Tag Archives: MRI Brain Scan

Running the Challenge

It is an easy excuse, but the winter months prove a challenge for my running and fitness endeavours. Up to the end of May I have been on the road and muddy tracks several times per week, taking the dogs with me to satisfy their feverish needs to explore the close-by vineyards and our local forest area. My fitness was on a positive upwards curve and I felt in good form. But June and July saw a white flag instead of running shoes. It had been tough in the cold and wet mornings and by the time I arrive home in the evenings, the sun had long gone to warmer climates.

At least there were a couple of runs, in the hope to hold on to some shape of good intention and a tad of fitness. Last Thursday, due to some misunderstanding of dates and days, I accidently had the day off. Loved it for having to do neglected odd bits on my own, but income-wise inconvenient timing. However, it provided me time to take the dog’s running harnesses off the shelf and to enjoy the flood of energy and excitement when they heard the little metal clips calling. To them this is a calling to an hedonistic hour, the pleasure of exploring the outside wilderness where grapes and pine trees grows, where smells and unexpected encounters of fellow canines are “like the best thing ever dude“. Off we went. They loved it. I suffered. The 7.4 km earthy tracks killed my enthusiasm and entered the disappointment of failing in my exercise aspirations.

Tiger Trail J-hoek 2013 II

Luckily there are second chances. Yesterday I took on the tarmac up Blaauklippen Road, past several vineyards and wineries. Running on my own is probably a bit selfish towards my usual running companions. But it allows me to focus on my pace, my posture and to focus on well known distant markers along the way. Crossing the Blaauklippen stream is at 1.4 km. The sign past a small restaurant is my 2.5km turning point when I do 5 km short run. But I had the strength to carry on. Pass the Blouklip turn-off (useful for my Strava challenge) and up the steep circle climb towards Dornier, Kleinnood and Waterford. A good run and knowing that heading back, long stretches of downhill awaits.

There are several things I take away from a good run, like yesterday’s. I completed 8 kilometres and ran it at a satisfying pace (recall of recent laziness). It provides a sense of achievement and knowing I can shake of those couple of extra annoying numbers the bathroom scale throws in my face. But more, it provides comfort. Knowing that I can run, despite past seizures and that bugger of a tumour. That there is always a way to get back up when you feel down and out, or when live gets too comfortable under the warm winter blankets. The challenge is to run and I have to run those challenges. Not against anyone, but for myself and for my family. To stay well and healthy.

Another run coming up in 23 minutes’ time. Not one for the running shoes or with our beautiful dogs. A MRI Brain Scan awaits. A different challenge, but one I can’t shy away from. So wish me luck as off I go.

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Filed under My Brain Tumour and I, This thing called life

MRI Brain Scan: a crash-bang-bang course

It’s the 23rd. It is a positive start”, I think when the receptionist said the date. 23 is my lucky number. I completed most of the paperwork the previous week when I dropped off my oncologist’s referral letter. A few more dotted lines call for my signature. I don’t know how many MRI scans I have had; today’s might be 6th. However, the last one in March was the most important. The one labelled, “all clear”.

How do I approach a brain scan? Like everyone, I suppose I my own ways. Each person will bring specific fears, unique routine and mental preparation before facing the tunnel. Earlier today my rituals consisted of the things under my control. Having a shave, dressing in my favourite light orange and white shirt, wearing comfortable jeans, putting on my trial running shoes that make me feel grounded, a call to confirm the appointment time and leaving enough time to arrive early. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it is the ordinary and familiarity that bring comfort.

I arrive at the hospital 15 minutes early. I don’t carry anxious thoughts with me, never been a great advocate of worry. But I sense the tension in my back and shoulders. It’s not possible to ditch all the anxiety. It tends to sneak in when you are not looking. Anneén arrives before I reach the main entrance. I told her she did not have to come, but it is a great comfort to have her with me. Knowing she will wait in the reception area when it’s all done. It is oddly quiet when we slowly criss-cross through the hospital passages. Most of it was renovated recently and signs warning of wet paint still serve as decorations. “They could have done with a bit of colour” we agree. No one else waits in the reception area. The school and university holidays provide a nice change from the usual hustle and bustle.

