During a recent multiple myeloma check-up, I was relaxing on the sliding table of a PET scan machine undergoing – surprise surprise – a PET scan.

My oncologist had insisted that it was time for a scan, the clinic happened to have a machine available, and my insurance company was in such a good mood that they had agreed to cover the charges.

Far be it from me to argue, a-PET-scanning I did go!

While not quite as cheery as lounging on a sandy beach sipping tropical libations, my treatment center offers its PET scan clients a fruity drink and an injection of a radioactive tracer. Yummm ... radioactive tracers.

I marveled thinking about the behemoth, whirring, clicking, buzzing, donut-shaped contraption which en­cir­cled me in search of active, glucose-seeking cancer cells.

Gosh, and all I had to do to participate was to rest silently and behave myself.

My bored 56-year-old mind switched into kid mode as I conjured up images of my three rowdy dogs rough­housing and stuffed with me into the PET scanner as the frazzled technicians yelled for them to ‘Lie Down!’ and ‘Don’t chew on that!’

Sounds kind of fun, doesn’t it? Of course, you could use cats if you were so inclined.

You veteran scanners are aware that patients can’t eat anything for several hours before a PET scan, so the very thought of that huge ‘donut-shaped’ thing hovering around me triggered my stomach to elicit not one, but two world-class growls, one right after the other.

How embarrassing! I heard them echo against the donut chamber.  I hoped that it hadn’t registered in the control room thus compelling the techs to notate something in Sean Murray’s Permanent File, which has followed me everywhere since kindergarten.

I could almost hear them say ‘Oh, that’s just Mr. Murray. Apparently he’s a growler from way back.’

Who wants to even have a PET scan reputation?

A 70-year-old cancer patient and self-proclaimed hippie surfer once described getting a PET scan as ‘Riding the Tube.’ I got a chuckle imagining him shouting ‘Cowabunga!’ while hanging a gnarly ten on the table.

I would pay good money to see him and my dogs go through a PET scan together. That circus just might cause an imaging technician to seek a different career.

In my several years of fighting myeloma, I have ‘ridden the tube’ at least a dozen times before (even more MRIs). There is something about those experiences that always puzzles me:

Maybe it’s just me, but why does an advertised 45-minute quick trip through PET Scan Land seem to take hours when I am on the table? And forget about the full-body MRIs. They’re supposed to last around two hours, but they seem to go on for days and days.

Each time I emerge from a scan, I halfway expect to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror sporting a long, gray Rip Van Winkle beard. I’ve had to learn to refrain from asking the technicians ‘What year is it?’ or if flying cars, healthy bacon, or robot butlers have been invented yet.

I have come to somewhat understand what poor Gilligan must have felt when he set out on a three-hour tour only to end up spending three long stinking years on that miserable deserted island.

At least he had Ginger and Mary Ann to chat with. All I can do is mutter ‘Are we there yet?’ to myself now and then and pray that I will soon be rescued from PET Scan Island.

Okay, setting all of that PET scan silliness aside, I have to say that myeloma has monkeyed with my perception of time in truly profound ways.

In my pre-cancer days, I could intellectually and spiritually come to grips with the fact that my time on this Earth was finite.  Just as those whom I love have passed on, I knew that I would die someday. I could live with that reality, so to speak.

But it wouldn’t be anytime soon, right? Sound familiar?

I was quite ill when myeloma came banging on my door in 2008. The doctors weren’t telling me point blank that I was going to die in short order, but I knew that they were concerned.

I stopped working and began aggressive treatment almost immediately.  To wait much longer would have been a grave mistake, one of the specialists shared.

Somewhere along the grueling journey an interesting thing happened:

I gave up.

No, I didn’t surrender to the myeloma. I’ll fight that to the bitter end, whether it kills me or I kill it. I prefer the latter, frankly.

I gave up worrying about the future. I still make plans and I still have goals, but I am no longer ruled by them.  Life with myeloma is far too unpredictable to be so rigid.

In the heart of the battle, I was so concerned and afraid about the future, that I lost touch with TODAY.

My kids were five and eleven when I was diagnosed in 2008. My heart breaks for what they have been through. But they are fantastically resilient. They inspire me. My oldest will soon be off to college and my youngest is a dynamo. My wife remains brave, hopeful, and my best friend.

We laugh, and cry, and pray together.   Tomorrow on this Earth has not been promised to us, but we celebrate each and every TODAY.

It’s been a struggle, but I am doing fine. Broken bones, pains, infections, and other challenges – you bet. But TODAY I am fine.

My friends out there in Myelomaville - hang in there as long as you can. Sick or well, the time goes by fast. Except in a PET scan, that is. Enjoy your TODAY.

Dr. Seuss  (Theodore Geisel) said it so well:

‘How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn.  How did it get so late so soon?’