Ashe Elton Parker

A Writer of LGBT+ Characters in Speculative Fiction

Tag: Cancer Care

Genetic Test Results Letter

This entry is part 24 of 44 in the series Breast Cancer Posts

I received the letter from the genetic counselor a couple weeks ago, but it got lost in the detritus of my writing life on the right-hand extension of my desk, which I cleaned up today. Since I promised a more detailed explanation of my genetic test results when I received the letter, that’s what I’m doing today.

Essentially, the results haven’t changed. I now have proof neither BRCA1 nor BRCA2 have deleterious mutations. From what I can see, they don’t have any mutations at all, which is a relief. Part of the reason for the concern is that mutations in either of these genes can cause other types of cancers in men and women. If there had been mutations, I’d have to have at least a partial hysterectomy in addition to a full double mastectomy to prevent future cancer in my breasts and ovaries (for men, it would include the prostate), but there would be no way to effectively prevent the other type of cancer: pancreatic.

According to the letter, approximately 230,000 females and 2,200 males are newly diagnosed with breast cancer each year. 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer over the course of a lifetime and it is the most common malignancy among women in developed countries. The letter also says that family history is the best way of determining whether or not one is at risk for breast cancer and that hereditary breast cancer tends to occur earlier in life than cases like mine, which is termed “non-inherited sporadic.” It is apparently rather rare for someone who has no genetic mutations or family history of breast cancer to develop it at my age; the year of my 40th birthday, which is in November. Other factors which may have some influence over developing breast cancer are “age, gender, reproductive history, alcohol abuse, and radiation exposure.”

The letter goes on to describe method of gene extraction and testing. I understand most of the words on an individual basis, but taken together, they’re rather overwhelming to me at the moment. I’ve never had a very good comprehension of science. LOL

Porta-Cath

This entry is part 19 of 44 in the series Breast Cancer Posts

Today was porta-cath day. This proved to be quicker and easier than I thought it would be.

I arrived on the Oncology floor at about ten ’til eight, shortly after my visit to the lab for blood work and a quick breakfast courtesy of the VA’s coffee shop. After checking in and having my vitals taken, a nurse showed me to a room with several wheeled recliners (all teal, all ugly, all with mini tables on their armrests) which is typically used for flu shots—I know this ’cause I’ve seen the “Flu Shots Here” signs on the door previously, and the receptionist had directed a woman down to our end of the hall for one. Nurse Mary passed me a hospital gown and robe, told me to take off my shirt and bra, and to put the gown on the proper way so it was open in the back—the first time since starting this trek through cancer care I’ve been specifically told to don the gown that way. So I did, not wishing to upset her. Once I’d changed, she returned and put an IV line in my left hand; this wasn’t a full IV with the stand and all, but a shorter line which would later be attached to various things on such a stand. After checking to make sure it would flush okay, she told me to hold my hand slightly bent in so I wouldn’t kink the line and sent me down to Angio.

The trip to Angio involved a walk to the elevator, going a floor down, and following a blue line all the way around back of the radiation section. There, in a cool room with a table which had an X-Ray panel above it, I was prepped for the insertion of the porta-cath.

First, they had me take off my necklace, then had me lay on the padded table below the X-Ray panel. This table had controls they could use to move it lengthwise up and down, or vertically up and down. I got up on the table with little difficulty (even at its lowest point, it was still fairly high) and laid down, scooting up the table until my head was on the pillow. They put my arms on plastic armrests they had to attach to the table, and I told the nurse on my left side about the requirements for enabling my IV line to work and he made sure I held my hand properly. They had me remove my right arm from my hospital gown, and attached a blood pressure cuff to my right arm and an oxygen reader to my right index finger.

They did not sedate me. The nurse on my left started a line of liquid antibiotic in my IV and the lady nurse ensured my right breast was at least partially covered then, upon realizing its size (DDD at least), suggested they tape it down. I still chuckle over this, because they did indeed tape it down, using three long strips of tape crossing my body from the right arm support to the left arm support. They had to do this so the doctors would be able to access the location they needed to place the catheter line under my skin.

