PET Scan Time

It's almost rude.

It's 8:15 am the day after Christmas; and, once again, I'm forced to focus in on Hodgkins lymphoma. This time it's because I need to be at UVRMC in Provo by 8:45 for a PET scan.

After four doses of Adcetris (brentuximab vedontin), it's time to see if that chemo has done it's job.

I hate how you have to register at a kiosk, by typing in your last name, first name, birth month and day, and the department you need. Then wait in a reception area to register.

So what was that registration at the kiosk? And what was that phone call I answered about three days ago to pre-register?

I have to answer questions over the phone to pre-register, register at a kiosk, and then wait to register again for the final time?

Someone needs to fix this system!

It's also interesting to me that IHC hospitals require a finger poke to check liver function before they'll let you absorb contrast into your body. (To whine for a moment, I hate the finger pokes. I'd rather you draw my blood than poke my finger; a needle stick hurts less than the puncture wound.)

Plus, lately, it's not just a simple poke. They really have to jab deep because they're filling three pipettes (or small tubes) with blood. I know they're also testing blood glucose levels, but diabetic meters are all boasting how little blood they require these days--less than a drop.

So why three pipettes? Why the deep stab? Why the 2-3 minute process to "milk" my finger and squeeze all the blood you possibly can from the end of my nerve-damaged finger?

Luckily, the first part of the process goes fairly smoothly: access the port, inject the radioactive sugar, dim the lights and have me recline in a chair and wait 70 minutes while occasionally drinking about 16 oz. of oral contrast.

As I'm resting, I'm trying to count how many PET scans I have thus far in my life: at least 4-5 in the portable trailer at American Fork Hospital, at least 2 at Huntsman, one at the hospital off 5300 South in Salt Lake, and now this one at UVRMC. At least 8 total, and I'm pretty sure I'm forgetting at least two. Whew!

From all of those PET scans, I'm getting really good at judging how much time has passed while I'm resting and waiting for any cancerous lymph nodes in my body to absorb the radioactive sugar. Try it. If you're forced to rest in a dim room and do absolutely nothing but sit and wait, can you judge when 60-70 minutes are up?

Time for the CT and PET scans. Nothing new there either. Lay down on my back on a narrow hard table with my head in a strange foam pillow, arms above my head, stay absolutely still as the machine does 2-3 quick passes for the CT scan without contrast, then continue as the machine starts at my knees and spins about five minute, then moves to the next position (for a total of five different positions) until about 30 minutes have passed, then inject the IV contrast (that makes your lower abdomen feel very warm--like you've wet yourself) and wait for another 1-2 quick passes of the CT scan with contrast.

Ta-duh! Unhook the contrast tubing, flush the port, de-access the port, and you're now free to leave the premises with no hint as to any results.

Isn't modern medicine fun? lol