The Report

Imagine my surprise when I arrived for my appointment with my oncologist (confirmed by their reminder call) to discover that the entire floor was dark, empty and quiet. Not a sign posted anywhere. Had the rapture come and left me behind? No, wait, even the computers are gone. PCs don't get raptured.

Now, I know they have been raising money for a new building, and talking about that for some time. But surely they wouldn't have moved without telling the patients! Au contraire. I headed back down the elevator to the Information Desk and explained my dilemma to a smiling young man who informed me that - yes! They have moved into their new facility.

Yikes. I am already late. I wondered how far I would have to drive, dreading threading my way back through the parking garage ramps. "Follow me," the young man said. We headed back to the elevators, and to the right, not a hundred yards away, was a hallway that once had been a passage to the medical buildings on the street directly behind. The ceiling overhang was now emblazoned with huge pewter letters announcing "James P Wilmot Cancer Center" - good Lord. Any bigger and it would have bitten me.

I sheepishly registered and got called back almost immediately. Funny, the examining room looked exactly like the one on the old floor. Same gray table, white cabinets and rolling stool. Within minutes, a white coated man entered the room and introduced himself - the new intern. He plopped my chart down on the desk and ran through the history with me, jotting little things from the chart in his notebook.

He looked at the most recent PET scan and lab results. His brow furrowed. "Well, your lymph nodes are the same size as the last test we did. There is no measurable change. I wonder if the glands are in a difficult position. They will probably schedule you for remedial radiation even though the biopsy we took was negative." He continued to read to himself half under his breath, then realizing that I was still in the room, turned my chart around and pointed to the comments of the person who interpreted the scan. Once again the word biopsy raised its ugly head.

I have learned not to pay attention to the interns. They want everything to be serious. I don't bat an eye until I have heard at least one and maybe two doctors say words based on something substantial. The intern left the room to catch up with my oncologist, and a few minutes later, they both breezed into the room.

The good doctor beamed at me, looking young enough to be my daughter. "Good news - everything is the same. Nothing to be concerned over. We'll just keep tracking . . ." She saw my face. "Oh, I know. You don't want to do scans so often. OK, we will push it out to six months but you have to come see me in three and do bloodwork so we can check your CEA levels, OK?"

I beam happily, nodding my agreement while she tells me that if I notice ANY changes - especially pain or fever - I am to come right back immediately, even if I think its nothing. I pay no attention. All I hear is six months - and add my own 'soon to be a year' thought. A longer leash. Good!