What the Doctor Said

After my usual port draw, I walked down the hall and around the corner to check in at the clinic desk for my appointment. They called me quickly and ushered me to an examining room, then left me with the words "the doctor will be in to see you soon."

As I waited, I found myself singing a catchy Latin rhythm song about singing a new song. Yes, I expect to be done with all this stuff. Released from the rigors and routines of the medical world. Free to pick up the pieces and resume my life. It will be good to close the book and move on. I am happy at the thought of returning to "normal," whatever that now means for me.

I have typed my questions for the doctor to make sure I don't forget anything. It is a whole sheet of paper flowing over in anticipation of getting back to business. Can I go back to the Y? How much longer do I stay on the antiviral meds? Are there after effects I should be watching for? When will I know how much time I will gain as a result of going through nearly a year of treatments? Do I get a decade really?

First, the current intern comes and quickly looks at my sheet of questions. She asks me a few things, then exits to catch up with the doctor. Ten minutes later, a soft knock at the door, and my doctor comes in slowly. She looks tired. She greets me, loves the wig, says I look great.

Then we get down to business. She addresses each question one at a time. She logs on to the computer and we put our heads together and pour over the scans, the bloodwork, the results. She interprets what we are seeing. I feel like a collaborator, confident that I am getting the real skinny on things.

Muscle tone - not great. Going back to the Y will help with the weakness.

Fatigue - that will last for 6 months or so before you start feeling like your old self again.

Bone marrow - no sign of cancer.

Bone involvement - we didn't really do a test for that. We can do one though.

Bloodwork - immune system still compromised, but no longer in the danger zone.

PET scan - uh oh. A "finding." My happiness shrivels, my heartbeat slows. A small peanut sized mass in my intestinal area. I cannot believe I am reading it. This is exactly the same way the post rectal cancer kerflafel began. The words sound familiar.

We aren't sure what this is. It could be nothing. We will watch it to see what develops. Sometimes we see this sort of irritation, a sort of fallout from all the treatment. It could disappear and show up again in another location. It could be a lymph gland still responding to what you have been through. We will take a CT scan in another month or so and see where things lie after a bit.

The doctor looks at another report. "This report makes me feel better," she smiles. She draws me a chart showing me the rate of recurrence over time for those who haven't had my Bexxar treatment. It goes down fast and steadily. Then she draws me a line showing the rate of recurrence over time for those who have had the Bexxar. It doesn't start to go down until 2.5 years, then gently descends in little clumps.

Hum. 2.5 years. I had 10 years more in mind. Or no recurrence. That would be good. But what if this is the rectal cancer returning? Or some new cancer? I am shaken despite the doctor's calm assurance that there is nothing to fret about at this point. Well, I am not planning to fret. Not until there is something definite to fret about, and even then fretting has never been helpful.

It's just that I was planning to celebrate freedom, but already I feel that little tendril grabbing on to my ankle, trying to anchor me in place, to rob me of the planned joy and light heartedness. I try to focus on what she is saying. The maintenance Rituxan will begin in May. Until then, I must stay on the antiviral until the end of February.

Other than that, I am in great shape. The picture of health. Right. All I need do now is have my eyes checked because my vision has changed, see a throat specialist for the singing difficulties I am encountering, have a mammogram (anything obvious would have shown up on the PET scan, but it doesn't catch everything), see my ob/gyn, and get my teeth issue resolved. Oh, and find another multivitamin that I can tolerate because the one I have been taking now makes me nauseous.

I wander down the hallway reeling a bit, my legs rubbery, clutching a sheaf of paperwork and appointment cards. Shoot. That wasn't quite what I was expecting, but at least she didn't say that the cancer had suddenly invaded my entire liver or some such horrible thing. I can live with that - thank goodness! Its just going to take a day or two to readjust my expectations and ratchet down the bubbly optimism. OK. I can do that.