At every occasion I’ll be ready for the funeral. Even if we read too much into the meaning, no matter, turn it up as you read this post. Here are the lyrics.
Welcome to scan day, everybody! Our every-eight-week-installment of what is happening inside Adam’s head. I get to wear scrubs, the techs are friendly, I see my neuro oncologist and his terrific nurse coordinator, and I get a Starbucks after; sometimes a pastrami on rye with mustard. What’s not to like?
Keep the following acronym in mind today, friends: PFS—progression-free scan.
Watch the fluids, not too much coffee, I’ll get a bag of IV saline, contrast dye, and no bathroom breaks for 30-to-40–odd minutes while high-frequency magnetic resonance aligns the proton spins in my tissue to capture radio images of my brain. Hey, hey, enough with the science.
It’s like this: *bang bang bang bang*, and then we get pictures.
Last night was the first-Sunday-of-the-month #BTSM (Brain Tumor Social Media) chat. Topic: Death and Dying. We enjoyed engaging with patients, caregivers, palliative care docs, and hospice providers. I look forward to these monthly discussions to connect with my community—and even though we’re conversing at 140 characters, I have developed meaningful relationships through these chats.
The topic, death, dying, advanced directives, and so on will show up here soon enough. For now, the key take-away from last night is that preparing for end-of-life is a conversation that should occur openly and often between patients, loved ones, and medical teams.
At every occasion, we’ll be ready for the funeral, and preparing ourselves helps us live into every moment, seeking meaningful relationships and pastrami sandwiches.
This post originally appeared on Glioblastology. It is republished with permission.