Upheaval
This week — almost three months after setting off for a year-long European adventure — everything changed. This was the week of my PET CT scan.
I have had a PET scan multiple times a year, since losing my eye to cancer back in 2018. These surveillance scans were conducted every three months at first; then six-monthly as the years progressed with no signs of recurrence. However, just before leaving for Europe, a scan flagged a number of ‘hotspots’ of activity in my body that warranted further investigation. A few more scans and a biopsy later, and…nothing. None of the identified areas seemed suspicious. The liver scan — the most likely place for recurrence in my case — was “not well visualised in the study,” but I was assured there was nothing to worry about. Still, my oncologist told me to get a follow-up scan after three months, just to be safe, writing a referral for me to take to Germany. You may recall that, after many hurdles, we secured our appointment for the 17th of January in Frankfurt. So, having concluded our loop through the Netherlands, we headed for the city.
There is no greater appreciation one can have for Australia’s health care system than when you are slogged with a medical bill from another country. The hefty PET scan bill would have to be paid in cash, and we spent part of our way to Frankfurt trying to navigate the trouble of getting that amount of money. It didn’t help that I wasn’t sure of the PIN for my German bank card — nor that I’d used up the three PIN attempts at the ATM, forcing us to find a bank branch to reset it. Two days of driving and we reached the outskirts of Frankfurt, loaded up with an unsettling amount of cash and ready for the appointment. The night we arrived, we made our way into the city for a dinner catchup with Rafaela — a friend Alessandra had made whilst volunteering in South Africa. We ate Turkish food at a local restaurant, and I was regaled with tales of the truly terrifying near-misses and special moments of the South African adventure as the world outside slowly froze over.
Temperatures plummet
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The day of the PET scan arrived with a message: a red alert text warned against driving, for the cold had frosted many roads in the region with black ice, and the risk of accidents was high. We had little choice but to go — though we took comfort that we were close to the hospital, where the surrounding roads were among the first to be salted. We left for the hospital at 8:00am, and returned to our parking spot by 5:30pm, making this the single longest PET scan ordeal I’ve ever had to go through. Let me explain.
The PET scan itself was booked in for 10:00am, but we left early to account for the unpredictable — and it was a good thing we did. We parked within the hospital complex after a short drive, and looked around. ‘Complex’ is too small a word — the hospital was like a city. There were over fifty towering buildings on-site, most stretching up at least several storeys. We had parked near building seven, and had received instructions to make our way to building fifty-four, in order to pay up before the scan took place. Seven, you may notice, is rather a long way from fifty-four, and we walked in the bitter cold of early morning for quite some time before we found the building we needed — a cluster of offices, separated by a main road from the bulk of the hospital grounds. In said office, we stated our intent to the receptionist, who, in turn, called someone from radiology to come and sort things out. After some time waiting, a competent-looking woman walked in, and arranged for security guards to come and collect the cash payment, which they would take somewhere else entirely. Eventually, we were relieved of the packet of cash, receiving a receipt in turn, and so ambled off to building thirty-two, with fifteen minutes to spare before the scan.
In the waiting room inside building thirty-two, we waited. And waited. And waited. I needed to use the bathroom but, seeing that it was 9:55am, decided I wouldn’t have enough time, and settled back. 10:00am trickled by. As did 10:30am. And 11:00am. By 11:30am, I was considering drastic action. Only then did one of the radiologists usher me in to begin preparations. The first question out of my mouth was “sorry — where is the toilet?”
Once Alessandra had left to wait in Ziggy — and I had relieved myself at last — we began the process — you can join me for the experience, if you like. First, your height and weight are taken. The doctor explains the process to come, and you sign the documents that confirm your understanding and consent. Next, a cannula is inserted into the left arm, and you are taken into a quiet space to lay down. They cover you with warm blankets, and inject a radioactive sugar through the cannula, which tastes like iodine in the back of your mouth and feels like a warm honey running up the veins in your arm and out through the rest of your body. From there, you are instructed to relax, and to stay as still as possible for the next hour. Any activation of your muscles can draw the sugar solution toward these locations, after all, and you want the tracer fluid to distribute as evenly as possible. So, you lay there, in the dark little room, unmoving, staring at the ceiling panel above the bed where a picture of clouds is illuminated by the skylight above it, and you let the fluid coarse through your body, and you let your mind wander. You nap for a while, dropping in and out of conscious thought, meditation and dream, wondering how much longer it will be.
You are in that prep room for well over the required hour by the time they get you up and into the scanner. Groggy and unsteady on your feet, you follow them to an adjoining room, where the huge plastic cylinder of the scanner dominates the centre of the space; a narrow, padded bench protruding from the middle. You are laid down, and your arms and head are strapped into position. You are advised not to move during the scan, which will take up the proceeding hour. Then, everyone but you leaves the room, and the bench you are laying begins to retract, pulling you into the centre of the pipe. A pause, then the machine starts humming, and straps of wires can be seen through plastic sections, spinning around and around, faster and faster. The bench jolts and shudders up and down periodically as the machine hums loudly all around you, and you lay still, unfocused; thinking nothing, doing nothing, there in the eye of the storm.
Finally, it’s all over. Usually, this is where I would leave the hospital, waiting for an appointment to receive my results several days later. However, as a tourist in Germany and a foreign element in the German health care system, they could not follow the usual process. I was advised that I could either await a phone consultation within a few days, or go directly to the first floor of building fifty-four, where a doctor could provide me with an oral account of my results ahead of the written report. With all the uncertainty ahead, I opted for the immediate feedback. It had begun raining when I left building thirty-two, and I pulled my jacket around me as I returned to building fifty-four. It was 4:30pm at this point, and my stomach growled after a full day of fasting in preparation for the scan.
