The Last Round

A week ago, Sister #3, Leslie, and I went to the chemo barn for Round 6.

Before the chemotherapy comes a blood draw from my port and then an appointment with Dr. Science to talk about the lab work and any other issues.

Sister #1 didn't get to meet Dr. Markus during her visit because I had a substitute doctor that day. This is only relevant to the extent that Laura, sister #1, is. . .very. . .normal. She behaves normally. She quite reliably doesn't say or do anything outside of normal parameters of American middle class society. So even if she had met Dr. Markus, I don't know that there'd have been anything to report.

Leslie is normal, too. No, really. She is. But sometimes, just to have a little fun in her day, she chooses to take half a step outside of normal and just let it ride. Just see what happens. Because it's fun. Because it's entertaining. Because, why not?

You're wondering: Like what? I don't know. It's hard to describe. She just has these. . .feminine wiles that distract and charm most men, causing them to get idiot looks on their faces.

And she's reading this blog. I don't think I'm saying anything that's not making her smile right now.

Going into my appt with Dr. Science, I couldn't help thinking, "Is this going to be one of those slightly-outside-the-envelope kind of moments for her? Could she reduce this brilliant man to an idiot look?"

He came in, I made the introductions, we got to talking about Round 5 and how I was feeling fine. He and I high-fived over starting the last round. All very normal.

I sat up on the exam table so he could listen to the heart, lungs, etc. . . I asked him a) how long after radiation one had to wait before having surgery and b) whether I could have surgery while taking the protein treatment, Herceptin.

A) 4 weeks
B) Yes

So, Leslie, who was sitting on the side chair as Dr. Markus and I were by the exam table, started doing calculations. 4 weeks this, radiation lasts that long, then this, then that--running these numbers, Dr. Science and I just staring at her, waiting for her point to emerge.

"So by early April, Aim," she concluded, "Poonph!!" and she motioned her hands by her breasts, making small ones into big ones.

Dr. Markus and I turned from her to look at each other.

He, not quite with an idiot look but at least one that was a bit bemused, and I with a half smile and a shrug.

I told this story to others, in front of Leslie, and she said, "I totally toned it down, you have no idea."

And for this, the good doctor and I are thankful.

As for the medical portion of the appointment. . . what next?

Radiation, which I shall explain tomorrow.

And then the big question: How do we know for certain that the heebie jeebie cancer is gone/has not come back?

1. I'll continue to go every 3 weeks for herceptin through August, at which times, they'll do a full blood count and monitor my blood chemistry. Sometimes, cancer in the system will register in those numbers.

2. I'll keep track of my own body, and if something feels different or seems to hurt or seems off, I'll tell him about it and have a scan of some sort.

"That's kind of intimidating," I told him. Having such a serious consequence predicated on my own judgement? Yeesh.

But he explained, of course, that I'm the best judge of my own body and that I "am not a whiner" so when I tell him about something he'll "believe me."

Not a whiner?

"Well, sometimes people come in with a long list of ailments and it's hard to know what has to be addressed. You're not like that, so if you complain about something, we'll know we have to look into it."

Here that, everyone? I'm not a whiner! I'll take that as the day's compliment. Though I note here that Dr. Markus is the one physician attending me so far who has yet to tell me that I'm thin. . .

Finally, unrelated to my own condition, is Dr. Science's, the day we saw him. I noted that he'd gotten some sun. He pulled out his finisher's medal from the San Antonio marathon. 26.9 miles. "This is why I'm walking funny," he said.

We congratulated him, wanted to hear all about it. And had his family gone with the for the weekend to cheer him on? No. He'd told his wife he was leaving for a medical conference.

What?

She doesn't like for him to do stupid things, he explained.

But how did he train without her knowing?

"I'd go out for a run and come back 3 1/2 hours later. . . But I do so many stupid things, this hardly registered with her."

I asked if he'd let his kids in on the secret--they are 7 and 6.

He said, no, they'd have blabbed.

"Oh," I commented, "They've got tight shoes."

What's that?

"They're shoes are so tight, it forces the truth out of their mouths." --shout out to Uncle Fe, who brought that expression into our family. . .

At the end of the appointment, with tears, I told him what an excellent physician he was and I thanked him for his compassion and for always making me and Bryan feel like he had all the time in the world to talk with us. I know some people do this cancer thing with doctors whom they don't like and don't trust. I'm so thankful that I am not one of them.

But before the appoinment ended, I asked Dr. Markus a probing question: what percentage of his job was sad work? He's an oncologist. A lot of his appointments probably carry sad news.

His eyes teared up and he said, "Quite a bit of it. We get really attached to our patients."

Did he carry that sadness home with him?

"We have different ways of coping. Some of us run until our legs fall off. . ."

So, a hearty congratulations to Dr. Markus on finishing his marathon. Not a stupid thing, in my estimation, but an heroic one. Especially if it's therapy to aid an heroic work.