Time Doesn’t Erase Memories

I happily chattered as I walked into a visitor center for a large company along with about 50 others in my similar profession. I knew we were visiting a company with a healthcare imaging division, but I also knew them for many other products. What I didn’t know is that the visitor center we were at, at their company headquarters, was heavily focused on medical imaging equipment, as is currently the bulk of their business.

We walked into the welcome video, and it was nice. And then the guide opened the door and ushered us into a giant room and my breath caught. Directly in front of me was a chest x-ray machine. The first one was used to find the 10 inch/26 cm mass in my lungs. Next to it, more x-ray machines. I felt my breathing become uneven. But I was fine…I’m a professional adult on a professional conference tour.

Until we turned the corner. Out of nowhere, I couldn’t breathe at all, and my heart started racing. There was an MRI and CT machine, and right behind it I could see the signs of the surgical guided tools. The guide asked if anyone knew what the machines were and fielded a few answers as well as light-hearted stories about people who’d used them for a pulled muscle or sprained ankle. But I knew what each and every one one of those machines were and what they were used for. The guide continued on discussing the patient experience- he showed what they had created for little kids, explained the challenges of having children remain still, and described the claustrophobia of an MRI. Even typing this now, tears have sprung out of nowhere. Standing in that room, in a blazer and dress shoes as part of a professional group, I was suddenly transported back to being a sick teenager and young adult. I vividly remember fighting my body’s pain and trying to hold still for the imaging. I remember the pain and humiliation of the radiation imaging, despite the kindness of the techs. I remember trying to calm my breathing to follow the instructions of the imaging techs, so they could get images to see if the cancer remained. I remember sitting in the waiting room after receiving the radioactive PET imaging liquids. I remembered mammograms and bone density scans.

We walked to the next station, which was on ultrasound for surgery. Everyone oohed and ahhed over the minimally invasive procedures, but I closed my eyes as I remembered the twilight anesthesia to install and remove my trifusion catheter. It was cool at the time, but now it just brought back bad memories of the discolored skin under my clavicle. Even now, 10+ years later, I look in the mirror twice on some of my square neck clothes. You can see the scars clearly, from the trifusion as well as my mediport planted centrally on my chest. I do have some outfits that show the scars prominently, and it has taken me years to feel courageous enough in some crowds to wear those clothes and display those battle scars for the world to see.

Our final tour stop was a simulated ICU room. The beeping sounds of the machinery were muted and designed to be part of the experience as the tour guide discussed modern practices to help people feel more comfortable and recover faster. But all I could hear was the beeping piercing through his words. I remember the weeks in the ICU, unable to stand and just barely able to get out of bed.

I’m on the other side now. I’m “fine”. It’s been 13 years since my initial diagnosis, and I’m getting closer to the ‘half of my life since cancer’ point. But the emotional impact of seeing the imaging equipment was a jolt to the reality that cancer does have a stronger hold on my life than I ever thought or wanted it too. I was powerless against the emotional wave that pommeled me, and didn’t even know if I’d make it through my day. I’m glad to say I did, with a lot of controlled breathing exercises and some blessed alone time on the bus ride back, but it was a rude awakening to the reality that time doesn’t truly heal all wounds.