The tumor—where it’s at
December 2021
I had my colonoscopy on Friday, December 3rd. Right after the procedure my gastroenterologist told me I had rectal cancer. That’s all he knew. He could see the cancer on the surface of the rectal wall. I needed to schedule a CT scan and an MRI to find out more.
Had it spread to other organs?!? Could they get it with surgery alone? Was I going to have to do chemo? Could they cure it and if not...?
I called to schedule the CT and MRI with Portsmouth Hospital the following Monday. “The first opening we have available is December 30th.” My jaw dropped. Over three weeks out. Three weeks.
“Are you sure you can’t get me in sooner?” I asked. “They wanted to get me in this week if possible.”
“Let me check. Can you hold?” I want to tap pause here. I’d never done this before. I’ve always assumed that if they tell you when the first available opening is, that’s it. You take it. Bout 90 seconds later..., “We can do Thursday. We’ll do the CT scan then the MRI back to back.”
“YES.” Lesson learned. When it’s real important, push. They may have more flexibility if you ask. I arrived at the hospital the day of the appointment. I went alone. It was just tests and Covid cases were surging again. I didn’t want my mother, 79, anywhere near there.
I grabbed a mask, glanced around to see which side other people had facing out so I didn’t look like an idiot (blue), and approached the reception area to check in. “Ok Kristin, let’s see what you’re here for today.” Guy looked to be about my age, balding, nervous energy. I started to reply, “CT scan and...”
“CT scan. Ooo, and an MRI.” He audibly sucked in his breath and started shaking his head. “Have you had one before? An MRI?” His shoulders went up as he waited for my bracelet to print. “Ooo, they give me the heebie geebies. Going into that machine. The clack clacking.” He shivered. Then looked up at me suddenly, realizing he maybe shouldn’t be saying this to someone who’s about to have an MRI, and chortled. “You’ll be fine though, right.? Ha ha. In. Out. Done. Fine, fine, fine.” With my bracelet secured, I said thanks, turned, and headed down the hall.
Once in the MRI control room, I johnnied up and was led to the interior room where the machine is. “You can listen to music while you’re in there. Any requests?” the tech asked. I was about to say George Michael when I thought something more electronicky might be better with the clack clacking. “How about Beck?”
“Beck?” she asked. “How do you spell that?”
Let’s hold up right there. I considered turning around and leaving. Who doesn’t know Beck? And I’m trusting this person to put me in that machine and scan me. It’s Beck! And how is that hard to spell??? “B.E.C.K.”
“Oh Beck. Right, right.” I should’ve trusted my instinct.
The MRI was needed to determine if the tumor was stage 2 or stage 3 rectal cancer. Stage 2 would mean that the tumor hadn’t broached the rectal wall and I’d just need surgery to remove it. Stage 3 meant it had gone through the rectal wall. In that case I’d need chemo, radiation, and surgery. I was rooting for team stage 2 all the way. Go get it and done!
Guess what the MRI didn’t show? If the tumor had broached the rectal wall or not. Guess who had to come back for a second MRI a week later?
There was a different tech that time. He passed the “Beck Test.” He got the view of the tumor we needed.
