The Wai-ai-ting Is The Hardest Part

Sorry for the delay in updating everyone but I’ve had Landon here for the last week and a half and the few quiet moments I get are spent crawling around the house looking under things, trying to collect my wits. Plus, I have a cold.

I saw the gyno-oncologist on the 16th. With apologies for the mental picture, I will tell you that he poked around a bit and said everything looks terrific. I told him I get that from all the boys.

I saw the radiation-oncologist yesterday. She too said everything seems to be a-ok.

No plans have been made for any scans. Gyno Guy says it’s too early for that due to the cumulative nature of the treatments. He says MAYbe a PET scan around the six month mark.

They both (allegedly without rehearsing their lines together) said I tolerated the treatments amazingly well and that I was a pleasure to work with. No kidding! In fact, Rad Doc said she has some really whiny patients right now and every time she has to see them she thinks, "I miss Mimi!"

I got through it all without radiation burns, baldness or barfies, and with precious little whining. While I attribute the latter to piss and vinegar, the former I only chalk up to dumb luck. And kick-ass anti-nausea drugs. Hurray for anti-nausea drugs!

While I remain 99% optimistic, nothing is called cured until one passes the five-year mark. I’ll see each of the oncologists at four-month intervals (Gyno Guy four months from now, Rad Doc four months after that, lather, rinse, repeat) for two years, then every six months for the following three years. If I accomplish five years cancer-free, I get to see them annually for the rest of my life. Good thing I like them both, huh.

The drive home from Gyno Guy was a pooky time for me. Evidently I was suffering a bit of denial and had forgotten about that whole five-year thing. I had gone there thinking there would be a big happy-clappy proclamation of renewed health with celebratory high-fives all around, glittery balloons dropping from the ceiling, a bubbly toast, and a whack at a piñata. Yeah, a piñata would have been nice. A tumor piñata. But, none of that happened. Instead, I got a guardedly optimistic thumbs up (no, not there!) along with a tactful but cautionary tale about how if the cancer didn't all get killed then blah blah something something. I kind of zoned out at that point, pining for the piñata that never was.

But then again, I did get cakes.

And now, a word from our sponsor...

Everything's lookin' good from here, Gamma!


april said...

so glad to hear the update. (finally) sorry for the pooky moments but it's still excellent news/prognosis IMO. 5 years will go fast. i love you. and if Landon is still about can we do a Skype soon perhaps?

Linda said...

I love you. You kill me. They killed It. You beat barf. And then some. You're bad ass. I love you.

Paul Turner said...

I have this hangnail, and it really hurts...

Unknown said...

Thank you for the hilarious update. Those docs...god forbid raising the roof! (I'd help you do so were we closer...) Cute lil' kiddo, btw. Consider yourself hugged from afar, & keep up the piss & vinegar--or whatever else that's working. XoxO~