Kim's PET/CT Experience (Part 1 of 2)

Moving forward on this blog, I would like to begin sharing more about Kim’s cancer experience. Both in 2018 and 2020, I did some blogging, but now I would like to write about things I either didn’t directly mention or, with the benefit of time, write some overall reflection of those years. I share these blog posts about Kim’s journey as a way to continue her story and to reawaken her memory, and also to hopefully raise awareness that though cancer treatment has come a long way, it is still a horrible disease that takes far too many lives and leaves an immense wake of grief for those of us left behind.
 
Much of Kim’s 2016 battle with cancer is a blur to me now. Maybe this is due to our innocence at the time, not fully accepting the consequences of what we were up against; maybe it was due to the confusion and speed at which such a serious and potentially terminal diagnosis had stormed into our lives, or maybe it was just shock. But other than the wall calendar that was hanging beside our computer, scribbled over with appointment dates & times in Kim’s handwriting, plus some notes I took in a notebook given to us by the BC Cancer Center, I have no recorded account of how Kim’s first cancer leg unfolded. What I do have, however, are pockets of memory, periodical partings of the shock-fog that was Kim’s 2016 cancer experience.
 
I remember picking up our sister-in-law, Sonja, from the sky train, knowing that we were going to need an extra set of ears for this meeting. I remember the stuffiness of that first cancer clinic visit, the sun shining through the wall of windows in the waiting area. The anxiety of wondering if we were in the right place. I remember the ball in the back of my throat, of wondering who our oncologist would be; what information did the file behind the nurse’s desk contain about Kim?
 
I remember a whirlwind of activity, phone calls, and appointments that followed in the days after that first oncologist appointment. Within seven days of that first visit to the cancer clinic, Kim had experienced her first PET/CT scan in Vancouver, had a permanent port inserted into her chest through which she would receive her chemo treatments, and the plethora of phone calls and emails with booking clerks at the different imaging and clinic offices to book a follow up with our oncologist, a chemo orintation, and her first chemo treatment. I remember trying to guess if the swift pace of things was a good sign or not so good a sign. On the one hand, we were happy it was all moving so fast; on the other, we knew this only confirmed the seriousness of Kim’s diagnosis, which was shared with us at that first meeting.
 
I remember fish crackers. One of the only things Kim found enjoyable to eat during her 2016 chemo treatment, but which only weeks after her last chemo treatment that year made her stomach churn.
 
I remember the chemo chairs. Vinyl recliner chairs, very large. They seemed to swallow Kim up and made it difficult for me to even reach over and provide a comforting hand on hers.
 
I remember the smell of disinfectants and all the waste. So much waste as every piece of medical supplies came wrapped individually in sterilized wrapping.
 
I remember the weather turning cold that fall, making it difficult for Kim to breathe due to a cold sensitivity she developed, another chemo side effect. The neuropathy creeping into her fingers and feet with each passing chemo dose, tingling and numbness; the difficulty in buttoning her pants, zipping her jacket, or rummaging in her purse. I remember her frustration.
 
But maybe overall, with this passage of time, I remember the novelty of it all in 2016, and just shaking our heads that something like this could happen to someone like Kim. It wasn’t supposed to happen.
 
About a month ago, I was in Vancouver for some of my own routine medical appointments. I was at Vancouver General Hospital and had forty-five minutes to kill. Knowing that the Vancouver Cancer Clinic was only a couple of blocks away, which is where Kim underwent that first PET/CT Scan in June 2016, and three subsequent ones in 2018, 2019, and 2020, I decided to walk over to see if any part of my memory might still hold something undiscovered about those four journeys we took there. And what flashed in my brain surprised me.
 
Kim’s first PET/CT Scan happened just 48 hours after we had learned the detailed news of what she was facing. I remember now that the main emotion and experience during that first scan was confusion and shock. We were still processing the diagnoses of Stage 4 Colon Cancer and what that meant for Kim. We were processing what six months of chemotherapy meant, and the prediction that Kim would lose her hair (which she didn’t). We were comforted that somehow they were able to book Kim for such an important scan within forty-eight hours of her oncologist requesting the scan (the sooner the scan, the sooner we could make decisions, the sooner we could start chemo, the quicker the cancer cells could be killed). But we were also concerned about how serious Kim’s case must be that she got moved to the front of the line.
At the time, we hesitantly walked into the Vancouver Cancer Centre. Tentatively going to the reception desk as a Vancouver-pace-of-people rushed past us, and then being directed just down the hall to the first suite on the right. It was an intimidating room, with a large steel door on one side with a big “STOP” and “RADIATION” signs on it.
For me, it was not only confusing in that we were still trying to process Kim’s cancer diagnosis, but it was also confusing as I didn’t know what to do with myself. Up until now, I was only used to being the patient, and Kim the caregiver. How many times had I been slid into a machine while Kim waited outside for me? Now the roles were reversed. Kim was taken to a back room to be injected with radioactive tracer while I waited anxiously in the waiting area for the hour to pass. What does one do when waiting for their loved one to get a medical test?
 
Part 2 of this blog will be posted on Friday.

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