I’ve had a difficult time getting to sleep the past couple of nights. I can’t really put my finger on just why; it’s just a general sense of anxiety.
There are unidentified beings throwing a dance party in the pit of my stomach. They’re drunk, puking Zima, and butt-dialing my brain saying things like, “Have you tried worrying about this yet?”
Right now I’m leaning toward the source of my uneasiness being scanxiety about next week’s appointments in St. Louis.
I will have my first post-treatment MRI then. Though I’ve been warned the scan results are to determine a “new baseline” and are not for comparison, I really, really want to know that the tumor is already smaller.
I know I’m in for more rounds of chemo, regardless of the story the new MRIs tell, but if the doctors think that more radiation is called for, I might lose it. I already rang the bell. That means I’m done.
You can’t ring the bell, take home your radiation mask, and then have to do it again. That’s just not right.