Sometime around this point I suggested they take my glasses, and one of the nurses told me to turn my head to the left. The nurse who’d managed my IV line fetched my glasses from my face and I obeyed the command while someone scrubbed my skin and neck with antiseptic—I forget what it was. While she did this, one of the doctors came in with music and set it up to play. After washing my skin, two of the nurses covered my body in blue surgical slips, one of which completely covered my head; the nurse who was still on my IV lines hooked it up to the IV stand so I could “see” out. Without my glasses, I didn’t see a whole hell of a lot. (LOL)

Now the Doctor and a Fellow came to my side. My right side. I asked why it was so important they put the cath in my right side, and one of them explained it was because the vein is straighter on the right. Then he told me what they were going to do was inject a numbing agent in my neck and in a line down my chest to where the port was being inserted. This involved much use of an ultrasound machine and a couple flickers of the lights to use the X-Ray panel above me.

They explained what they were doing before and during the procedure, but what basically happened was they nicked my neck—and blood ran around the back of my neck, into my hair—did their line of numbness from there to the insertion point, which felt like a series of bee stings, and . . . pushed the porta-cath up that path they’d designated, over my clavicle, and inserted it into my vein. The catheter developed a kink, so throughout a series of lowering the lights to use the X-Ray panel, they got the kink out and the Doc left the Fellow to suture my wounds. He did two layers of sutures on my breast wound, where the port is, and one or two stitches in the wound on my neck.

Someone did their best to mop up the blood which had run around the back of my neck and detached the blood pressure cuff and oxygen monitor. Then one of the nurses peeled the tape off. That hurt worse than anything else. They righted my garments, disconnected my IV line from the bags on the stand, and helped me get to my feet, passing back my glasses and the necklace they’d had me remove prior to the procedure. Quite alert and able to take care of myself, I refused the offer of a wheelchair trip back to Oncology and walked out to pick up my mom on the way.

Back in Oncology, Nurse Mary removed the IV line and had me get dressed, which I did quickly, spending a couple minutes to rub as much of the blood off my neck as I could. The Angio Fellow and Doc had told me I’m not to shower for two days, at which time I can remove the dressings. I’m also not to soak in a tub of water, which I don’t do anyway.

I left the hospital around ten thirty in the morning, and now, at about three thirty, long after the numbness has worn off, I’m experiencing discomfort. There’s a bit of sharp pain which isn’t bothersome around the point of the port, which is right above my breast, just where the flesh begins to rise for it. My neck has some dull pain, and since it tenses the muscles there to swallow, eating and drinking causes some minor discomfort, but it’s not so great it’s prevented me eating or having anything to drink. The muscle on the back of my head where it connects to the back of the skull got slightly pulled with me keeping my head facing left during the procedure, so that causes some discomfort as well, but, again, it’s not enough to stop me doing anything. It hurts my neck slightly to turn my head either way, though it’s not excruciating—again, level of discomfort mostly; kind of like waking up with a kink in the neck and not being able to turn your head too far, though the “stopping point” in this is not nearly as painful as it can be with a kinked neck. The entire line from port to cath in my neck is tender—yet not so bothersome I’m screaming in pain. (LOL)

I expect to regain full, painless freedom of movement within a few days—a week at most as Nurse Mary and the team who inserted the porta-cath seemed to think the procedure wasn’t too difficult to manage or deal with. The Doc and Fellow told me to take Tylenol or ibuprofen to alleviate the pain which was a relief. I don’t know what I’d do with another scrip medication! (LOL)

PET/CT Scan

This entry is part 18 of 44 in the series Breast Cancer Posts

I swear I still have the flavor of the barium sulfate suspension at the top of my throat.

I had to drink 900ML (approx. 30.4 oz.) of it for my PET/CT scan today. My appointment was at ten, but I arrived about half an hour early (’cause I could, since Mom wasn’t with me to complain about arriving too early and having to, oh, dear, wait), and they got me in for the scan a good fifteen or twenty minutes early (because they could since I was there early and the room was available—this is why I choose to arrive early, especially to cancer treatment stuff—earlier in, earlier through whatever procedure it is, earlier on my way HOME End rant).

