In three hours from now I will be sitting in a small room with no windows drinking a disgusting contrast dye. I will sit across from people who will give me awkward stares and make small chat about the weather. None of us will want to talk about why we are there. Some there for minor issues like broken bones or ACL strains but the rest of us are there for something very different. We will be sitting together with our anxiety and fears of what the results will show. Some will be sitting there with no hair hooked up to several intravenous bags and fifty pounds lighter than they were three months ago. Some of us will get to go home after; others will be wheeled back up to their hospital rooms. Some will have family with them and others will be alone.
Last night when I went to bed I reflected on today’s events. I wondered if the anxiety would return and would I feel sick to my stomach as I have previously. And to be honest, I feel neither of those. There’s a quiet confidence present today and almost a sense of excitement. It feels foreign. I’ve never had these feelings three hours before a scan. In the past I’ve done my best to delay the scans. Facing reality is not something I enjoy doing. But today I feel strong.
I’ve come a long way from the days of the panic attacks, tears and dread that I would carry with me weeks leading up to a scan. I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t think about what could happen, but this time I feel like whatever it is, I am ready to deal with it. I’m ready to step outside of myself and make a decision from a place of stillness. A place where I know I need to go when things get rocky. But what I’m really ready to do is celebrate a success. Even if it’s a small one.
In that waiting room today I have a pretty good feeling that I am going to meet someone who is either at the beginning of this frightful journey or near the end. There always seems to be someone who I connect with on a spiritual level. Words are seldom exchanged however there is a connection made simply through looking at one another. Their expressions tell me everything and I resonate with what they are communicating. I want to tell them that everything is going to be all right. This is what I wanted to hear six years ago as I sat in that room with my bottle of contrast. Some will continue to return for future scans but for others this will be their last.
It’s a very lonely wait, and one that only a person who has experienced it can describe. But to be honest, I do it best when I’m alone. No distractions, no conversation that I feel compelled to continue. Just me, my thoughts and that gown that never covers my butt completely.
It’s quiet at the moment and I’m sitting here with a very strong sense that this time is going to be different. This time there is something positive coming. I’m going to receive news that something is going in my favour. I’ve had glimpses of this in the past but the excitement was quickly extinguished soon after my oncologist walked into the room.
It’s a good feeling and one that I can’t quite put my finger on. Where is it coming from? Is it because I’ve been in this world for so long that I’m now just immune to it? Or is it something deeper coming from that place that I described earlier. Whatever it is I like it and I’m hoping that it’s telling the truth.
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