When called, I know the drill. I leave my outer layers of safety behind and emerge from the change locker in a faded peach colour garment. A further breakdown of any aesthetic possibility comes in the form of my long black running socks sticking out from underneath. Comfort? Yes. Sexy? Definitely not! I wait for a few minutes underneath signs and arrows that directs towards different scan options. A cleaner slowly sweeps the floor area surrounding me. I feel a need to focus on something. Unfortunately the small Beavers and Butthead cartoon on the notice board is too small to make out the writing.

Luckily the bad joke requires little time as it is 8:45 and the MRI scanner waits. Lying down on the flat surface is the easy part and fairly comfortable. The radiographer knows about my previous scan experiences, so she shiftily hands me the earplugs (to reduce the noise) and place two sheets of white foamy stuff both sides of my face. She moves my head slightly to the left and gently pressed down on my chin to position my head correctly. The small rubber bubble is placed into my hand, in case I need to call for help. It provides some security, as I used it on a previous occasion when the claustrophobia got to me. Finally she covers me with a blanket for both physical and emotional warmth. All I need is music to relax, but it is not available as I am not allowed any metal (not the musical type) or earphones in the tunnel due to the strong magnetic fields.

You can open your eyes if you want to”, she says as I slide into the tunnel. “There is no way”, I replied louder in my head than in words. I made that mistake once before. I don’t like narrow spaces. I admit that I don’t like being out of control either – especially about my physical space. I can feel my elbows being slightly pushed inwards by the sides of the MRI’s tunnel. For a moment I am aware that the blanket is slightly pulled back on the sides due to inwards movement. “I am covered like corpse”. I don’t know where the thought came from, but I was ready for it. “I am here because I am alive”, I counter-argue. “I am here being I want to remain healthy and value life”. And so my process in my head starts to manage the crowded space and mechanical noise.

  • I start with thoughts. Focussing on being alive. The people who matters for me. I am doing this for them and me. What I know. For example, I had no symptoms or strange behaviour (as far as I know at least!). What is important (staying healthy)
  • Visualise memories and beautiful images. Seeing my daughters jump on the “bungee trampolines” the previous day. Looking out over the sun covered vineyards with snow covered mountain peaks behind.
  • Letting go of these images and thoughts and let them flow away like thick honey.
  • Slowing down my breathing. Being aware of my breath, rather than the lack of space around me.
  • Comparing the mechanical noises with sounds I know. I hear a large mechanical bee, a dentist drill, an electrical mosquito, a loud air-pressured drill. A hammer against a water pipe.
  • Physical sensation (such as an itch that I can scratch) indicates to me that I am alive.

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It does not feel like “about 25 minutes”, but after a short silence the radiographer returns and injects my arm with contrast dye. This makes certain tissues and blood vessels show up with greater detail on the scan. I move back inside with less tension for the last 15 minutes. I allow my senses more freedom to explore the experience. Mumford and Sons are still playing “After the Storm” in my mind when I exit the scanner’s tunnel. I am set free.

2013-09-23 12.11.21_resizedIt is 3 hours later and we are sitting at the neurosurgeon’s office. I am aware of the results CD in my hand. The CD is light, but the engraved information carries a different weight. Martin greets us as he walked passed. He needs to quickly go to the ward, but will be with us on time. On his return, Martin opens the scan result on his computer. There two brains, both mine, on display. One from the March scan. The other from this morning. They look similar. Martin shows the left frontal area where the operation took place. I dark area indicates where the tumour and some brain tissue were removed. Nothing else shows up. The scan is almost identical to that done in March. I am clean. No cancer growth or tumour cells are visible.

Once more I am set free.

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Filed under My Brain Tumour and I, This thing called life