I told the nurses/techs/not-quite-sure-what-they-were I’d brought a pair of sweat pants because the paperwork I received yesterday stated specifically I should wear loose-fitting clothing without metal. I don’t wear sweats during the day (unless under jeans for warmth in winter), because it’s an important mood boost to dress in day clothes, and sweats make me feel depressed. The techs nodded, saying they understood completely, and led me to a locker room with a single chair in it with further instruction on how I should dress. So, after removing my bra and putting my tee shirt back on, I pulled on my sweats, totally ignoring the hospital pants draped on the chair—which I knew wouldn’t fit, so didn’t even bother trying them on.

When I stepped out, they showed me to a little room with one of our VA’s unattractive recliner chairs. This one happened to be teal, and it had little oblong tables attached to the arms, one of which was covered in what looked like a puppy piddle pad. They laughed when I called it that, and one of the girls said, “yeah, they do look like that.” I sat, the one who I guess must have been a nurse despite her everyday attire covered me up, and the other set out the various accoutrements of an IV line on the right hand (the covered) armrest table. I let Nurse get as far as wrapping the band around my arm before making a comment about it being the arm with the neuropathy, and the one who’d covered me up (who I’ll call Tech) said, “Yeah, that’s the arm she had the surgery on, maybe you want to do the IV in the other one.” So she did, thank goodness.

The IV was quickly placed while Tech went to fetch the radioactive tracer. Nurse injected the tracer, then went around the back of the chair to fetch the two tall bottles of barium sulfate suspension they wanted me to drink (so my digestive tract could be seen better in the scan later), then Tech asked if I was comfortable and told me they’d be back in about an hour and fifteen minutes to take me to the scan.

They left me alone in a dim room, facing a clock which the one recessed light left on illuminated perfectly. I spent the time swallowing the barium sulfate solution, which had a prominent citrusy scent but rather bland flavor either watching the minutes passed or simply sitting still with my eyes closed. At one point, I heard an tone sound, then a male voice declared, “Building One. First Floor. Zone C.” This was repeated over about ten minutes, with the tone then the three announcements. At one point, a guy poked his head in and said, “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, just a fire alarm in another section. It’s probably a mistaken pull or something.” I asked where Zone C was, and he told me down the hall a ways and if it was necessary for me to leave, they’d be by to tell me so, then he left. Not long after that (about a quarter after eleven), Nurse and Tech fetched me to go to the PET/CT machine.

This machine (unlike an MRI machine), has two open ends, and Nurse and Tech had me climb onto the table extended from the “bottom” end, placing my head at the end closest to machine. While Nurse connected my IV to the contrast dye injector, Tech tucked me under more blankets, making sure to snug my feet well. Nurse hooked the tube to the injector around my thumb, then told me to raise my arms over my head. She stepped aside, and the table slid into the machine up to about the point of my neck. A male voice told me to breathe in and hold my breath, so I did, and it was followed by a scan, my body moving deeper into the PET/CT scanner tube. It stopped, moved me back out, and told me to take another deep breath and hold it.

After this second arms-above-my-head scan, The table moved all the way out and Nurse asked if I was wearing a necklace. I was. We got it off my neck, and the scan continued.

The remainder of the scan involved me laying very still, with my arms held to my sides by a large wrap which was connected to the table. It crossed from right to left and was held by Velcro on the left side; the IV tube from the dye injector was still hooked around my thumb, and exited out the “bottom” edge of the wrap, which covered me from abdomen to hips.

Before they injected the contrast dye, Nurse warned me I’d feel a hot flash and have a funny taste in my mouth. “Hot flash” was an understatement. It felt uncomfortably hot, as if I’d been out in the sun on the hottest day, dressed all in black, with a humidity of 100%, only I wasn’t sweaty after. It lasted perhaps five seconds. I didn’t get the funny taste, but the injection of the dye did cause a liquid-at-the-top-of-the-throat sensation and made it feel like as if I’d wet my pants, though I hadn’t. It was the only time I did not feel slightly chilled in that room, because they had fans going to keep the machine cool.

