Doctor, doctor

     One good thing about being a cancer veteran is that I know everyone in my oncologist's office. (And in the infusion center, and in the Women's Special Care unit, and in radiology, and outpatient admitting, and and and.) So when I call at the crack of 8:00 asking if there's time for a quick checkup today, I'm not talking to a switchboard; I'm talking to Paige, who has known me and my family lo these many years. 

     "Hang on just a sec, E," she says, and is back in no time with, "We'll see you as soon as you can be here."

     So off we go, me and M, after depositing A at day school and eating a nerve pill. Everyone in the office -- Paige, Iva, Betty, Joanne, Dr. W (my oncologist's partner) -- everyone comes out and gives us hugs and asks after A and asks for pictures, as though we weren't in less than a month ago; as though they've done nothing in the interim but think about us and wonder how we are doing, daily, hourly. 

     We do the routine, guessing how much I weigh before the scale tells us for sure, and checking blood pressure (waaaaay up there today, brushed aside as "white coat syndrome"), and taking us to the exam room and hanging out with us, making us laugh, distracting us before Dr. J makes his bigger-than-life appearance.

     I love him. We have a great relationship: I trust him, he trusts me. He is not icked out by M being in the room with us while he pokes around, vamping a monologue about throwing pottery and cooking for his son's fraternity house. He throws photos of his new grandbaby all over my stomach, knowing I'll squeal. Then he turns serious, but not too serious when he explains that he's feeling some "knuckle-like things," then reassures us that I've had worse exams. Better, too. 

     He says he thinks we're status quo. I tell him I think the pressure is more persistent. He asks about particulars, I tell him. He says he thinks we should wait. Keep a very close eye. Monthly appointments but come in earlier if you notice anything different. What happens if it gets worse? What will we do? We'll figure it out then. If we try to plan now, it'll just change. But he has more tricks up his sleeve, right? And more sleeves? He is indignant. Of course! Of course I do! 

     That's what I needed to hear. He won't just send us away with no prospects and a prescription for fentanyl. He'll do something. He'll fix it one more time.

     Somehow we'll try something we have never tried before, and it'll work.

     As we leave, he grabs my arm. You gotta show Iva the photo of A with the electric guitar. Iva, come look at this!