I’ve had one biopsy in my life and
it turned up cancer. Going in for my second, my liver biopsy, I think: “the
best predictor of future behavior is the past.”
There is nothing heroic in my thinking.
We arrive at the hospital at 10:30 a.m. We move to an outdoor bench when a cell phone enthusiast consumes the waiting area. I’m taken to pre-ops where I dress down, have blood drawn, vitals checked and am queried by a nurse. (Do you have an advance directive?) Her name is Donya; she's named after her dad, Don. She says a doctor told her once that our insides are much like our outsides, full of markings and imperfections, things like freckles and moles. I like that anecdote. I loosen up. She leaves and we wait. At 12:15, I’m wheeled down an endless corridor to the CT scan for the guided biopsy.
I move into the bed of the CT scanner, lay partially on my side with my arms positioned awkwardly up and out of the way while a couple technicians work on me.
I’m told to decide what a small breath is and hold it. From now on, every time I’m asked to take a small breath, I must keep that breath the same size. Apparently, one’s liver can move a lot during breathing and it’s important they identify the precise location of this spot. I think hard on this; I want to do my job right. I don’t want to lead this needle astray.
I practice breathing.
The radiologist, a soft-spoken doctor, consults with me. He walks me through the steps, the risks, the potential ooze at the entry site. I practice breathing some more. He’ll take images first, mark my skin for the exact spot, then do the biopsy. He asks me questions about my case and has me sign a release form. Ron kisses me good-bye.
There is nothing heroic in my thinking.
We arrive at the hospital at 10:30 a.m. We move to an outdoor bench when a cell phone enthusiast consumes the waiting area. I’m taken to pre-ops where I dress down, have blood drawn, vitals checked and am queried by a nurse. (Do you have an advance directive?) Her name is Donya; she's named after her dad, Don. She says a doctor told her once that our insides are much like our outsides, full of markings and imperfections, things like freckles and moles. I like that anecdote. I loosen up. She leaves and we wait. At 12:15, I’m wheeled down an endless corridor to the CT scan for the guided biopsy.
I move into the bed of the CT scanner, lay partially on my side with my arms positioned awkwardly up and out of the way while a couple technicians work on me.
I’m told to decide what a small breath is and hold it. From now on, every time I’m asked to take a small breath, I must keep that breath the same size. Apparently, one’s liver can move a lot during breathing and it’s important they identify the precise location of this spot. I think hard on this; I want to do my job right. I don’t want to lead this needle astray.
I practice breathing.
The radiologist, a soft-spoken doctor, consults with me. He walks me through the steps, the risks, the potential ooze at the entry site. I practice breathing some more. He’ll take images first, mark my skin for the exact spot, then do the biopsy. He asks me questions about my case and has me sign a release form. Ron kisses me good-bye.
The process begins. The radiologist
can’t get the image he needs. The spot is light without the contrast injected
into my veins when they did this a couple weeks ago. I’m conveyed out of the CT
doughnut.
“Fortunately, we have the ultrasound to get another perspective,” the doctor says. He spreads cool jelly on my side and searches with the probe on, under and through my ribs for about five minutes.
“Alright,” he says to me. To the tech, “you can clean her off.” The tech complies and everyone except me vanishes to the far end of the space. I lay with my arms still awkwardly positioned, trying hard not to budge so as not to move my liver. I practice breathing. There’s faint talking in the background.
And then comes the element of surprise to this story.
“Fortunately, we have the ultrasound to get another perspective,” the doctor says. He spreads cool jelly on my side and searches with the probe on, under and through my ribs for about five minutes.
“Alright,” he says to me. To the tech, “you can clean her off.” The tech complies and everyone except me vanishes to the far end of the space. I lay with my arms still awkwardly positioned, trying hard not to budge so as not to move my liver. I practice breathing. There’s faint talking in the background.
And then comes the element of surprise to this story.
After 10 minutes the doctor comes
back. He’s been on the phone with my oncologist. They’ve decided perhaps the
best course is wait, take a scan again in a few months and compare. He says
it’s not that the spot looks bad; they just don’t know what it is. Given my
particular diagnoses, my oncologist does not feel it’s highly likely it’s
related. “If you’re the one percent who has a bleeding issue, we might ask
ourselves, ‘why did we do this?’ I’m comfortable waiting if you are,” he says.
I said: “Get me out of here.”
I thought two things: Did my mother-in-law’s prayers dissipate this spot?
And two, what you don’t know can’t kill you.
I said: “Get me out of here.”
I thought two things: Did my mother-in-law’s prayers dissipate this spot?
And two, what you don’t know can’t kill you.
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