The day after the big meeting I was scheduled for a PET, a CT and that head MRI. The PET and CT were to be done at the same time in that "trailer". I was still mystified by what that trailer could be... and I really didn't want to do that MRI. I called Dr. Alsup and pleaded for some Valium to get me through the MRI. He granted my wish and also offered up some more Lortab... bless him. He told me to take the Valium about 1/2 hour before the MRI and of course that meant I needed someone to drive me to and from the hospital.
Linda recruited Katy. Katy is a young, beautiful girl that looks more like she belongs as a contestant on the bachelor, than running me around to medical tests. She is engaged to my Nephew, Brody, Lee and Linda's last single son. They are getting married in June.
Before we left Katy had to grab a ciggie. I know I'm shocked! People still smoke?? I take the chance on the way to the hospital to give her major grief. "l have cancer—look what I'm going through? And you are doing something known to cause it?" She brushes it off with a "yeah, I know I should quit... and so should Brody... blah, blah, blah..." Her mind is really on her wedding though as the topic quickly changes to how purple are the purple flowers she picked out...??
Finally we arrive at the hospital and drive around looking for a trailer. I see nothing like what I imagine. We park and dash inside to find Wanda. Wanda looks at me like I must be the silliest woman on the planet as she walks me to the window and says "it's right there..." Oh. It's a semi-trailer. I saw it but I thought it was delivering food or something...
I approach the trailer and meet Ahmed. Who will forever be known to me as "Prince Ahmed," because that is what he turned out to be... the most caring medical professional I have met in a long time. As his first act of kindness he shows Katy a reserved parking space where she can put our car, so as not to make us trek the usual block from the parking lot.
Once inside, the trailer is crammed full of equipment. One end has two recliners separated by curtains, in the middle is a bank of computers and the other end has the machine. There is barely room for two people to pass by the bank of computers.
He sits me down in one of the cushy recliners and I explain that Katy was probably going to knock on the door because I thought she could come in with me... he says if she does he will tell her to wait inside the hospital. Then he starts asking me how I prepped for the test. What did I eat? Etc. I can tell he is a little miffed when I explain that "yes, I fasted as I was directed and ate dry toast like they said about 2 hours before." I can tell he didn't want me to eat that toast... lol. So I didn't tell him the pieces seemed small so I had two... I also had to drink two 16 ounce glasses of water within the last 2 hours, which I had done.
He mixes up a concoction for me to drink... more liquid (something that sort of tastes like raspberry chalk). And then as he gets ready to inject the stuff into my veins... he asks, "which side is... IT… on?" I say, "oh the cancer... it's over here." He visibly shudders and says, "I don't even like to say the word... don't say it... I hate it... just tell me where it is..." I'm stunned by this, and I instantly like him. I have been trying not to give my cancer any sort of validation since this started and finally here is a guy that gets it. He thinks like I do. I don't want to validate it because things that don't have validation tend to disappear more readily don't they?
The injection starts and it dawns on me that Katy hasn't appeared. I say something about that and he says, "No nobody has knocked, would have heard her." So I tell him, “ah well, I was giving her a bad time about smoking on the way up so she may have gotten tired of listening to me." He gasps, "She smokes? How old is she?" “I don't know, pretty young, 20's... she is engaged to my nephew." He shakes his head and says, "You know I see more and more young people in here with lung cancer—people in their 20's, 30's. I mean a lot of them." I ask him why he thinks that is... he says, "Everyone knows those guys in their 80's that smoked a pack a day and didn't get cancer, but it's not like that anymore. Young kids are getting it now. I think it has to do with what's in our air. You know it's different than it was when those old guys started smoking. Now there is pollution and I think the lungs can't take the pollution and chemicals in our air and the smoking. Those old guys had clean air when they started smoking... I see it so much, I think that is why."
How alarming is that? I make a mental note to tell this to Katy on the way home.
Ahmed then closes up the curtains around my recliner and tells me to relax for about 20 minutes, I actually kind of doze off. A seemingly short time goes by and he opens the curtains to wake me. He says, "Now I need you to go to the restroom and then we can start the test." Okay. Yes, I need to pee... wow... all that water and then the raspberry stuff. Oh wait, there's no bathroom in here? Right he says. "You have to go in the hospital." My eyes get wide. Remember I can barely walk a few paces without gasping for air, and I have to pee—major. I realize the hospital bathroom is the equivalent of a city block away.
