CT is computed tomography, an X-ray technique for building a 3-dimensional image of your insides. (Same thing as CAT, which is just an older abbreviation meaning "computer-assisted tomography.") In my case, we're looking for spleen or lymph node enlargement, secondarily problems with the liver and other organs.
The scanner is a huge white donut, reminding me of the Stargate on the old TV series. You lie on a robotic bed with your arms above your head. The bed levitates you upward, then slides your body into the hole in the scanner. I half expect to emerge in another dimension.Meanwhile, the tech hooks up the world's biggest hypodermic to my PICC line. It's a foot long and 2 inches in diameter, made of clear plastic. It dangles from a giant articulated steel arm attached to the ceiling, looking like a mad dentist's drill and reminding me way too much of Marathon Man. It's filled with a radiocontrast dye that will circulate rapidly through my blood.
The machine begins to whir ominously. I can see rotating things through a little window. The tech has left the room. Now the giant hypodermic begins to move, injecting me with the dye. The tech has warned me that I might feel a hot flash or other weird sensations. I do, but they're not very dramatic.
At the top of the machine are two cartoon faces. The open-mouthed face lights up green, the one with closed lips and puffed-out cheeks lights up yellow. As the faces illuminate, alternately, a pre-recorded voice intones breathe and hold your breath while the bed slides my body back and forth through the scanner. The bed stops just before ripping my up-reaching arms off on the edges of the doughnut.
2.5 hours in the waiting room, 5 minutes in the scanner and it's all over. 8 hours in the hospital (Friday); time to go home. I feel worn from within, and worried. This nightmare is getting more real.
No comments:
Post a Comment