Conscious Sedation and Connection

Yesterday morning I had a CT-guided bone biopsy that will determine the course of my cancer treatment plan for the coming months, possibly for the year and beyond. In my case, which is just one in the masses of breast cancer cases around the world, no cluster of cells has caused more confusion, bumping around and uncertainty than this lesion on my sternum.

In 2025, I continue the pursuit of doing my best to accept everyone I encounter as exactly who they are and finding the bright spot in each of us. Meeting dozens of new people in the course of cat rescue, cancer treatment, sobriety gatherings and new book and mahjong clubs is a pretty good way to put what has become a vital spiritual practice into real time. I've often heard it said that true character is built on how we act during our hardest times, for it is easy to be kind and "good vibes only" when things are going great. I don't always do this well and internally I often want to twirl my head and spit pea soup ... but hey, I'm human and overall, it is going better than expected!

Yesterday catapulted me into a deeper compassion for my fellow human planetary wanderers. Dad, Fern and I drive 180 miles for my appointments at a cancer center in Jacksonville, Florida (from Hilton Head Island, South Carolina), which is about three hours each way. It was wheels up at 4:00 a.m. I was not allowed food, drink past midnight and two hours before the procedure no water. So I clocked in for the biopsy hungry, tired, scared and slightly dehydrated. It was suprisingly cold and hard to keep body heat flowing (where on earth those - now desired - hot flashes from the Letrozole were, I don't know).

Immediately prior to being wheeled back into the chamber with the yawning CT machine, I was hooked up to an IV (for conscious sedation) and all the customary tubes and wires to monitor my vital signs for the next half hour. But then a physician named "Steve" pops up and says okay, here are the risks. And they were plentiful and terrifying, the worst being, since the lesion sits in front of my heart and lungs, puncture of those vital organs. Steve doesn't let me proceed until I sign with a knowing understanding of this; and somewhere in the periphery conversational haze I hear Team Imaging all quietly chattering and hoping I "don't freak out like the woman before her." Against every fiber in my body, through force of pure will, I make my finger sign on the IPad screen.

Then nurse "Mike" appears and says, hey, are you okay? It must have been the shock and pallor from trying to quickly steer my thoughts to anything more pleasant than a punctured heart and "bleeding out." I let him know I am vibrantly aware of the risks now and a few were surprising. He said, hey, you took a risk driving here that is far greater than what you will experience today. Trust me, he says, most people do great and this procedure is quick and relatively painless, given the sedation. He then tells me has passed FIFTEEN kidney stones in his life, to take my mind off of present fears; and I do indeed decide to trust him. Thanks, Mike!

That said, even that fledgling trust did not calm me enough to stop what became full racking body tremors, chattering teeth and an overall physical sense of ick. They have to keep the imaging suites cold to offset from the heat generated by the machines; and it was too late for warm blankets. I have so many prayers, meditations, visualizations and creative means to help me spiritually and emotionally, but this was the first time in my life my body just would not follow. I was afraid the shaking would throw off the precision work the radiologist was there to do with his drill and needles and slanted entry. I prayed to God, Goddesses, the Great Spirit and any other generalized deities I thought might swoop in to quell the shaking. I also tried to summon up the vibrations of my trusty rose quartz palm stone (signifies love), howlite (helps with bone support) and blue glass heart from my Mom (just because it makes me think of my Mom and is soothing), tucked beneath the gurney in my world-companion Tom Bihn camo backpack inside my carefully-labled sealable plastic possessions bag. Nothing.

Again, Mike. He says, okay, your doctor is there for the procedure. I'm here for YOU. Give me your name, date of birth and tell me why you are here. I do, proud of my specificity and medical acumen regarding the procedure. Atta girl, he says, and we are off.

Queue the moderate conscious sedation, which also sparked fear as this was the first time, at the age of 57, I had ever had any kind of general anesthesia. And those drugs were ones I only heard about negatively and generally involving death: fentnyl and some kind of pharmaceutical grade Xanax called Versed.

But here is where I connected with humanity. As soon as that cocktail of pharmaceutical wonder hit my veins, the intense tremoring simply .... stopped. My physical body sank into the pads and I felt a new kind of physical comfort that was heretofore unknown. The cold was no longer. My mind stayed about the same and I did not feel any particular drug-induced happiness that I thought (wished?) might occur, but my body was deeply grateful for Command Center Mike. First, I thanked God; and then I thanked God for making humans who created the drugs; and then, I just thanked the drugs.

But laying bodily inert with my chest inside the CT ring, it immediately did get me thinking how we all carry some kind of emotional or physical pain as we traverse our lifetimes. We instantly condemn people for all manner of addictions, but what if your physical pain was wholly taken away? And there was only one way that could happen. How could that not be alluring? How could that not be addictive? So a full wave of love and empathy enveloped me and along with a calmer physical being, I left the icy little imaging suite with a new sense of empathy for all those who Walk with Pain.

Sadly, that bubble of physical wellness was short lived, but that is the hallmark of good pharmaceuticals, they are there for a limited time, for the procedure only. I came down gently overall, but did get that weird side effect of feeling like the entire 6" radius around the puncture was itching and I felt uncomfortably dizzy for a half hour. By the time I got home, the general anesthetic and local (lidocaine) had worn off and I felt like I got socked in the sternum. Back to reality!

Today is a whole lot better and I carry with me love for all of us who at some time or another, of perhaps chronically, walk in physical, emotional and spiritual pain. I am now deeply grateful I had this experience. Funny how that works.