The Heartburn

Lately, lots of things have been giving me heartburn.

(I will not change my eating habits, no siree. I will eat generic Tums all the live long day.)

Most recently, my kids have been giving it to me as well. Is it the, umm, "sibling rivalry?" (That term makes it sound much less obnoxious than it appears in real life.) I have found that when Natalie is away for nine hours a day during the week, the number of fights does not decrease during the remaining five hours she is present with her siblings. It just gets more concentrated.

(I know, I know. It's so very unintuitive.)

And this, my friends, gives me heartburn. And I already ate all the yummy orange-flavored generic Tums and what I have left are the crappy lemon ones that taste like yellow chalk.

Thank goodness they love just as hard as they hit. (The kids, not the Tums. I have not been hit by an antacid...yet.)

But today's sudden onset of the hot spit comes from an entirely different source: scanxiety. It does not present itself in a gradual, gentle manner. It barrels down on you like a Mack truck. And I feel like roadkill. Roadkill with heartburn. You think you have a break and then it comes back in ten-foot tall waves. Waves of nausea.

Eve has scans. Must buy more Tums.

I think I know what my problem is.

I do fine with CT scans; it's the ultrasounds that put me in a rocking chair staring blankly ahead.

We first saw the enemy on an ultrasound. I am not a sonographer, but I knew that those dark masses should not be on the screen. I also know the techs are not allowed to tell you anything about what they see. I first felt my heart pop out of my chest when the tech stayed quiet and wouldn't look at us before leaving to bring the radiologist in to look at the pictures.

And the whispers. Oh, may you never have to be present while they whisper and point at the screen.

In fact, just writing this down is sending me into a mild panic attack. Snack break!

But a CT, well, there is no reason for you to be in the room if your child is sedated. I prefer to read a book in the waiting room. I have no reason to see the radiologist. He's just a person behind a wall that I'm never going to see, even if something is wrong. I don't need to make myself crazy guessing what their facial expressions, grunts, and wayward glances mean.

And better yet, I can't see the images.

But I just need to ride Eve's vibe. She's not worried about a thing.

And a chest x-ray to check for any metastasis to the lungs? Ha! I scoff at the cross-hairs of an x-ray. This is radiation for pansies.

Eve doesn't appreciate being asked to give up her chocolate-dipped marshmallows on a stick to sit still, though.

She is reunited with chocolate-dipped marshmallows. The stink eye is gone.

Good news is that the preliminary reports showed that everything is looking a-okay. No new tumors. No changes in the nephrogenic rests in her remaining kidney.

Only 18 more months of scans before she's out of the high-risk relapse woods. I'm just taking it one scan at a time. Like I have any other choice.

So now the scanxiety-induced heartburn is gone. Time to go to Taco Bell for our celebratory lunch!

(I much prefer the taco sauce heartburn.)

Two tacos, a crazy mother, and a full morning of appointments later...

I guess I can put away the Xanax until next year.