He says "don't worry, I'll take you..." He pulls out a wheelchair, helps me in it and covers me protectively with a blanket. Then he starts on this crazy journey that seems surreal enough to be in a movie. Down from the trailer, across the parking lot, through a service entrance, up a freight elevator to an unmarked door. I'm giggling and amazed. I ask him, you have to do this every time? "Yes," he says, "And before I took the sign that said "restroom" off this door, my patients often had to wait for someone to get finished inside. So I just took it down one day..." This is the first of many times I find myself saying, "you are a prince, Ahmed."
When I come out of the restroom I am full of questions. "How do you do this in the snow? I mean this is Utah, we have wicked weather here. Do you tent this off or anything?" This gets a laugh from him and he says, "No we put on a lot of blankets and run like hell."
Why the trailer anyway? Can't he get an office? He explains that just the trailer and its equipment cost 3.5 million dollars. It's expensive medicine. In order to get a department he has to first kick one out—the hospitals are full. Or they would have to build one on for him. In order to do that he has to get to a point where one hospital would have about 10 tests per day. And he's not there yet, plus that's the kind of thing he doesn't want to wish for... so he travels from hospital to hospital. A couple of days here, a couple of days in Salt Lake and so on...
He's a maverick. I just notice the scuffed up cowboy boots and jeans he wears under his lab coat, and even that fits him.
He gets me inside and offers me yet another raspberry shake. Says to drink it and as soon as I am done we will start. He jumps over to his computer and says "oh you have an MRI at one?" Now, at this point I cannot imagine doing this MRI. I have already decided to reschedule. I don't care—not going. So I tell him I'm planning on cancelling. He says, "I can hurry and get you there…I'll take you there..." "Nope. Not doing it". Then he brilliantly suggests that he can do my head too. What? “Yes.” He can do the same thing with his machine by just including my head—will only take about 10 minutes longer. I am so overjoyed I almost tear up. Thank God. Yes, please do that Prince Ahmed. My now hour long torturous MRI laying flat on my back while I can't breathe has just been reduced to "another 10 minutes."
"I'll call and cancel for you." He gets them on the phone and I can hear a slight battle on the phone. "No she will call you and reschedule… no she's tired… no you cannot talk to her, I want her quiet for my test… you can call her... no you can't… bye." Is this guy a saint or what? I'm stunned by his compassion and kindness. Ironically I can hear my cell phone ringing... I know they are already calling to reschedule. What's up with that?
Finally he lays me down on the machine and the test starts. It's a comfortable, padded, non-claustrophobic ride. I am struggling to breathe a little, but I can get through it. Plus, I know it's only about half an hour and no MRI after. This I can do... no problem.
My test is finished and I can see Ahmed pouring over his computer, as a newly arrived assistant helps me gather my things. I once again thank him and say "you are a prince Ahmed... I'm sure I will be seeing you again." I see his assistant grin and I realize he probably gets called similar things all day long. An elderly lady is now waiting for her test and it dawns on me that people get wheeled out of the hospital from their beds to this trailer too. And that he treats them all with the same dignity.
I find Katy reading in the car. I happily announce that we are free to go, and I am so glad because I am wondering if I will make it home before the slight cramps in my stomach turn into a big problem. I tell her what Ahmed said about young people getting lung cancer. She relates, but not in the way I'd hope. Of course she has a Grandpa like that, "he's in his 80's, smoked forever, never had lung cancer—has had every other kind of cancer though—but not lung cancer." I feel the argument is lost.
Besides, she is now more focused on the fact that she just drove by their house and Brody is home and shouldn't be. She tries to text him while driving and weaving around in her lane. I make her stop. "I just got out of the hospital I don't want to go back." She says, "Okay, I'll only text at the light."
Oh to be young again...
It's now Thursday afternoon. I have my surgery scheduled for Monday to get the port put in for my chemotherapy. I just have to wait for the results, if they find cancer bothering my bones in a way that could weaken them the plan changes. Then they will start radiation first and look at if any other the bones need surgery to be strengthened so that they don't get me cancer free only to have such a weak pelvis or something that it breaks down the road. Sounds awful, doesn't it? I'm praying for no weak bones to show up. I will hear from them tomorrow.
The 3.5 million dollar trailer.
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