I was supposed to be in England!

I was planning to spend late February visiting Amanda in England, from where we would launch a side trip to Paris. Instead I am sitting in a recliner in a dimly lighted room waiting while radioactive material meanders through my veins in preparation for a PET/CT scan. This scan is supposed to pinpoint any remaining cancer hotspots so they can be monitored for changes down the road. (Details: http://www.wcrc.com/pet_ct.shtml.)

With England out of the picture, at least for now, cancer treatment is full -speed ahead: The Feb. 18 PET/CT scan, surgery to get a chemo port put in on Feb. 24 and chemo starting March 1.

On Jan. 28, I met my oncologist, Dr. George Miranda. (When you can use the phrase "my oncologist," it's official, you have cancer.) He spent an hour explaining what my future would hold: Various tests, six months of chemo,  possible and likely side effects, procedure, prognosis and everything in between. I'd arrived for my visit with a long list of questions. When Dr. Miranda was done talking, he'd covered them all without my having to ask. Never once did he glance at his watch. I took an immediate liking to him.


My treatment will involve a 3-4 hour office visit where chemo will be dispensed. I will go home with a pump that continues circulating chemo in my system for 48 hours. The procedure will repeat every two weeks. According to Dr. Miranda, I'm likely to feel fatigued during the week of the actual chemo, but should bounce back the next week.

I met Phyllis, the chemo assistant. She showed me the chemo room — a dozen or so recliners, all occupied, with people undergoing treatment. Some were reading, some knitting, some eating, some sleeping. Some had a friend or family member keeping them company. All had blankets.

The good news: chemotherapy for colon cancer is well tolerated compared to the chemo for other cancers. I shouldn't lose my hair, though it may thin. The dreaded nausea is headed off at the pass by anti-nausea medication that is given with the chemo. My body will likely become hyper-sensitive to cold: keep gloves handy for reaching into the freezer, skip ice in beverages, wear slippers on tile floors. Food may have a metallic taste. I remember having that reaction to food while on some heavy-duty antibiotics while hospitalized some years back. It was a total appetite killer. (This could be a positive!)

In the past 5-10 years, a new drug has been added to the colon-cancer chemo cocktail. The chemo is preventative, rather than "treatment." The expectation is that surgery got all of the cancer. But typically, patients like me with Stage 3B colon cancer have a 40 percent rate of recurrence if they skip any post-surgical treatment. Chemo cuts the recurrence rate in half. I'm willing to give up six months of my immediate future for an improved chance at a long-term future.

Back to the PET/CT scan: Once my radio active material was well-disbursed, the actual scan was a piece of cake. I slipped into a hospital gown and lay down on the bed that would slide through the scanner. The scan would take 16 minutes (who decides this?). I felt like a hot dog in a bun. (What is it with the food metaphors? Could be the fasting I have to do before these procedures.) The scan went by in a jumble of whirring, sliding, lights and a disembodied voice: "Beginning now," "Don't move," "One more minute."

Two hours out of my life and another step down the road in cancer treatment. Europe will be there when I'm ready.