Tag: UT Southwestern Cancer Center

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Facing Cancer: My MRI Experience at UT Southwestern


Back in 2019, this Texan caught myself a case of cancer. It wasn’t contagious like the flu or a Norovirus, but it was a bad case. My first doctor wanted to do the standard treatment, but my wife, a dedicated nurse, did some digging and found a new treatment available only at UT Southwestern in Dallas. We live in Granbury, and I grew up in Fort Worth, so going to Dallas was painful; it’s something we Fort Worth’ians didn’t do back in the 1950s. Fort Worth is where the West begins, and Dallas is where the East peters out; it’s an actual historical fact. So, I had to swallow my family legacy of pride and prejudice and go to Dallas to save my life.

Round two of my cancer diagnosis commenced on May 13th, 2019 at 3:45 pm. Going to UT Southwestern Oncology for treatment was a no-brainer: it’s the best. Their staff radiates positive vibes, so naturally, I feel better. It is battling this evil little demon that has invaded my beloved earthly form with its sights set on the destruction of my body that keeps me focused. This course of action is my main goal and will receive my full attention for the near future.

Today is the ” oh so” specialized 3RDT MRI. I’m amused at the Star Wars comparison to R2D2. At least R2 would show me a hologram of Princess Lea for my entertainment. As with any procedure, it is inserting the word “specialized” into the mix that assures the method will be expensive and painful. I was right.

My bright eyed and bushy tailed MRI nurse accompanies me to my changing room, where I change into a scratchy blue hospital gown accented by yellow non-skid socks. After my wardrobe makeover, he inserts an IV pic into my arm and leaves.

A young woman, maybe twenty-one or so, also wearing the blue gown sits down next to me. She has two IV pics in one arm and appears scared. At this age, my shyness with strangers is minimal, so I ask her, ” first MRI?”.
Without looking over, she says, ” no sir, this is my sixth one, and there’s more to come. It’s Cancer.”
She looks at me and asks, ” how about you.” At this point, I feel like this young girl needs a laugh, even at my expense.
In a deadpan voice, I say, ” complications from the Racoon Flu. My entire body is pulsing with it. Never saw a garbage can I didn’t love. She knows this is total BS and laughs. I crack myself up.

Ten minutes later I lay on the MRI table, IV in place, earplugs inserted, headphones on, and the nurse/tech leans over and tells me “this might be a little uncomfortable.” He smiles and snickers as he says it.
I ask, ” how big is this thing you are inserting into my earthly temple.”
He laughs and says, ” not too big, just enough to get close to the subject and light you up with some good old Radiation.”
I plead, ” let me see it, and I’ll be the judge of that. What kind of Radiation are we talking here?”
Rather proudly he exclaims, ” this is the good old American stuff, came straight from Los Alamos Labs. The same material used to build “the nuke back in 1945. It’s so pure that Dr. Oppenhimer personally endorses it. Its the bomb.”

From behind his back, he produces a probe that looks like a 1/24th scale model of the Hindenburg Blimp. Attached to the business end is an evil pigtail coil that is glowing green. This contraption is right out of the Spanish Inquisition playbook of torture, and it’s going inside of me? Fortunately, for my mental stability, the relaxation drugs I took an hour ago have kicked in, so I am defenseless to attempt escape. I accept fate and brace for the assault.

When the nurse, Mr. Smiley inserts the “little Hindenburg” into my backside, I was convinced I was either in the throes of childbirth or expelling an alien creature from my abdomen. I will never again doubt the painful stories of Alien abductees or women birthing children as “no big deal. ” I am squirming like a brain-hungry zombie, begging for mercy, offering money to end the agony, anything to stop the immobilizing pain. Then, in an instant, the suffering was gone, and I was human again. Listening to some awful hillbilly music, I drifted into La-La land.

I drift back into consciousness hearing George Jones sing ” He Stopped Loving Her Today,” possibly the saddest damn country song ever written. I choke back a tear, then realize where I am and why I’m here. Nurse Smiley congratulates me on a job well done, helps me to my feet and back to the dressing room.

Heading for the waiting room, I realize that scenarios like this will be my life for months to come. I think of a song from The Grateful Dead: I will get by, I will survive. Catchy little tune. Everyone needs a theme song.

