So, the scan. Same boring routine. Into the hospital, up to Nuclear Medicine and greeted by the same girl as last time. Weighed, measured, and then radioactive material injected into my veins. Or at least that's the theory! The reality? Four jabs at my right arm and each time the veins came up empty. It took us half an hour to finally inject the serum. And how strange is it to have someone holding a lead lined syringe of radioactive material which they are injecting into my veins! An hour then of lying on a bed before an hour and a half in a low ceilinged cylindrical tube.
As the material is taken up more quickly by cancer cells, you aren't allowed to move for the entire time so as not to disrupt the material. That makes an incredibly boring two and a half hours staring into space. Even listening to music or reading a book would alter the results.
And then I emerged, and I looked at the waiting room: a room full of men and women over 40 years older than me. A room full of grandmothers and fathers, a room of cancer victims, true, but they are lucky enough to have seen their children grow up, have grandchildren and be there for them. I was so very jealous and pangs of self pity pricked my eyes.
It was so very strange. For the last two months I have been living a reality which today I saw wasn't my real life. My reality is and will be hospitals, scans, and appointments. I really, really don't want that. It feels so bloody unfair: 42 and condemned to a life of appointments, scans and doctors.
When I returned to school, I felt really shaken and strange. My hearts is in living, but my emotions are in illness and dying. I don't know where I am, where the 'real me' is. I don't know what my future holds.
Shaken in deed, word and feeling.