So here’s the rundown on my Mayo trip last week. Sorry it took me so long to post, but the treadmill of life has been whizzing along at a brisk clip, and I had to once again return from Mayo and jump back on right away. No time for quiet contemplation (will that ever happen??). I did get to sing at Easter services and even lead the Call to Celebration – pretty powerful stuff to be talking about resurrection when you’re feeling reborn yourself. And so cool to celebrate with people who have been faithfully, tirelessly praying for me and encouraging me throughout all this.

So back to Mayo… First off, this picture is evidence, I believe, that someone at Mayo has a sense of humor – it’s the sign outside the room where I had my IV put in before my MRI. But then I asked if I was getting a pedicure or neck rub in addition to my IV, and the nurse acted very confused, so obviously not everyone is in on the joke. In fact, he proceeded to get extremely serious about my veins (to be fair, they are unusually slippery suckers), going so far as to use what looked like a stud finder to locate his target. He still had to stick me twice. In the “relax room.”

But I have to say I’m getting better at MRI’s with each one I do, and now I’m not panicky at all. Just a wee bit nervous. As long as I have my magic eye mask, I’m good to go. And music – a lot of MRI places give you headphones so you can listen to music while you’re in the tube, but not Mayo. At least not for their liver MRI’s, probably because you have to listen to directions about when to hold your breath and when to breathe “normally.” Like there’s normal breathing when you’re stuffed in a tube. So a few times back when I told my best friend Karen that I was music-less, she resolved to fix that. Since then, right before every MRI, I receive a text from her containing the lyrics to a song pretty much designed to drive me crazy in the tube. I usually get the text while I’m in the waiting room, and then gasp and burst out laughing, thereby confirming all of the other patients’ suspicions that I’m totally nuts. It does get me a large dose of personal space however, so there’s that. Anyway, I like you all too much to tell you what this last song selection was. Suffice it to say, part of the chorus doesn’t even involve real words, and it took days for me to purge it from my mind (oh and Karen, my family thanks you for that as well, because you know I sang it out loud every time it returned to my brain. They send their love).

Among other things that made me laugh during my time at Mayo (you had no idea scans were so hilarious, did you?) was the introduction of a new species to the ophthalmology waiting room – a child. Yes, a foreign species indeed, as I am usually the youngest patient in the room by a good 20-30 years. It was refreshing and entertaining, to say the least, but no more so than when the lad took out a laser pointer and began playing with it. I had to leave for a moment so I could redo some pictures that the tech in training didn’t get quite right – and the only thing more fun than looking directly into an industrial strength floodlight while a tech tells you not to blink is doing it twice – but when I staggered, half-blind back to the waiting area, I found Rich sitting with his lips firmly pursed together, trying not to laugh. Apparently, the boy continued to play with the laser pointer after I left. As he directed it around the walls, ceiling and floor, it caught the eye of a woman who, after following the dot of light studiously, pointed it out to her husband, who proceeded to also track the mysterious red dot. One by one, anyone who wasn’t too dilated to see it joined the audience, mesmerized by the constantly moving orb, never seeing that the source was the little boy. The end result was a room full of white heads moving in perfect unison as they followed the dot – much like those YouTube videos of cats doing the same. And to think I missed it. Dang.

The levity was appreciated, as the time at the end of the day in the ophthalmology waiting area is always the most fear-filled time. Unlike the earlier parts of the day where we move from building to building for various tests, this period of 3-4 hours involves sitting in a special (and by special I mean ugly) waiting area, and periodically being called for eye tests. Test and wait, test and wait, test and wait… And with each test we count down until the tests are over and we see the doctor for the results. Oh, and when we finally see the doctor it’s not The doctor – it’s one of his fellows. The fellows do a complete eye exam, and pour over charts, pictures and things on the computer screen written in such a small font that even Rich with his non-dilated eyes can’t read it…and they tell us nothing. We are dying inside, and they are looking at all the results that will determine my fate… in total silence. It’s horrible. I sit and shake and sweat, even though my hands are ice cold, and they say nothing. Until this last time. I must admit I found myself initially doubting that this particular fellow was even old enough to be a doctor (wow, am I that old? Doctors are looking young to me?), but this angel walked in, sat down, looked me in the eye and pronounced, “your scans all look good, let’s just get that out of the way.” And she smiled the sweetest smile, adding, “I know that’s what you’re waiting for.” Um, YEAH! Oh, sweet relief! So then she did all the things the fellows usually do, but I didn’t care how long it took, because I knew my results. Ok sure, I didn’t know anything about my eye, but the cancer hadn’t spread, so who cared? Not me. “Text everyone” I mouthed to Rich, and he began to happily tap on his phone while the the doctor completed the exam. Seriously, I can’t begin to describe the relief.

