Remember how, before my PET scan, I talked a lot about how amazed I was that I wasn't my usual panicky, crying, mess-of-a-person self?
Yeah, well. It turns out there was just a delay on me turning into a crazy person. I've been a little bit (read: a lot) loopy all week.
It started Sunday afternoon. When I checked my phone that afternoon and saw that I'd missed a call from MD, my stomach sank. I mean, literally. I felt it drop. And then my heart started to race. ... So, I told myself, "Calm the heck down, Evans! It's just a voicemail, and you don't even know what it says yet. Wait to have a freakout until you at least know what you're dealing with."
And then I listened to the message. Once I heard that the insurance company had approved the MRI, I took a deep breath and told myself that my panic had, surely, been related to concern that the scan wasn't going to be approved and that, now that I knew it had been, everything would be fine. ... Half an hour later, I was in a dead panic about having to fast all day for an afternoon scan. I'm talking, verge-of-tears panic. I guess maybe that panic wasn't so much related to worrying that the MRI wouldn't happen. Ugh. I was off and on panic mode all Sunday evening, but had calmed down by the time I went to bed.
And then I woke up, wide awake, at 3:00 Monday morning. I hung out in bed for a good half hour, thinking about all the things I needed to do: clean the shower, do the laundry, wash my hair, get a good dozen loan files pulled once I got to work. My mind went round and round and round, until I decided to give in to my brain, get out of bed and do what I could do. (You know me. I like to control what I can control.) So, at 3:30 in the morning, I was bent over my bathtub, scrubbing it to Kingdom Come. ... And that's when it hit me. "I may not have gotten full-blown crazy about the PET, but it looks like this MRI week is going to be fun."
And it's just gotten better (worse) since then.
Halle-freakin-lujah that I happen to have bottles of Ativan at work, in my purse and on my kitchen counter. There hasn't been one day so far this week that I haven't needed it.
I'm still not scared, or particularly worried, but crap almighty, have I been an emotional wreck! (Made worse by my odd/off sleep hours, I am sure.)
The good news: This crazy jag has a five day shelf life, maximum, and I only have one more work day to get through without a public meltdown before I hit Friday and this scan is a thing of the past.