It was not much longer before the doctor saw me. He was a nice fellow, and spoke good English, both of which made what he had to say easier to digest. The doctor told me that the scans identified a lesion on my liver, 2-3.5cm in diameter, which he suspects is a metastasis. He looked sincerely sorry at delivering this news, and urged me to get a liver MRI and biopsy within the next six weeks. We talked about the details for a time, but it was clear that our budding plans to visit Morocco — and our broader plans to continue on in Europe — would have to be put on hold. We would need to fly back to Australia as soon as possible. It was a long, cold, silent walk back to the van, but Alessandra welcomed me in with a hot bowl of soup before we headed back to our parking spot.
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The following morning was quiet. Heavy snows in the night had transformed the world outside, and our van was surrounded by a picture-perfect winter wonderscape. Black ice still coated the roads, and the autobahn was in chaos, with trucks reported to be slipping sideways and accidents occurring all across the region. Over the night, we had decided to make our way back to Gritt’s and plan out our return to Australia — which would involve getting in touch with my oncologist to lock in appointments; finding a place to store Siegfried and anything else we wanted to leave behind; and arranging flights. However, heavy flakes of snow continued to fall all morning long, and we wouldn’t be going anywhere until the weather cleared. We made the most of it, visiting the nearby park and making snow angels and snowmen from the powder, several inches of which coated everything in sight.
Character design for a new Disney movie? I think so.
The afternoon saw a rise in temperatures and a break in the snow, so we decided to make for Koblenz. We arrived without incident, and filled the family in on everything. Showered and rested, we were ready as we could be for the days to come.
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Friday was an organisation day at Gritt’s. My oncologist had replied to my email, stating that scans could be quickly arranged, and asking when I might be back. That all depended on Ziggy. We reached out to Nico — Ziggy’s original owner — who agreed to ask his workshop if there was any space; and emailed several vehicle storage facilities in the area. With a flurry of activity throughout the morning, the afternoon became a waiting game, where feelings of frustration, stress and sadness began to catch up with us. We went out and walked the river’s edge, frosted under a thick coat of snow, giving voice to the feelings that had built up pressure so quickly in such a short time. So many major changes to our plans — such an upheaval of everything we’d hoped to do. The only certainty is that we will return when this is all done — this will not be allowed to end our adventure.
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We weren’t sure what Saturday would bring, but it turned out to be one long adventure to refill Ziggy’s gas bottle. You see, we had left Gritt’s and parked up at our usual local spot the night before, getting everything ready for bed, only to find that the heating wasn’t working. We tested the stovetops, and sure enough, we were out of gas. Keep in mind that this was at 9:30pm, with temperatures dropping rapidly down to the minus seven degree night it was forecast to be. We hadn’t even had dinner! The whole situation was untenable, and so we spent the night back at Gritt’s, promising ourselves that we would refill the gas bottle the following day. And so it was that, after a slow morning, we took off to an automatic gas bottle machine fifteen minutes away. When we got there, it turned out to be exchange only, with no refill option. We experimented with the menu and accidentally activated an error message that froze the machine. We quickly left that machine and made for another place promising gas services — this time at a campground — only once we arrived, we were greeted with a barren snowfield, with no obvious refill station or even reception area.
Running out of options, we decided to just buy a second gas bottle, which would be useful to have regardless. We drove off to a hardware store accordingly, made the purchase, and hooked it up. By the time we finally finished this unanticipated odyssey, we were so hungry that we cooked lunch right there in the parking lot. That night, we turned on the heater, and gave thanks to our valiant little gas bottle.
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Sunday was for packing and preparation to leave — but first, a much-needed break from frantic prep work. On Sunday morning, Alessandra, Gritt, Mateo and I all drove up to a nearby slope, where families had gathered to sled down the hard-packed snow. We spent the whole morning sledding, flying down the hill face-first or in pairs, before settling down for chocolate biscuits and water when we were red and sweaty with the effort.
Snow therapy
After returning and recharging, it was time to pack. A car storage place had a spot inside their facility for us, and we reserved it for Monday. With Ziggy sorted, we could safely plan for a flight on Monday or Tuesday. This meant packing everything we would take with us that wasn’t needed for the next few days, setting aside anything we would be leaving behind, and gathering everything together in time for Ziggy’s Monday morning drop-off. Together, we raided Ziggy’s cupboards and drawers, piling everything we wanted to bring back to Australia into our luggage. Check-in baggage packed, we moved to booking flights, and found something for midday Tuesday. We brought Luli back up to the apartment, too, as Gritt has agreed to take her back to live with her. She was carried into the safety and comfort of Gritt’s bedroom, where she promptly snuggled up on a cushion by the radiator. And with that, it seems we are ready to go at last.
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Though our bank balance has taken a thrashing this week, we’ve come out the other end buoyed by the knowledge that we are doing all we can, as soon as we can, to deal with the challenge in front of us. And that’s all anyone can ever do. What else can we take from the week behind us?
Make sure you know your PIN, for God’s sake.
Always leave plenty of time to get to appointments that involve a lot of unknowns. Give yourself the time to figure it out without the stress of running late.
If you don’t absolutely have to, don’t put yourself through another country’s healthcare system.
Anything can happen, and it’s usually when you think you’ve got it all sorted that anything does happen. When all your plans are torn to shreds and blow away in the wind: breathe, talk to the people you love, and make a new plan. There are many paths if you have a goal that matters to you. Take what meaning and learning you can from the setback, then find another path — but don’t give up the goal.
Take the little moments to be grateful, and give yourself time to play — even (especially) when times are hard.
