My Cancer Chronicles, Vol. 18: Lizard Lady

Hello, friends. Get ready for the longest Cancer Chronicles on record, from a week that should have resulted in the shortest.

I only had two appointments this week. On Tuesday, we went to the cancer center to get the scans needed to map my upcoming radiation treatment. What I didn’t know was that the 90 minutes in the scanner would be the most challenging minutes I’ve experienced in this cancer battle of mine.

I went to the appointment prepared for a simple CT scan — I’ve had a dozen of those this year alone. What I didn’t know is that I also needed to be fitted for a radiation mask. When you have cancer in your head, neck or upper chest, it’s vital that you remain perfectly still during radiation. To make that happen, they fit you with a custom mask, which they use to bolt you to the radiation table.

To make the mask, the techs put a piece of slotted plastic in an oven to warm before stretching it over your head and, in my case, upper chest. Once it’s stretched, they bolt it to the CT table to harden. For 90 minutes, I was bolted to the table, unable to move anything from the chest up. If I blinked, my eyelids hit the hard plastic. If I took too deep of a breath, it felt like I was suffocating. When my back started to ache from being on this hard table for so long, I had no way of alleviating the pain. My body was exposed and I was unable to do anything about it.

I counted the seconds, hoping to reach the magic number when they would remove the plastic. The techs kept asking if I was OK, as though answering no was an option. I couldn’t speak, so I gave a thumbs up each time they entered the room. If I gave a thumbs down, it would mean that we would need to start over, and that was just not an option.

I later found out that this feeling of panic I was experiencing is not uncommon — that up to 50% of patients who have to wear the mask deal with it. I’ve dealt with that sense of panic for years. I was diagnosed with PTSD after a 2012 bus crash left me riddled with panic attacks so intense that I landed in the ER many times. As I laid in that scanner, I could feel the warning signs bubbling deep in my chest. I went through every coping mechanism I knew to keep from bubbling over.

When they finally freed me from my plastic cage, I went to find Tim in the waiting room. When I tapped on his shoulder, he turned towards me, and I could tell by the look on his face that something was off. “Oh my God, are you OK?” I urged him towards the parking garage, not wanting to break down in the lobby. “No, seriously, is your face OK?” No, seriously, let’s get to the car.

When we reached the car, I was finally able to see what he was seeing.

For those wondering, it took 6+ hours for the indentations to leave my face.

Once my radiation treatments start, I’ll have no choice but to breathe deeply as they bolt me to the bed. But until then, I have some work to do to cope with the panic that rises every time I think about the lizard lady.

Shockingly enough, Tuesday’s fun didn’t stop there. Intense stomach pain sent me to to the ER on Tuesday night, where I was diagnosed with a burst ovarian cyst. (Which, come on, seriously? The only things left in there are my ovaries. Did they just want to say hi, remind me that they’re still around? Was now really the best time?) Thankfully, it was a shorter stay than my other recent visits.

My Thursday appointment with my new GP was much less dramatic, I’m happy to report. Thursday itself was bittersweet, though, as it should have been the day I saw Harry Styles in Paris. C'est la vie.

So. What’s next?

• This week, Tim & I venture to New York to see an oncologist at Sloan Kettering. He’s one of the nation’s leading experts in the treatment of thymoma and has done some groundbreaking research on this elusive cancer. We were asked by my oncologist to see him in order to get a second opinion on whether or not I should have more chemotherapy. My care team was split 50/50 on that question, so this is almost like the tie-breaking vote. What happens if he says yes, more chemo? Great question. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

• On June 20, I’ll have the first of 30 radiation treatments. The treatments will take place over six weeks, with a visit to the cancer center five days a week.

If you’ve made it this far … bless you ♥ What a week it was.

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Prayer/Good Vibe Requests

• Please allow Katie the strength to prepare for The Mask and the panic that comes with it.

• Please allow for the New York trip to bring about answers to some of the most burning questions Katie and her family have.

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Weekly Roundup

• Song of the Week: Ordinary People by John Legend. The highlight of my week was sitting under the stars, listening to this song, sung live, surrounded by my nearest and dearest.

• Cat of the Week: Chrissy A. Teigen. She’s my baby.

• This week, I’m grateful for: Summer nights, guided meditations and local bookstores.

• This week, I could have done without: Um, hi. I think that’s obvious.

Love, always.

Katie

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