Then they did more scans. At one point, they stopped the table so my head was just at the other end of the tube, and I spent the five minutes my head was right there trying to read the stickers beside each of the three black rectangles—one on either side of my head, one right above me. Since I’m horribly nearsighted, and the print was small, it took me almost the entire time my head was there to puzzle out, “Laser Aperture. Do not stare into the beam,” at which point it made me very glad they hadn’t turned those lasers on. Then again, if those had been on like the ones at the other end, I wouldn’t have left my eyes open (LOL).

Not long after that, they completed the scan and the table ejected me from the “bottom” of the PET/CT scanner. Nurse removed my IV and bandaged me up, and they took me back to the locker room—they had to show me because I was very disoriented after my experience. Tech told me she got confused, too when she first started working. Back in my proper day clothing, I returned to the corridor and Tech showed me the way out, complimenting me on my cooperation.

After the PET/CT scan, I had a quick lunch and went to visit Nyna so she could write out my Chemo calendar; my first Chemo appointment is set for the 19th at nine in the morning after an eight o’clock visit to the lab to draw blood.

Day at the VA Hosp

This entry is part 17 of 44 in the series Breast Cancer Posts

I had another full day up at the local VA Hospital, at least half of it spent waiting, either for appointment times to arrive, or for doctors/nurses to meet me once I was there. If I’d come home during the day, I’d have had to turn right around to go back up, so it was easier for me to take books and stuff and my music and read while I was there.

My first appointment was for the echocardiogram. For this, I had to undress halfway, and a technician used a sonogram machine to take readings and recordings of my heart’s activity. He took readings from right above my heart, through the breastbone, did some work under my arm against my side next to my left breast, and then at the point right below the breastbone, which required him pushing up and in. Most of it was uncomfortable, though it hurt a bit when he was on my chest with the sensor because he had to press up into the soft tissue of my breast. The part which hurt the most, and it was primarily at a level of great discomfort, was when he took the reading with the sensor under the end of my breastbone. He also had to hook me up to, if I remember correctly, an EKG machine to monitor my heart in order to tell the sonogram machine when to record my heart’s functions. We had a nice chat about everything, including his path into sonography, while he did this, so I was quite distracted for much of the procedure. This took approximately an hour.

After this, I went to the lab for the blood draw. Very nice technician there answered all my nosy questions about the vials and where the blood was going (tests for the Oncologists and for the genetic testing). I always ask them to use a butterfly needle when they draw blood because sometimes them switching vials out on the standard needle with the vial holder jerks too much and causes minor pain. This woman’s touch was very gentle, she was very thorough, and when she removed the butterfly needle, I barely felt it. She also managed to get blood from the main vein in my arm—the one in the middle of the elbow pit—instead of the peripheral vein on the outside of the elbow pit when the arm is turned up for such a blood draw.

Then I had lunch. I should say there was some confusion over the phone when I was told about the echocardiogram; the nurse arranging it for me told me I needed to come in fasting, which, it turns out, is for a slightly more invasive procedure which involves them putting a tube with an ultrasound sensor down the throat, which is numbed prior to this. I was told also I needed to bring someone because I may be drowsy from this if they had to further sedate me, so Mom was with me up until I finished lunch.

Then Mom went home, and I went up to the AMU section where the Oncologists are and sat reading while awaiting my 3PM appointment with them. At about forty five minutes before my appointment, the receptionist at the counter asked me if I’d done my PET/CT scan follow-up yet.

What?! I hadn’t even been to that section of the hospital for an initial appointment yet.

Turns out, she meant if I’d made an appointment for it yet. That made more sense, and she told me to go make that appointment right then. This is, I think the result of my talk with Dr. Poppe from Tuesday. It’s good to know the VA is on the ball. Down in the Nuclear Medicine section of the hospital, I made my appointment for, guess what? Tomorrow! I’m to go in at ten for the PET/CT scan, which will take anywhere from two to four hours according to what I understand.

