I was feeling great 'til I saw you

I should probably mention at this point that every doctor, every nurse, every technician, every physician's receptionist I've met along the way in this journey has been exceptionally kind, helpful, friendly and gentle in nature. Maybe it's a job requirement that if you deal with cancer patients, you must exhibit a personality. Not a dud in the bunch. And I've spent enough time in waiting rooms throughout the years to observe employee behavior. The odds are against you. Sooner or later, you'll meet Surly. Or, Could Give a Hoot. Or I'd Rather Be Having a Tooth Drilled Right Now than Working Here but It Pays the Bills.

You know. You've met them. And maybe, before I hop off this train, I'll meet one too. But not yet. Seems like a small thing, but it's not. It's huge. On one of my walks through the hospital hallways, it occurred to me that I'm going to become very familiar with finding my way through these corridors. It's going to become routine. And so will signing my name in the doctors' appointment books and taking a seat in the waiting room. Having someone greet me with actual recognition, call me by name, tell me they like the color of my coat, my new haircut, the new purse I got for Christmas...it's an acknowledgement of me as a person, as opposed to me as the cancer patient.

But it was me the cancer patient who returned to the surgeon's office for the follow-up visit. He's a very pleasant, laid-back kind of doctor with a nice bedside manner. Doesn't get rattled. Doesn't let me get rattled. He checked out the incisions and admired his handiwork. Everything looked good. How was I feeling? Great. No pain? Nope. Doing fine. But, uh, what about the bump? He confirmed what I suspected. It was indeed lymphatic fluid just hanging around temporarily. It would go away. And no, he reassured me, I would not end up with lymphedema in my right arm. He practically guaranteed me it wouldn't happen. I don't know if he really was that confident, but I believed him. Because I wanted to.

He told me that with my clean margins and no lymph node involvement, if the tumor had been smaller, I would be considered cured. But, with a tumor that size, treatment would consist of four rounds of chemo, followed by radiation. I had heard about a radiation treatment called mammosite for breast cancer whereby a balloon-like device was implanted inside the breast and through it, radiation was directed twice daily for five days. It made sense to me. Direct to the internal tissue, without burning through the skin. Five days and done. What's not to like? But, the surgeon informed me that at the tumor meeting that morning (tumor meeting? how many tumors attend?) they had discussed the fact that the latest findings indicated mammosite treatments weren't as effective as extended radiation through the skin.

Disappointing, sure. But I was pretty sure I wouldn't have been a candidate for it anyway. I think my tumor size was a little beyond the mammosite limits.

Chemo came as a surprise. I thought my clean report meant that radiation would be the treatment of choice, not both. And, for whatever reason, he told me in the same breath that I would lose my hair. For sure? Yep. I asked if he knew how much these highlights cost? He smiled. Yeah, he knew.

All right, then. Chemo and radiation. Let's be aggressive and keep the wolf away from the door. He asked if I had an oncologist referral. I told him I'd get one from the doctor who referred me to him and then get his opinion as well. Fair enough. He said he'd see me in six months.

When I left his office and walked across the parking lot, I felt a chill right down to my bones. It was cold out and windy. But this chill seemed to come from inside. I had been fine when I walked into his office, but now...

Two days later I was back in his waiting room.