So I wasn’t worried at all and could fully enjoy it when my oncologist sailed into the room, smiling broadly. “You’re doing so well!” He exalted. The only glitch, if you could call it that, is that my tumor is beginning to bleed around the edges – totally normal for a shrinking tumor. Yes, you heard that right folks, the tumor is continuing to shrink! So that’s good. But the bleeding means I have to start Avastin injections so it doesn’t hemorrhage and cause me to lose all the sight in that eye (because I do still have some, and it would be nice to keep what I have). That’s not so great, but it is what it is. Did I mention the injections are given directly into the eyeball? Yes, commence squeamish writhing. I’m sure they’ll numb me up, but it’s the gross out factor that has me concerned. I’ve tried to look up the procedure so I can know what to expect, but I end up awash in heebie jeebies every time, so I’m done researching. Like I’ve said, I’m tough about physical pain, but I’m a total ninny when I’m grossed out.

Overall though, the appointment was going swimmingly, as we all celebrated my clear scans and shrinking tumor. Then I wrecked it. “So, about my RA meds….” I said innocently enough, and that was it. He had indeed received the note from my rheumatologist about going halfsies on the plaquenil (like the oncologist had suggested last time) and adding another drug, with his permission. He had received it, but hadn’t read it apparently, because his assistant had to point it out to him. For whatever reason, he gets angrier about the plaquenil each time we talk about it, and this time he was massively ticked. He started going off about potential retinal toxicity – “and you’ve only got one good eye!” So here I thought he was going to be pleased that the rheumy listened to him and cut my dose in half, and instead he’s on a tirade about why I shouldn’t be on it all. “So what about the sulfasalazine that my rheumatologist is recommending in addition to it? Can we do that?” I asked weakly. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled, “But I hate that plaquenil. You can do 200 mg one day, then 100 mg the next and keep alternating. But I don’t like it.” Ok… “Soooo if you don’t want me on the plaquenil, what else can I take?” I pressed. He threw his hands up in exasperation, “Ask your rheumatologist! That’s his job!” Oh ugh. Seriously, just ugh. I totally understand where each of them is coming from though. Dr. P. wants to keep me alive and save my vision. Dr. W. wants to keep me from ending up disabled. I get it. But it’s tough being in between the two, especially when you don’t have a medical degree. Dr. P. sighed, rubbed his face and wearily sat down, “I just wanted to be happy about your case,” he said softly, “We had good news and I just wanted to be happy.” He’s a good guy, he really is. And when you treat a cancer that kills half the people that get it, I’m sure you have to deal with plenty of bad news. So I didn’t push it any further – and really, there wasn’t anything to push. The whole 200/100 alternating dose thing was going to be a pain, but whatever. I’d talk to my rheumy about it later. For now, there was a triumphant blog post to write and a celebratory martini to enjoy.

I did call my rheumy’s office the next day, and just heard back that we’re ditching the plaquenil all together and trying to go with just sulfasalazine. We’ll see how that all goes. In the meantime, I’m scheduled to start the eye injections on the 22nd. Hopefully I will be reporting back that it was no big deal, and that I’m super excited for my next one.

So that’s the scoop from last week’s scans. I’m off now to make one last college visit with Riley – well two visits actually, just on back to back days, so it’s really just one trip. The poor kid is having a terrible time deciding on a school, to the point that when one of our friends asked him what he’d be looking for this weekend he deadpanned back, “A sign.” He’ll figure it out, I’m not worried, and all the schools are awesome, so he really can’t screw this up. But I have to say, I’m just sorry to see these mother-son trips end. They’ve been such a special time for us together as he prepares to take this huge leap to the next chapter of his life. I’m excited for him, because he is so ready and he’s going to do great, but I’m sad for me. Because I’m going to miss him so much it hurts just thinking about it. A bittersweet time, to be sure. And in the back of my heart always resides an intense gratitude that I get to be here for all this.

Life really is good. Tough at times, absolutely, but most definitely good.

Off now to look for signs…