I’m taken to a small room with a leather armchair that reclines. One technician asks me the necessary identification questions while the other pricks my finger to test my glucose level. A large machine is wheeled in shortly after an I.V. is put in my arm. A clear tube is connected to my I.V. and I feel a cool sensation from the radioactive material going into my arm. A couple of minutes later both technicians prepare to leave the tiny room. I’m given a call button in case I need something and the lights are dimmed as they close the door. All alone in a dark room with a faint orange glow from above, my emotions get the best of me and I start to cry softly. I’m exhausted from waking at 5:00am this morning and the high doses of Hydrocodone I take daily to keep the pain down make me weak. At this moment, I feel vulnerable and with little hope. The darkness surrounds me and I close my eyes; I focus on breathing and staying calm. I begin talking with God and I feel better for the remaining 45 minutes until they retrieve me.
I walk slowly next to the friendly technician, who will facilitate my PET scan, to a large room with the machine I will be subjected to for 30 minutes while it records images of cancer in my body. I’m asked to raise both arms above my head, relax and breathe naturally. I’m told I can keep my eyes open or close them. I choose to close them and for the next 30 minutes, my mind dives into memories of bike rides on my favorite trail in Michigan. I envision every detail along that trail, the countless chipmunks jumping in and out of holes in front of me causing near wrecks. I hear the tranquil stream that escorted me down the path and under the bridges I crossed; the pitch perfect sounds of birds in the trees as I ride along and listen for my favorite bird, the chickadee. I ride to the library on a warm day and I can smell the books as I enter through the large doors. Suddenly, a bright light shines through my eyelids and I hear a voice,”You can lower your arms now.”