Tour of the Routines

Calendars! Routines! Liturgies! I love them all, love marking time, love thinking about how the ways we choose to shape our time shapes us, in turn, as well. I also thought I'd take you on a tour of some of my routines; so many of you are far away. 

Now that we are five years out, I have a pretty well-established liturgy for this time of year and thought I would share it. It steadies me to know there are certain markers and rituals to look forward to in a season that by nature is one of uncertainty.  

Looking forward to the familiar can help even if it is unpleasant, as with my CT prep by Barium smoothie. I know I'm going to feel really sick as a result of taking this stuff, but I also know I'll get better soon.

                                        

not my favorite flavor

I also know what I'm going to wear to the CT in order to streamline the process (no metal anywhere means no gowns!) and that there will be no milk in my tea. I know that it will probably be Luis or Christine starting my IV, and we will chat, and it will be quick. The liturgy this time was only disrupted by us all being masked. It's hard to feel like a human instead of a specimen in the midst of these scans, but happily in these contexts everyone is pretty practiced at working against that and so the masks didn't make as much of a difference as they do, say, out in public. I was definitely seen (inside and out..haha). 

The more extensive routines come with my testing appointments down in Los Angeles. There's the prepping of the car (thank you, J) and the packing of the lunch (or dinner) in my little cooler. The night before, I pack my bag for the waiting room:

some of my favorite things (detail)

The mask is new. The dark chocolate is a must. The iPad is not pictured.

The visit itself if well-choreographed and extremely familiar; I literally have lost count of the number of MRIs I have had. A dozen visits? 20 scans? However, with COVID, even the familiar landscape has changed: instead of the bustling "city" Cedars-Sinai usually is,  it was a ghost town. Me and a security guard on the street.

Instead of my usual MRI kit, there was an extra addition:

special mask with no metal on the nose ✔

I also have my routines in the car. Usually it's NPR on the way down, reminding me that while I may feel in a tough spot I am part of a wider world with wider problems. On good trips I pray about them. On worse trips I can be sad or angry. This time I listened to some news but also made a lot of space for quiet. 

During the scan I always listen to the Hamilton soundtrack (through headphones and earplugs). Once, early on,  I requested Chopin as my MRI soundtrack with the idea that it would be soothing. As it turns out, the "Chopin Channel" that was piped in played the same famous nocturne about every third piece. Back then I had two MRIs back-to-back--about 90 minutes straight in the machine. The repeating Chopin made me unable to tell how much time had passed and I felt a little crazy. Hamilton plays through in order, and since I am familiar with the show I can know whether I have drifted off to sleep and exactly how long it has been. My two back-to-back scans lasted almost exactly the length of the first act! Hamilton also debuted on Broadway at basically the same time my cancer returned, so it's a marker of an era. 

**I'd like to take a moment and acknowledge how amazing it is that they provide headphones and music during the MRI, and that they even take requests. Thank you, Cedars-Sinai. As an amateur connoisseur of MRI machines across the country I do not take this for granted**

On the drive home, it's often Taylor Swift on repeat:  

Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods yet?
Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods?
Are we in the clear yet? Are we in the clear yet?
Are we in the clear yet? In the clear yet, good

Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods yet?
Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods?
Are we in the clear yet? Are we in the clear yet?
Are we in the clear yet? In the clear yet, good

This time, as I was driving home and singing those questions over and over, I had a moment where I wondered what exactly asking those questions over and over to myself might be doing.  I knew there wasn't an answer like I was looking for; I've been told that I won't get a permanent "in the clear now, good" answer at any time. Which is true for all of us, in one way or another, if those are the kinds of questions we are asking.

I decided to try switching out those questions for other ones that come with answers, and put this album in around the halfway mark to see me home: 

The whole of nature groans with longing
We ache for that promised glory
Still we rejoice because we know
plans formed of old, faithful and sure

The whole of nature groans with longing
We wait for that promised glory
Still we rejoice because we know
that sorrow’s end is coming

He will swallow up death
and wipe the tears from our faces
He will swallow up death
and wipe the tears from our faces
We’ll sing this is our God we’ve waited for
and he saved us
He will swallow up death
and wipe the tears from our faces

Here in the darkness of our mourning
We wait for the Light that’s coming
And on that day we will return
with joy and gladness singing

Behold, your God
He will come and save you

(also 2015. What a year).

I opened up the sunroof and was amused that the view was basically the same as during all of my scans (you know, the special ceiling tiles they have).

complete with Nutmeg's handprints from a recent "parade"

Besides the change in the homecoming soundtrack, I've made one other significant deviation from the usual routine. 

Ever since I was caught completely off-guard with the metastatic diagnosis, I have not waited to again get surprised by news in a doctor's office. I come home from the CT scan and we immediately fax in a request for the imaging and report, in two sets: one mailed to my oncologist in LA and the other for patient pick-up. Sometime between 48-72 hours later I drive out to Patterson Avenue and retrieve a small manila envelope. I walk to the car and sit inside. I pull out the report, folded around a disc of images that I cannot access, and then read the report which will tell me whether the cancer has returned to my lungs. If the kids are with me, I wait and read it after I get home--still in the car, but in the driveway.  

We are trying to follow the stay-at-home guidelines. I know this particular routine is not essential. I have only requested the records sent to LA this time. It makes me very uncomfortable to wait, but I also hope that the practice in waiting and the space provided will leave room for other questions and hoping. 

That change is definitely the most difficult part of my liturgies this time around.

As we prepare to do a lot of walking that is not routine, I hope we have time to consider which routines we keep and which need to be traded for something new.

PS: I heard back on 6/2 that my MRI on 5/30 was clear: my leg looks good. I'll share here when I hear about my CT scan. ♡ Oh goodness, at the telephone follow-ups instead of in-person appointments this time around.