I’ve now had my second round of PET/CT scans, so I can tell you exactly what the whole experience is like while it’s still fresh in my mind.

My appointment was scheduled for 8:30 a.m., but a nurse called me into the preparation room already at 8:00, so it’s definitely worth arriving well in advance. You also have to come fasting, without even drinking anything. I had to take off anything metallic or shiny. The nurse asked about my bra, but thankfully I had the foresight to wear a simple sports bra without underwires or metal hooks, so I was allowed to keep it on. She sat me down in a chair and we got started.

“Based on your height and weight, we’ll prepare a dose of radioactive tracer and administer it through a cannula. I just need you to sign here twice.”

When she noticed I had no hair, she asked whether I happened to have a port and a cannula.

“A port, yes. A cannula, no. They didn’t put one in when I had my blood drawn this morning.”

“Well, you need to ask for that yourself,” she told me rather firmly.

“I had no idea you could do it through the port. I’ll know next time,” I replied, refusing to let it throw me off balance. I’m not a doctor, after all, and not every little detail occurs to me to research online. But this is one lesson I won’t forget. Especially this time, since I’m due for chemotherapy again in two days, and we may end up splitting it over two days once more.

“You should definitely ask them to use the port next time. That way I won’t have to torture you with another needle stick, and you’ll only get poked once. If you have a port, make use of it,” she explained in a much gentler tone.

The machine finished mixing everything together and sent a dose of positrons into me. I learned that a positron is basically like an electron, except it carries a positive charge instead of a negative one. When a positron and an electron meet inside the body, they annihilate each other and produce two gamma rays. The important part for us is that things start lighting up. The scanner detects that radiation and creates an image. PET scans—Positron Emission Tomography—show how active different cells are. Cells that work harder consume more sugar and therefore glow more brightly. That’s why your brain always lights up. If you can’t stay completely still and tense a muscle, that muscle will show up too. Cancer cells also tend to glow more brightly because they’re working overtime trying to carry out their destructive mission.

Once the injection was done, the nurse disconnected me and sent me to sit in the waiting room for an hour. It takes a little while before you start glowing properly. The waiting room was tiny. Our own little radioactive community. Every so often another nurse would appear and announce whose turn it was to go pee. Like being back in kindergarten. 🙂

Not even an hour later, it was my turn. The examination room contained almost nothing except one enormous tunnel. There was no need to undress or take off my shoes. I simply lay down on the moving table, and the machine adjusted everything automatically. I had to stretch my arms above my head. They then injected contrast dye containing iodine through the cannula. This is used for the CT portion of the scan, which shows the body’s structures in detail and highlights blood vessels and organs.

The contrast starts working almost immediately. During my first scan I barely noticed anything, but this time it hit much harder. First I got a sweet taste in my mouth, which quickly turned into a metallic one. Then came an intense wave of heat. Down there, it felt so hot that I genuinely wondered whether I’d wet myself. I comforted myself with the thought that if I had, I certainly wouldn’t be the first or the last person to do so. I’d simply go home, change clothes, and know better next time. Then the heat spread into my palms and mouth. A few minutes later, it all disappeared.

The table moved into two different positions while a computerized voice instructed me to take a deep breath and hold it. Then it carried me all the way to the top of the scanner before creeping back down at what felt like a snail’s pace, scanning my entire body along the way. I counted every square ceiling tile. Each ventilation grille had fourteen slots. Just as I was about to start counting the dots on the ceiling panels, I realized I was moving deeper into the tunnel and that perhaps it wasn’t actually moving quite as slowly as I thought.

“Don’t be alarmed, I’m disconnecting you. The scan will be finished in a few seconds,” the nurse said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

She then asked whether I felt dizzy. Why would I feel dizzy after lying down for fifteen minutes, I wondered. I sat up and stood up the way I always do—quickly. Instantly, my head started spinning and my legs felt heavy. Fortunately, it passed within seconds.

They had me sit in the waiting room for a little while longer before another nurse called me in to remove the cannula.

“Everything okay? Any itching? Any dizziness? You’ll remain radioactive for several more hours. Nothing dangerous, but we recommend avoiding close contact with children and pregnant women for about twelve hours. Try to keep at least two metres away,” she explained before I left.

When I had my first scan, I was still hospitalized on the oncology ward, so I didn’t pay much attention to that advice. This time I hadn’t expected it at all. Luckily, Grandma and Grandpa were able to step in for babysitting duty and take care of my little guy. After a walk, I set up office in the corner of a café and worked there until evening.

The tracer apparently has a half-life of about 110 minutes, meaning half of its radioactivity disappears in that time. After a few hours, most of it is gone. They recommend drinking plenty of water and making frequent trips to the bathroom to help flush it out more quickly.

The results come back the very next day, so I’ll get at least a basic idea of what’s going on soon enough. This week I also have my fourth chemotherapy session. After that, all the doctors involved in my care will meet to discuss the next steps.

After my surgery, my doctor mentioned that once they opened me up, things looked somewhat different from what the scans had suggested. At the time, it never occurred to me to ask what exactly he meant by that. Right now, more than anything, I’m hoping they’ll finally be able to tell whether my lymph nodes were simply working overtime and that’s why they lit up, or whether there are actually metastases hiding there.

Last time, neither the surgery, nor the blood tests, nor all those scans could answer that question.