A Ping Pong Ball

Always learning.

I asked the oncologist when I saw him two weeks ago, Who tells me when I can get the port out of my arm and, What follow-up tests do you do to make sure we got all the cancer? (When the port was put in, I was told it would come out after they did tests, after radiation, to make sure they didn't need to do more chemo.)

Dr M answered that I was in the care of the radiology oncologist. He would order any follow up tests and he would tell me when to call the surgeon to have the port removed. And he handed me a script for Arimidex, told me to start taking this when I am done with radiation. And he wanted to see me in April, four months.

So I asked the radiology oncologist Monday (I meet with him after treatment every Monday) what tests was he planning to do to make sure all is finished, and when could I get the port removal scheduled for? His response, Dr M would order any tests to make sure the chemo and radiation have done their jobs. (Makes sense to me) And Dr M tells you when to take out the port, we have never used it, it isn't anything to do with us. (Makes sense to me)

So I call Dr M. His assistant calls back (it is never him, always the assistant, which makes sense to me.)  She says to schedule the port removal for anytime after radiation is finished.  Dr M doesn't think I need any further tests scheduled. He says, statistically the chemo destroyed any cancer cells that would have spread. The radiation has destroyed any cancer cells left in the breast or node area. Further tests would show nothing. Makes sense to me.

I called the surgeon's office, they need written permission from Dr M to remove the port, he ordered it. Makes sense to me.

A ping pong ball.  I feel like a ping pong ball.

No one wants to take responsibility for the follow up.  What they all say makes sense. What could possibly be left in my body after all this?

It makes intellectual sense, What about my emotional But What Ifs?

Elementary concept in instilling confidence, don't change you mind mid-stream on decisions. Or if you do, please explain why. I got no explanation.

So what am I learning? To not worry. Not be anxious.  Leave this up to God, He does the best scans ever.  Lift this up to God, release it like a dove flying out of my hand.

With prayer and thanksgiving.

With thanks that I am here right now and He loves me and is guiding me down the path.

For the rest of my life I will be hearing of someone who does PET scans every year, gets MRI's every six months. I will feel a bump on my shin or get tired for two days straight and I will think, Tumor on my bone or leukemia. I will hear of someone dying of cancer, and not want to think about it.

Be grateful.
Have faith this worked.
That I am healed.
That this was God's path, He directed it all.

Faith is knowing something when your senses don't perceive it.

Have faith sister.

The Oncologist

The very next day Mike went with me to meet the oncologist, Dr. M. A very different personality that Dr. R. Office larger and more bureaucratic, his demeanor more clinical, not as personal. He often, in talking, would refer to M his assistant, as in, M will do this, or, You can tell M if that happens and she can call in a prescription for you. I guess M does a lot.

He also strongly suggested a lumpectomy, not mastectomy. Same survival rates, less surgery, keep the breast. But said it was up to me.

He said my tumor in the breast is so small (0.9 cm which is less than half an inch) that there is only a small small small chance it had spread outside the breast. But just in case, they would do a Sentinel Node Biopsy while I was under. I said I had heard that. He also was going to order an Oncotype DX of the tumor, to see if it is a high chance it would return. If so, they might do chemo before radiation, even if it hasn't spread. Fine with me, take out what you need, do all the tests you want. Just tell me how to knock these cancer cells out of me, and so far away they won't be able to find their way back.

He drew all this on a white board in the examination room. I found the visit to be an out of this world moment. Here I sit on the exam table, he never touched my breast, only looked at the biopsy report. Mike and he are in plastic side chairs, and we all are looking up at a small white board while he talks about Prognostic markers and Oncotype DX. I felt like I was back in college, learning about Quantum Physics. Certainly not in Orlando talking about some cells in my very own breast that had called a mutiny against their fellow breast cells, dividing too fast and furiously. They were right there in my breast as we spoke. As he spoke. Maybe it was good to keep it all clinical and in the realm of the abstract. There will be enough time in the coming months for these rebellious cells to create real life moments for me.

Called the surgeon to schedule the lumpectomy. Mike is out of town in two weeks for business so we will put it off until the third week. At first I was miffed. Why can't I have it sooner, right away, get this train out of the station and on it's way to Healing? Now I see, this gives me time to get ready. Time has much more importance to me these days.

I am definitely a bit numb. This all seems to be happening to someone else, a third party. Not me.

My thoughts on breast cancer?  I picture pink. Races to raise money for cancer. Pink ribbon symbol. And the implants. I don't know that much about breast cancer. Now I will. Never thought I would get it. Never.