I made it back to the Oncology unit with time to spare before my appointment and checked in, had vitals taken, and went to the room instructed to wait. And wait. I read more of the book I’d brought, but also took the time to read the PET/CT paperwork the receptionist there had given me. A Resident finally came in, and we discussed things briefly, and she left. Then Nyna, the head Chemo nurse, came in and we talked much more. She had a little notebook with a lesson on breast cancer and a folder with paperwork for me to read. I saw Dr. Weiss briefly again, and he gave me a more thorough explanation of Chemo and the regimen they had planned for me.

I’m apparently to receive the “easier” Chemo regimen. This involves two drugs (down from three), and has been chosen because I had only one cancerous lymph node out of fourteen removed and they got all the cancerous tissue from my breast. They had me sign a release form, then I went back to the room with Nyna to further discuss my upcoming appointments.

They wanted to give me my first Chemo treatment on the 15th of this month . . . the afternoon of the same day I’m to get the Porta-Cath put in. I asked to change the date, and we moved the first Chemo treatment to the following Monday—the 18th. Next week is going to busy and pretty stressful, and I didn’t want to get Chemo right after undergoing a minor surgical procedure which would leave me groggy for at least part of the remainder of the day.

Then I was free to go, and boy did I hotfoot it out of there.

So, for tomorrow: 1. 10AM PET/CT scan; 2. Visit with Nyna about Chemo calendar and other sundry topics needing to be settled (for instance, what I do and when I do it for the Porta-Cath placement); and 3. Go to pharmacy to pick up anti-nausea meds so I have them on hand when the Chemo starts. I figure I should be up there all day (LOL).

Radiation Consult

This entry is part 16 of 44 in the series Breast Cancer Posts

This morning, I rose at 5:30 AM for my appointment at the radiation clinic up at the Huntsman Cancer Institute. I missed the train I could have caught if it hadn’t taken me twenty-five minutes to walk up to the commuter train, but had left two hours ahead of the time they told me to be there—8:30AM—so I still had plenty of time to get up there before I’d be considered late. I actually arrived about five after eight, and they had me fill out a bunch of forms relating to my health history, emergency contacts, and whether or not I had a Do Not Resuscitate order somewhere. I did this standing at the counter, because sitting and trying to fill out a form with my hand falling asleep would have taken longer because sitting would have put the clipboard in my lap and required my wrist be slightly bent. The secretaries were quite willing to let me do as I wanted to fill out the forms because I did so at an out-of-the way spot.

I didn’t have long to wait after I finished the forms, and was taken back for vitals and to be shown to the room where my radiation therapy doctor would see me. At the Huntsman, they have seven doctors, and eight little swinging pointers connected to the wall beside the outside of the clinic doorways to indicate which doctor should visit which patient (the eighth is to indicate the room should be straightened up, iirc). I was told to undress the upper half of my body, don the nice plus-size hospital gown (the VA has a severe lack of these, so I’m always happy when another doctor/clinic I go to has them), and wait for the doc. I sat in one of the extra-wide chairs instead of the exam bed and read a new book.

I didn’t see my attending physician right away. A Resident physician and a Student doctor came in. I say it this way because the Resident was very much in charge as he went over my history and the forms I’d filled out with me, and the Student Doctor was very quiet until he prompted her to ask any questions she had. She was apparently very new to clinic visits like this.

Resident Doc (I’ve forgotten his name, sorry, and his business card has not been included in the paperwork I received as I was told it would be) had me hop up on the exam table. It’s couth in breast cancer care like this to put on any hospital gown they give you backwards, so the opening is in the front, and I had done this. Resident Doc performed a typical physical (not using a hammer to test my knee reflexes, for which I was glad—his finger-tap was just hard enough to elicit the proper response without causing pain), then had me lay back for yet another full breast exam.

You get a lot of full breast exams when you’re in breast cancer treatment, because all the doctors you come into contact with want to “see” for themselves the condition of your breasts.

He started with the left breast, pressing hard. Then he palpated my armpit with equal force, which tickled and made me laugh. When he was done, he moved to the right side as the Student Doc did an exam on my left breast for learning purposes. When Resident Doc got to my right armpit, he pressed hard enough to tickle, and I laughed again. Student Doc followed his example, her touch a little firmer than before, but still not hard enough to tickle me.

