic MRI. I changed into a pair of purple scrubs, stretched out on an examining table, and was sucked feet-first into the tube while a Led Zeppelin CD, courteously provided by the hospital, blared through a pair of headphones. My doctor had prescribed Ativan for anxiety, which is common for people like me who are prone to claustrophobia, but I didn't need it. The toughest part of the procedure wasn't lying in an enclosed tube but having to fast beforehand and avoid moving for five to ten minutes at a time before I was pulled out, injected with fluid, and sucked back in for another round.
The following week I was back at the hospital, now truly a frequent flyer, for Mediport surgery, the final step before my first round of chemo. I arrived by 6 AM and was moved into an ASU bay fairly quickly, my vitals taken and IV started by a nurse who understood what I what going through because she had undergone her own port insertion and survived breast cancer while working through and after her chemo treatment, as I hoped to do. We were ready to roll by 7:30, but my surgeon was nowhere to be found. My anxiety worsened as each minute without him ticked by. The nurses told me, "He's never late...," and I worried what would happen if he didn't show up. I'd have to come back and go through the whole hullabaloo all over again, plus my treatment, scheduled to start two days later, would be delayed. I was so ready to get started, I couldn't think of anything worse than more waiting.
Fortunately, in the midst of panic, my surgeon breezed in at 8:05, marked my chest, strolled out, and I was wheeled into the operating room at 8:30, which is the last thing I remember before waking up in recovery, a bit sore and drowsy (apparently my surgeon stopped in for a quick post-surgical chat, which I didn't remember), but ready to go home. I rested there all afternoon, sleeping better than in previous weeks.
