The report

I had been told that the James P Wilmot cancer center has most of their appointments on Fridays, and that the place would be crowded, the waits long. Indeed, there were more people about, but this was nothing compared with Yale or Illinois. Maybe they managed their patient load more carefully. Maybe they have more competition. Whatever the reason, though the waiting area was somewhat full, there were still chairs to sit in.

It was less than ten minutes before a nurse called my name and took me in the back for the requisite measurements. But no second waiting room back here. I was shown directly to an examining room. And there, yes, a wait. I didn't consider 45 minutes too bad.

I was struck once again by how young the doctor is, how mature and competent, how upbeat and cheerful she was in the face of what I am sure is a difficult and depressing environment. We could have been planning an excursion on the Riviera by the tone of our conversation.

Instead, we were puzzling over the strange spots showing up on my scans, the same spots that the oncologist at Yale had puzzled over. Dr. Mohile had no way to compare them with what Dr. Saif had seen since I STILL can't seem to get the actual tests sent to them. I renew my determination to call the clinic yet again and ask for that CD. How hard can it be?

She had spoken with other specialists, and they definitely advise followup. The options? It could be an anomaly, nothing cancer related. It could be rectal cancer presenting in the lymph nodes. Not the usual path for rectal cancer to go. It could be lymphatic cancer - more serious than metastasis of the original cancer. I opt for anomaly, Dr. Mohile opts for biopsy.

She is not sure we can actually get one because, as we discovered at Yale, the spots are not palpable. You can't biopsy what you can't find. But she decides to try an ultrasound based biopsy. The spots are still small - 1 cm. If this *is* cancer, we get it early. If we can't get the biopsy, we redo the scans in 6 weeks.

Same story. I am tiring of the chase. But I cannot afford to ignore it. Drew needs me for at least another 5 years. Maybe more. So I sigh and take the paperwork to the check out desk. They will call me.

Fatigue

Father?
I'm here, your daughter,
Home today resting,
waiting.

I lie patiently on my cot,
Arms folded across my chest,
Not moving,
Letting my body do
What You created it to do,
Fix the broken places.

The exhaustion will pass.
The clock
My metronome,
Measuring
The needed rest.
Within
I hear my heart
Rushing aid
To distant battlesites.
Toxic air
Escapes my lungs
In quiet puffs,
The occasional joint
Pops like a canon
Under stress.

Without, neighbors leave for work,
Mailtrucks rattle over the speed bumps,
Dogs bark, children chatter and laugh.

But I,
I lie still
And wait,
Wait for the tiredness to pass,
Wait for my mind to clear,
For my energy to return.

While I wait
A single tear crawls slowly
Down my cheek
As Your Words
Revolve in my head.

He restores.
He restores.
He restores my soul. . .

The Screamer

Drew was excited about getting to "play under the lights" at Bishop Kearney (pronounced car-knee). Most of their soccer games are afternoon games, but this Catholic High School, funded in part by a local entrepreneur, has an official field with a fancy track, scoreboard, and lights for night games.

Our team, with its one senior and tons of short jr high boys and struggling to reinvent itself after last year's winning mostly senior team, was woefully outmanned by this all star senior starting lineup of good sized men. The Kearney team had obviously been playing together for awhile and had honed their teamwork to a science.

Nonetheless, Finney parents, myself included, bravely lined the bleachers, battling the chilly fall temperatures, to support our boys. I huddled in my layers, wishing I had been able to go home first to get my winter jacket and gloves. At least my raincoat was long and lined, and I had the thin airline blanket I carry in the trunk for emergencies to wrap my legs with, and a thick towel to position on the metal seat to keep my butt from freezing.

I watched the teams warm up in their shorts and short sleeved uniforms. You have to be crazy to want to brave both the cold and the expertise of the opposing team. Our boys straggled in, their awareness of the odds apparent in their demeanor. I could read a determination to at least keep it from being a total slaughter.

We stood for the national anthem, and the game began. I didn't know the name of the woman I was sitting next to, nor could I tell from her running commentary on the game which player she was there for. But I knew right away which team she was rooting for.

The label truck driver came to mind as she used and reused her limited vocabulary to egg the team to victory. She shouted (and I mean shouted) the same few phrases over and over, as if somehow saying these things often could sway the outcome of the game.

Come on, Green!
Step in it!
Make 'em work for it!
Go, go, go, go, go! (exactly five)
Do it again - again!
That's it, [insert name of player here], that's it!

That was pretty much it, punctuated with groans and moans and foot stomping and arm waving. She jumped up and down on those bleachers wildly until I feared for my safety. It didn't matter to her what anyone else thought, she was totally involved in the action on the field. Sold out, 100% supportive, she knew every team member by name and number.

At first it was amusing. Then it became irritating, and finally, it was downright obnoxious. At half time, I went and sat in my car, trying to warm my bones. And when I returned, I didn't sit near her. She went right on doing what she knew she should do to support our brave boys against overwhelming odds ( we lost 5 - 0 ).

I wondered what she thought her actions were accomplishing. I'm pretty sure the boys couldn't hear her or weren't aware of her while they were playing. Her advice gave them no new strategies or suggestions on how to improve their game. She didn't elicit any sense of camaraderie from the other spectators. I'm pretty sure she didn't influence the outcome of the game.

But all told, I'd a lot rather have someone like her in my corner than the other parents in the stands who were talking on cell phones, reading, gossiping with friends, coming and going, eating, and otherwise disengaged except for the few occasions when the other team scored and they groaned in unison.

I think she must have worn herself out. I'm sure she was hoarse afterwards. She probably felt very alone since no one else joined her in her cheerleading. And I'm certain she will do it again on Saturday when we play Gananda. She may not know it, but, though I am no screamer, I was just as engaged in the game in my own quiet way. My heart rose and fell as the ball bounced back and forth, dropping into my toes when the other team scored, rising into my throat when our team came close to scoring.

Maybe next time I will strike up a conversation with this woman. It seems to me she would be a good person to know.