Days 2-5 after the MRI blurred by like trains through a train station when you're hungover and you're lying on a dirty bench smelling someone else's vomit and and don't remember what train you're supposed to get on.
Neither Jim not I slept much that first night. We talked a lot about practical stuff, the usual treatment sequence for this cancer, etc. But there was no real information yet.
Wait.
Don't get too sad. Don't get too hopeful.
And just wait.
I cleaned up some space in the office, made a file for new stuff, and tried to get a grip on what was about to happen. To US.
Despite my periodic reminders to Jim that he could bail on this whole caretaker thing, he replies by puffing up his cheeks, kissing me and blowing into my mouth. That, or with big, blathery raspberries.
Today we went to the neurosurgeon, (I reminded myself, "Do not call him Dr Strange, do NOT) Dr Romeo (as in "Wherefore art thou,") -and I can only imagine the way the young women must throw themselves at him. He's lanky, maybe thirty, with a five-o'clock-shadow beard, a head of brown curls and earnest brown eyes. Jim describes him as "Just autistic enough," to be a good surgeon. He was very communicative, though, and concerned and kind. Also, a real geek about the latest advancements in treatment. Dr Strange (Note to self: Never call him that) seems great, plus the treatment plan for this is standard around the country, which is comforting in its way.
So: the biopsy is planned for Thursday. After that, maybe surgery a week later.
Next we went to my work so I could talk my boss as soon as possible. "I have brain cancer, I can work through next Wednesday, and after that I don't know yet." It's actually a terrible thing to tell a PD of network radio because replacing a jock is not like finding someone to mind the soft serve machine. It's a serious hassle for her, and she's been awesome to me for years. She's the best boss I've ever had, but to be more accurate, the best boss anybody's ever had there. I would never have lasted this long in radio after the bloom fell off the rose, because male PDs are generally unable to separate cosmetic viability from talent, character and work ethic. Cheri kept me on because of how I sounded. Furthermore, she coached me to sound better. She's amazing to work for. I wanted to do the right thing by her, as much as possible. But I had very few options at that point.
We then massacred a huge plate of sushi, because Jim spoils me in every way.
THEN on to the pre-op appointment setup with my primary care doctor, who's office lost the fax from Dr. strange (never all him that)'s office and asked me to call them and have them send it again, prompting THAT office to tell me to "Get an alternative fax number then. We SENT that."
Being a patient between doctors' offices is like being a child of divorce. "You go tell him..." "Well, you go and tell HER..." along with the reminder on every one of the 200 pieces of paperwork, "All this is YOUR RESPONSIBILITY". Through it all you can almost hear the lurking subtext, "Stupid patient."
THEN on to the pre-op, with blood and urine and a chest x-ray (some chance it could show another cancer, or "source", which I never thought of, but now get to think about all weekend every time I cough).
A call came in from Dr Chow when we got home, who asked how the appointment with Dr Stran- *slaps self* STOP THAT, self! went, and gave me nothing short of a pep talk about the benefits of a positive attitude. "Remember" he said, "That biopsy could show that it's not a glioma." "I'm just not one for false hope," I said. "But the benefits of optimism and a general positive attitude are documented," he said. "Please bear that in mind."
Thia is when I point out that Doctors can be this way when they aren't under the yokes of insurance companies.
This stands out from the news of he day:
Dr Str-(NEVER CALL HIM THAT) gave me a choice of surgeries:
They can take more of the tumor, making it less likely the cancer will return, (which is the modus operandi of a glioma), thereby possibly leaving me with less motor function that would allow me to stay on the air, or they can take less of the tumor and possibly leave me with more of my hard-earned hard drive, leaving me more articulate but possibly shortening my life. It's up to me: what's my idea of quality of life? Being around to just love my people with less verbal finesse? Or keeping my craftsmanship but giving up months or years?
Cake or Death?
But that's another blog post.
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