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Claustrophobia

On Friday I had a post-treatment scan to find out where the radioactive iodine had gone in my body. My friend Stephen greeted me and waved me into a room with a big machine. I’ve never had any kind of scan before, so I was interested to see the machine, a large U-shaped arch with a narrow table beneath it. We chatted amicably about my week’s “vacation,” and then he instructed me to lie down on the table.

In no time my arms were immobilized by my sides and my feet rubber-banded together, and Stephen lowered the camera, a flat metal plate about 18 inches square. When it was an intimidating 1-1/2 inches from my face, he reminded me that I would need to lie completely still for the whole hour. In retrospect, I should have closed my eyes before he lowered the plate.

It took only a few moments for me to realize that perhaps I was claustrophobic, that is, if the symptoms are intense prickling all over your skin and a strong desire to run screaming from the room. For two minutes—or maybe twenty—my panicked, racing mind struggled to right itself. “Bible verses. Think of a verse. Just one.” But I couldn’t think of a single one. A lifetime of Bible and it had all left my head. “The Lord…the Lord…” I fumbled. “The Lord is my shepherd!” And memory finally kicked in. I repeated the 23rd Psalm until my mind could actually focus on the words. And then gradually it was able to form thoughts again.

I kept my eyes shut tightly, prayed, gave myself a couple of pep talks, and sang songs in my head. When I finally dared, I peeked through my eyelids ever so slightly. The ceiling! I could see it! The metal plate had moved down my body and was now over my neck and shoulders. I counted ceiling tiles (22). I tried to compose something in my head, but stringing words together was beyond me. I re-counted the tiles. (It’s remarkable how much time a normally active mind can devote to ceiling tiles.)

After 25 long minutes, I was allowed to move my head slightly. And shift my body long enough to put my arms, now completely asleep, across my stomach. I began to regret the large cup of coffee I’d had that morning, and frankly, had plenty of time to regret most things in my life up to that point, especially the carcinogenic choices.

After more scanning of my head and neck, Stephen announced the misery was over. I abandoned my good intentions to request another science lesson and a peek at the screen, finding I wanted only two things—a rest room, and a quick escape. (Okay, maybe three, if you count the free parking.)

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The perfect excuse for a weekend in

Celebration

A few days ago, our friend Carol asked how we would commemorate our family coming back together again. It took me a few days, but then Spencer reminded me of a promise I’d made when the kids decorated the Christmas tree after my surgery. “Can we have a family sleepover by the Christmas tree? Please, please?” he begged hopefully. And I had begged Ken to leave the Christmas tree up through my isolation so I could sit by it and enjoy the lights.

This weekend’s blizzard afforded the perfect opportunity, so we curled up by the tree, ate popcorn, and watched movies until midnight (except for the morning people, who begged out around 10:30 p.m.). It may become an annual tradition, and we have a year to persuade the morning people to join us.

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What night people look like in the morning

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Lots of this during the weekend