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Me And My Buddy, J. Robert Oppenheimer


I made it through another year of not watching the Oscar thing. I did see “Oppenheimer” which was a darn good picture, even with the out-of-place icky sex scenes. Did he really have time for all of that humping about? No, the poor, underfed man was trying to build the ultimate vaporizing weapon, so I doubt he had time for all that Hollywood ya-hoo. This leads me to another story related to the atomic bomb.

Back in 2019, when I found out the “Big C” had taken up residence in my holy temple, the doctor at UT Southwestern in Dallas suggested a radical new treatment of Ultra high-dose radiation delivered by a robot-type device. The word radical caught my attention.

Doctor Hanan said it’s mainly used on brain cancer but had recently been used on maybe three folks with my type of Cancer, and two were still around, so it showed all the signs of being safe except for the one major side effect; death. Well, I had two choices; expire at the hands of a radioactive robot or die by cancer, so I chose the robot that was affectionately known at UTS as SBRT.

Weeks of pre-treatment torture left me weak, discombobulated, and begging for mercy, but none of the techs or nurses would accommodate my plea. I must have given gallons of blood and tissue to the labs, and not one of them could answer why they needed all of my sacred blood when one drop was all it took. I came to the conclusion that all nurses, including my nurse wife Momo, like to stick people with needles and other sharp objects.

The first inquisition-style treatment was on a Wednesday in April. The perky nurse at the front desk told me it would be a simple MRI with contrast.

I asked, ” Like the contrast on my TV?” I couldn’t believe myself to be that backwoods, but I was. ” No you silly man, we stick a real big needle in your arm and pump radioactive dye into your body and it lights up all the cancer stuff so we can see it better.” That was my first encounter with radioisotopes, but not my last.

Gown on, little yellow footy socks on my feet, escorted to a hard metal table leading into a large magnetic tube. IV inserted, joy juice running through my body, and then the tech pulls out this scale model of the Hindenburg Blimp. I am not joking; this was about the size of a Wilson Professional Football, evil-looking with a glowing red twirly thing on the end. “Where is that going?” I asked. The tech snickered and said, ” Where do you think?”

I must have puckered pretty well because he said that wouldn’t do any good; I have a Craftsman tool that will take care of that; and he used it. The last thing I remember was him saying, ” I won’t lie, this is going to hurt like a sum-bitch.” and it did, then I went off to LaLa land without drugs.

Limping back to the dressing room, I felt like a Chihuahua that had been locked in a cage with a dozen Great Danes. A few more procedures were required to protect my other innards, and they were almost as traumatic. At this point I was thinking the alternative might be the better option. The day of the “big show” arrived.

My cancer doctor met me in the hallway as a nurse rolled me into the special room. ” Are all these straps necessary?” I asked.

He said, “Yes, we don’t want you trying to escape once the robot hits his stride. And by the way, you look just marvelous.”

I was rolled into the “special room.” My nurse technician, dressed in a radioactive suit, rolled me into position. The SBRT Robot was more of a machine from a 1950s Sci-Fi movie. A large ring with multiple robotic arms that sported tiny laser guns on the end of each appendage. I was scared shitless, but the giant elephant enema a few hours earlier had taken care of that.

My nurse was a comforting soul. She explained there would be a lot of noise and flashing lights. I would hear something like a zapping sound, and the doughnut part of the machine would rotate around my body while the SBRT Robot administered the high-dosage radiation. I strained against the straps.

I asked her, “How high of a dose is this radiation?”

She replied, ” Well if you know anything about the 1945 Atom Bomb, it’s the same nuclear isotopes that Oppenheimer used at Los Alamos Labs, where we get a shipment from every week. We are assured it is the top shelf “Good Stuff,” so no worry, it’ll vaporize that nasty old cancer. You’ll lose some hair, maybe some minor damage to your internal organs, a few hundred million brain cells that might affect your memory and motor skills, and your pee will glow in the dark for a few years, but other than that, you’ll be just marvelous.”

Holy crap, the same stuff used on the first bomb. I asked for a bottle of Valium, I got three pills that killed my anxiety attack, and I went to LaLa land.

This too personal recount explains why I identify with the movie “Oppenheimer.” I feel J. Robert and I have a connection of sorts. He may have invented the bomb that killed thousands, but that same stuff saved this old guy.