Cancer light – The day I became radioactive

15:33 The bell that no one wants to hear

It was a call on Friday afternoon at 15:33. I was just preparing a kwis beer tasting. In a few minutes my afternoon changed from light to heavy. Since then, I've been trying to write down everything that happens. Not to get pity, but to keep my head and heart together. These blogs are my way of understanding, sharing and showing how I deal with them – sometimes serious, sometimes humorous, but always real.

“Life does not call in advance to ask if it is convenient.”

The Echo That Wasn't an Echo

Today was planned as a logistical dance: Thursday the ultrasound and PET scan, Friday the MRI, and if everything were clear, maybe then a viewing operation. That's how it was in my head, neatly on a list, because I love lists. They give me the illusion of control and control is a rare commodity in hospital land.

We started at 11:00 with the ultrasound. At least, that's what I thought. I was prepared for cold gel, a serious looking person in a white coat and some medical terminology that I would google later. But in reality, the entire session lasted exactly two minutes. The boy who did the ‘echo’ put a few things under my head, looked satisfied and said: “That's it, you're done.”

I was confused there for a while. Ready? What was ready? My diagnosis? My neck? My life plan? No, no, no, no. Apparently, this was a preparation for later. The echo turned out to be just a warm-up, a cushion-with-fit-head-shape construction for that afternoon's PET scan. No beeps, no images, no explanation.

I asked half-jokingly if this was the fastest medical procedure ever. He smiled politely, the kind of smile that says: “I have heard this 42 times today.”

‘In the hospital, nothing is what it seems, except the coffee.’

Waiting in slow motion

After the two-minute echo, the real work began: wait. There is a strange kind of time in hospitals; slower than usual, but always too fast when it comes to bad news.

I checked in nicely at 13:00 for the PET scan. The lady behind the counter kindly asked if I was sober. That was me, since this morning, so I nodded with the inspiration of a dehydrated cactus. She smiled as if that was good news.

A nurse with the voice of a soothing podcast came to pick me up. "Please lie down," she said. That sounded friendly, almost homely. Until she added: “And now stay very quiet. Don't move, don't read, don't look at your phone. You're about to have an infusion of radioactive fluid. After that, you may not do anything at all for an hour.”

Don't do anything. That sounds simple. Until you have to do it.
I got a blanket, a buzzer for emergencies (which I didn't dare to touch), and then the light went out and the door closed. It was quiet. Very quiet.

In the dark, I heard my own breathing as if it were someone else. I wondered if the liquid was crawling through my body like a small luminous river. Maybe I had a superpower now, I thought. Maybe I'll literally radiate later. Or I glow in the dark when I go to sleep.

Time loses meaning in such a room. An hour feels like a day, but without a lunch break. When the door finally opened, I was startled as if I had been caught.

“Sometimes doing nothing is the most intense activity there is.”

⁇ In the machine, out of the illusion

The PET scan itself is a miracle of technology and absurdity at the same time. You lie on a narrow bench, get a band around your arms, and have to hold a stick as if you were about to go water skiing. "Don't move," says the voice in the intercom. I thought: If I'm here for 20 minutes, I might as well take a nap. But of course not. Every muscle that trembles, ruins the image.

I was slowly pushed into the device. It sounded like a cross between an old printer and a spaceship that is not entirely sure of its destination. I was thinking about hot dogs. I was The hot dog. A radioactive hot dog.

After twenty minutes I rolled out again. The nurse looked at me with a mixture of professionalism and gentle compassion. "You can go," she said. “You will be called about the operation tomorrow.”

I thought I misunderstood her. Operation? Tomorrow? I was still making pictures here, not cutting. She smiled kindly, but her look said: Yes, you heard that right.

“Sometimes life rolls faster than the stretcher.”

⁇ Hotel room with side effect

When I walked back to the waiting room, Sylvia was already there, she had used up her patience in small pieces. She said she had been called by the O.R. while I was still in the dark room. The operation was planned. Friday afternoon. Point.

We decided not to look at my medical records together. Not because we didn't want to know, but because knowing at the time wouldn't change anything. Sometimes ignorance is not stupid, but temporary self-preservation.

We checked into a hotel near the hospital. Amsterdam beckoned outside, but we stayed inside. No cruise, no terrace, no evening walk. Only silence, room light and the reassuring presence of someone who does not ask, but simply is.

We even laughed for a moment, about the absurdity of the day. ‘So you are officially radioactive,’ Sylvia said. “Maybe I need to keep a little distance.”
I replied: “Only when I start to glow.”

“Sometimes doing nothing together is the most healing thing there is.”

⁇ For now

For now, this is where I am. Tomorrow is the day. I don't know exactly what they're going to do. Maybe look, maybe cut, maybe both. I'm not trying to get ahead of what's not there yet.

Will it be a viewing operation? Then I'll probably be able to go home the same day. A day treatment, a kind of ‘sniffing internship for surgeons’. Look, note, close, ready.
Will it be a biopsy? Then it depends on how deep they have to go and what they find. Maybe I'll stay one night just to be safe, maybe I won't. In hospital land, certainty is a rare animal species.
And if they decide to cut the tumor away immediately, I will stay one night in Amsterdam anyway. Then it becomes a real recording: pyjamas, infusion, night light, squeaky devices in the background and someone who comes every hour to ask if I have already peed.

Meanwhile, Sylvie and I drink instant coffee from hotel cups and pretend this is just a stopover, a strange city trip with a medical aftertaste. In my head I make lists: What I need to do, what I want to ask, what I hope to hear. And somewhere in between, I try to keep light, no matter how small.

‘Heaviness may have light. And light sometimes weighs surprisingly much.”