I was still a bit drowsy when I arrived at the hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas, for my recent mid-January, 6:30 a.m. PET scan appointment. As an inveterate night owl, I was less than thrilled about having to beat the sun out of bed and the early bird to the worm, but, nonetheless, I was up-and-at-‘em-Atom-Ant, ready to face the typically long first day of a myeloma check-up.

A text from my school-age daughters and elementary principal wife back home in Missouri gleefully stated that they were doing an ‘It’s a Snow Day!’ happy dance in their flannel pajamas and eating pancakes. Rub it in.

The first day of a check-up at the Myeloma Institute normally includes a clinic sign-in, information packet pick-up, a PET scan, blood draws, a bone biopsy and bone marrow aspiration, sometimes a gene array, meetings with data managers, a full-body MRI, a trek to the pharmacy for necessary pre-meds, and an occasional other test thrown in. Add to that the inevitable waiting times for each event, and you have yourself one exhausting day.

No worries. We myeloma check-uppers are a hardy lot!

When I arrived at the PET scan clinic, a gentleman in his late twenties was already there, flanked by three female companions whom I guessed were probably his mom, grandma, and a girlfriend.

Apparently more awake than I, the ladies chattered on about everything under the sun while the patient quietly sipped from a white Styrofoam cup of water from the cooler.

It soon became obvious that they were PET scan ‘newbies’.

'Why do they call it a PET scan?’ ‘When do you get to eat again? I’m hungry.’ ‘How long is this going to take?’ ‘Are you’re going to be alright by yourself, Baby?’ and so on.

He responded ‘I don’t know’ each time until, after one too many questions, the gentleman leapt to his feet, shouted ‘Look! I don’t know! I haven’t done this before, quit asking me! I DO NOT KNOW!,’ then stormed over to get more water to replace what he had spilled when he had jumped to his feet.

Wow, a PET scan and a reality show!

Actually, the ladies’ curiosity and their obvious concern – and the patient’s nervous tension – were things all too familiar. Their anxiety wasn’t just about a PET scan. They wondered if they could handle everything beyond the test.

Do you remember being thrust into the cancer world? Did everything comfortable suddenly go topsy-turvy for you and for your loved ones like they did for me?

With no frame of reference, I remember trying to familiarize myself with the confusing cancer maze by asking questions, studying medical literature, looking online for more information, and seeking advice from other myeloma patients and doctors from other institutions.

Now, after six years of sparring with myeloma, I have come to the conclusion that there is no better teacher than personal experience to give one an intimate understanding of the nuts-and-bolts of such a journey.

I had to get my buns on the table and slide into that tube for the first time. I had to go through having that central line placed into my jugular vein and the chemo drip pump turned on to know what it was like. The same was true for each and every step along the way.

Out of the blue, Grandma asked if I ever had a PET scan before.

Little did they know that I had drunk the Kool-Aid, or Crystal Light, and ridden the magic ride a dozen times. You PET scan veterans know what I’m talking about.

Risking making the situation worse, I shared with them what I knew about PET Scans 101. With a smile on my face, I told them that this would be my thirteenth PET scan since having been diagnosed with cancer six years earlier.

Their open mouths prompted me to fill the awkward silence.

‘It’s really no big deal. It doesn’t hurt.’

The young guy meekly said ‘It doesn’t?’

Judging by the way he had bounded across the room earlier, I gently offered ‘It only hurt for me in the beginning of my treatment, when I had a bunch of fractures in my spine and ribs and shoulders. And that wasn’t because of the test. It just hurt for me to lay down on anything, even a bed. With all that, it was manageable. The technicians work with you and help you get through it. If you’re not in that kind of pain, you have nothing to worry about. ’

‘Is he going to fit in that thing?’ the momma asked.

Like in a tennis match, all of the heads turned to me for a return volley.

‘Yes, ma’am. Look at me, if I can get in there, he’ll have no problems. When I get a PET scan or MRI, and I’ve had a dozen of them, I try to relax and control my breathing. I think pleasant thoughts. And I don’t open my eyes. Sometimes I pray. Pretty much if you are able to lie down, relax, and stay still, you’re in like Flynn. ’

‘Who’s Flynn?’

‘Uh, never mind. It’s just a saying. You’ll be fine.’

Of course, this wasn’t the right time to chat to them about claustrophobia, sedation drugs, open machines, hypnosis, bringing your own music, or other tips and tricks. Or that my sternum broke getting up from a PET scan table. After all, he was heading into the breach in just a few minutes. Soon he would be an expert.

My final point to them was what one little old lady told me on my first day of chemotherapy:

‘You don’t need to be no Superman. Between you n’ God, you got everything you need, no matter where the road takes you.’

Grandma said ‘Amen’ and the young man gave me, definitely no superhero, a fist bump and a thanks.

Next month I’ll tell you how my nine-month myeloma check-up went.