This done, Resident Doc had me hop off the exam bed and sit, and he and Student Doc departed to fetch my attending physician, Dr. Poppe (pron. poppy). I find it interesting that he turned out to be growing a beard. Mostly because his first name is the same as my Psych Doc and my Psych Doc also grows a beard in winter. However, the two could not possibly look more different.

Dr. Poppe had me hop onto the exam bed again and I got another breast exam. He pressed as hard as Resident Doc had, which made me laugh, and, at one point when he was on my right side, said “You’re funny.” Then, he palpated my abdomen, which made me laugh harder, and he asked Resident Doc and Student Doc if they’d gone through this too, which they of course verified, which induced Dr. Poppe to once more tell me I was funny. (I’m still chuckling over this whole thing.) I think I must have been Dr. Poppe’s first patient ever to be ticklish.

After this breast exam, I once again hopped down and returned to my seat so Dr. Poppe and I could chat. He said Chemo is done first, for anywhere from three to four months, then the patient comes in for Radiation Therapy for six and a half weeks, 20-30min a day weekdays. However, there’s a national clinical study being done with breast cancer Radiation Therapy, which, if I decide to participate in, will have me going in either three weeks or four and a half weeks. They’re trying to test the efficacy of shorter treatment periods. I’m not sure if that means I’ll be getting stronger doses of radiation or not.

At the end of this chat, Dr. Poppe gave me an information packet on Radiation Therapy, including a calendar of events happening at the Huntsman, and told me he’d fetch the paperwork regarding the clinical trials for me since I’d asked for it. Then he, Resident Doc, and Student Doc departed. I read a bit more while I waited, and the head of the clinical trials at the Huntsman came to give me the paperwork promised. She was kind enough to show me out as we chatted about breast cancer treatment in general.

I haven’t gone through the Radiation Therapy information packet yet, or even the clinical trial paperwork. I plan to do so by this weekend at the latest and will post about it once I have read the information.

Surgery Follow-Up

This entry is part 09 of 44 in the series Breast Cancer Posts

Today, I went in for my surgical follow up. Got to see Dr. Savarise and Robyn again, and we discussed a few things, including something they found with my tumor, a DCIS or Ductal Carcinoma In Situ. As I remember this being described to me, this is basically the precursor to the cancer I had, so it wasn’t unusual to find it. Dr. Savarise went on to explain Chemo and radiation are the methods they use to ensure any other such carcinomas don’t form up into proper cancers. According to him, the next step is traditionally Chemotherapy, then radiation, which, to me, didn’t make much sense until he explained it. Can’t remember his explanation, or I’d repeat it here—I was in no condition (in a hospital gown on an exam bed) to take notes and Mom, who was with me, didn’t think to write anything down except “DCIS.”

Dr. Savarise took out fourteen or fifteen of my lymph nodes, but the only one with cancer was the one they found on ultrasound. This is good, though. It means no more surgery required at all. I can go on to the next step of cancer care without any concerns we’ve left anything undone.

Oh, and I had my drain out today! Yay! It’s such a relief to have it gone. Robyn did the removal for me, and she tried to explain what it would feel like (“a little discomfort with a little pain, but so fast you won’t really be able to register it”), before she did the procedure. To be honest, I was expecting to feel a great deal more than I did. She snipped the sutures holding the tube in place (didn’t feel those being snipped or removed), then she said, “One, two, three and we go!” and I didn’t feel the removal of the tube. I looked at her when she got done and asked, “That’s it? I didn’t feel anything!” She was very pleased to hear that. She and Dr. Savarise bandaged me up (he put the tape on the gauze), and she showed me the end of the tube which had been in me; it’s made of silicone and looked somewhat like a ladder on one side because of all the collection holes.

Both my surgeon and Robyn were quite pleased with my range of movement, but, honestly, I’ve had full range of movement since the day after my surgery. Yes, it hurt the first day after, but I felt confident I could handle it, so I moved normally. Most of my pain and discomfort now come from the effects of the surgery, which I forgot to ask about, and I meant to. However, I have Robyn’s contact information, and I can call her with my questions later.

