Oncologist Report

I try not to kid myself. I am anxious to hear what my oncologist has to say, and also half scared of finding myself facing more treatment. Naggling in the back of my mind is that mysentery mass they saw on the last CT. What if it got bigger? What if I am one of the unlucky few whose freedom from symptoms doesn't alot even 2 years? I refuse to allow myself to think these thoughts, but they hang over me like a dark cloud.

Stop being silly, I tell myself. If they had found something they would have called you and gotten you in sooner. You are not in pain. You are feeling better every day. So. You will assume that its all good and stop borrowing trouble. I know the truth of that. I shake off the negative thoughts as best I can and go calmly about my morning business. I can't concentrate though. I had best fuddle around with inconsequential stuff so as not to make any huge mistakes while I am so distracted.

At last 2pm rolls around and I take my leave of the library, driving the familiar route down 390S to exit 17, winding up to the top floor of the parking ramp, taking the elevators down, marching the long hall to the cancer center. The doctor is running late. Great. More waiting. She is almost an hour behind. OK. I move to a seat near the windows where the sun is shining warmly on an overstuffed comfy chair, curl up as best I can, and close my eyes.

I soak in the warmth, pretending to be on vacation at a beach (that reminds me, I need to make reservations at Hamlin Beach State Park). I appreciate being able to sit unencumbered and enjoy life. I tune out the chatter of people coming and going until I am at peace. Take your time, dear doctor. I am enjoying the sun.

Occasionally I open my eyes as new patients arrive. I am struck by how many people are accompanied by someone else. An elderly woman with her elderly husband. A young woman with her sister. A middle aged man with his daughter. A mother with her son. This is unlike the infusion center. More people in the infusion waiting room are alone. Here I am the only person who is unaccompanied. Its OK though. I have lots of help when I need it, and I would hate to bore someone with a long wait.

At last they call my name. I follow the feisty nurse to an interior room for more waiting. The oncology nurse pokes her head in the room to see if I had my labs done. Oh, yes. You have a port. Let me get a kit and draw blood now while you are waiting for the doctor. I meet the new intern. He looks exhausted. I wonder if he has slept recently. He asks lots of questions, and together we look at the recent scan.

No sign of cancer in your bones now. No sign in the bone marrow. The mass in the mysentery area has shrunk. That's good. No other new sightings. How do I feel? He is not even a bit concerned for my prognosis. I am normal to him. Not worth wasting his time on. Where are the challenging cases? his attitude seems to say. I smile broadly. Good!

At last the doctor comes in. She smiles. Its all good. She calls the treatment very successful. No one says cured. No one says remission. But very successful I will take. The worst is over, and hopefully for a long time. I start my maintenance chemo next Thursday. Once every 3 months for 4 years. That will keep the boogie man cancer at bay. Its good!

And the doctor says, with my permission, she will go help someone who really needs it. I bless her and head out myself. Smiling. Free! Yup!