The Next Step

This entry is part 02 of 44 in the series Breast Cancer Posts

By the Monday following my mammogram appointment, I had a diagnosis of cancer.

The result of this was things kicked into high gear on the VA’s end of things. Within a week, I got to see my surgeon. I think I got really lucky with this appointment. I saw him on a day he usually doesn’t see patients, right after a meeting. His Physician’s Assistant left the meeting early, and we spent about twenty or so minutes with her alone, outlining what to expect of the visit with the surgeon. I remember her first name was Robyn (could have misspelled it). When my surgeon, Dr. Savarise, joined us, my mom, who’d accompanied me to the meeting, started asking him questions she hadn’t gotten to with his assistant. He spent at least forty-five minutes to an hour with us. During his visit, he detailed the procedures I’d be undergoing in surgery, helped us with any questions we had, and generally eased my mind a great deal with his willingness to sit there and be pestered. I feel I wouldn’t have gotten this time if it had been a typical clinic day for him, and he was able to assure me he did this procedure every day up at Huntsman Cancer Institute. That reassured me a great deal, along with his physical appearance: dark hair greying at the temples, crinkles around the corners of his eyes. He’s not some young doc coming in and telling me what’s going to happen, he’s someone who is experienced and knows all the variables which may be expected during such a procedure. By the time he left me to finish up with Robyn, I felt very confident in his abilities and comforted by his patient and informative character.

After the meeting, Robyn gave me a Guide to Your Surgical Experience flier and a red day-glow list of places in the hospital to visit prior to my surgery, preferably the next day. As I had to see the Oncologist the next afternoon, I went to the VA early to perform this errand run. I also happened to be able to get my flu shot since the VA had them available and I had the time; the last thing I’ll need later on this fall is to come down with the flu in the middle of chemotherapy. Then, all errands done, I waited out in the main lobby for Mom to join me for my Oncology appointment.

Mom and I arrived at the Oncology department a little before the appointed time of Noon. After we were shown to a room with a hospital bed (covered in fresh pee pads for some reason), we waited for approximately half an hour. The Oncologist who arrived was not the one we actually had been told we were to meet, but someone else. I’ve forgotten her name. She sat with us for about half an hour or so and talked with us, explaining the differences between Stage and Grade and what my likely path through cancer treatment was to be. When she finished, she hunted down the woman I’d been told we would meet, who popped in for about thirty seconds before hurrying off to wherever she needed to be. Then the first Oncologist went off to find the head Oncologist.

Now, here, I’d like to say that when I got back from my appointment with the Oncologists, I wasn’t in any way ready to discuss much about it. I was, however, willing to talk about the people I’d met, and I likened them to various animals, much to the amusement of my writing friends at Forward Motion for Writers. All my chat friends were in, and I likened the head Oncologist to a contented cat. I cannot imagine him ever rushing anywhere, though I’m sure he does on occasion when necessary, but he was so laid back, spoke so quietly and calmly and with a kind of peacefulness that I felt very comfortable and comforted in his presence. It was quite an experience speaking with him and being examined by him; I felt very at peace and calm with him there, as if his presence was guarantee nothing wrong would happen either before, during, or after my cancer care. Someone commented I’d better not liken any of my Oncologists to a bird, and I said I’d liken the one Mom and I sat and talked with a while as one, but she was the kind of bird who sits in a tree and sings. Not at all concerned with rushing off onto another appointment. The one I was supposed to meet, and who I actually saw for only about thirty seconds, I likened to a squirrel—busy-busy and rushing off to her next meeting or duty. I was pleased to hear the birdlike Oncologist would be my primary caregiver. She had a manner which was comforting as well, and I felt very confident in her wisdom and knowledge of cancer care by the end of the meeting.

As of this date, Saturday, 28 Sept 2013, my surgical appointment is set for 11 AM on Monday, 30 Sept 2013. I am somewhat nervous, but want this cancer out so I can begin the rest of my treatment. My next cancer-related appointment is for Thursday, 17 Oct 2013, when I see the Oncologist for a follow-up and hopefully to begin at least planning my chemotherapy appointments.

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