Monday, October 08, 2007
All's Well
"Which of us is going to die first?," Max asked on the way home from the ranch yesterday.
"Honey, none of us knows the answer to that question. Only God does. He has a plan for each of our lives, and we don't know what it is."
"I think I know," Max responded. "I think Daddy's going to die first. And then you. Then me. And then Boo."
"That may be so, or maybe not. None of us knows for sure."
On any other day, this might have been just another conversation with a curious six year old. After all, last week Max wanted to know whether people die really fast or slowly.
But it wasn't just another day. I was awaiting the results of a biopsy. And I was terrified.
Last Tuesday I'd had my annual mammogram. Because I've had recurring pain for years, I also have an ultrasound on the left side. I changed radiologists a year ago because I'd heard too many stories of missed tumors at the other hospital. When I saw Dr. Huygen for the first time last December, we went through the expected motions and he declared me good to go.
This year was a different story.
"Your mammograms look completely normal."
"Great."
"Let's take a look at the ultrasound."
Several minutes later, after careful examination: "Everything looks just fine."
(Long pause.)
"I want to take a look at the other side."
Other side? Who said anything about the other side?
One swipe later: "We're going to biopsy that."
What on earth just happened?
"Did you just have a hunch?"
"Yeah. I just had a feeling. The mass is very small, 7 mm, so if there's a problem, we caught it early."
Holy cow. On Friday I was back for more. But not before I learned more distressing news. Irregular borders. Indistinct margins. Small spots of calcification. I knew enough to know none of this was good news.
As I waited, shivering, the nurse explained what would happen. "And after he's done, he'll tell you what he thinks." Really? A radiologist willing to express an opinion to the patient. How extraordinary.
Dr. Hugyen entered the room. He checked my wrist band. "You have a birthday coming up!" 46 on Oct. 11. "How are you celebrating?"
"One of my dear friends is coming from Chicago for the weekend."
What I didn't say was that of the three couples she was coming to visit, two were already in the throes of cancer treatment.
"And we're getting ready for my son's birthday on Monday."
"How old will your boy be?"
"Four."
"I have a three year old son, too. Do you have any other children?"
"Another son. Just turned six."
"Me, too."
"So I have some idea what it will be like at your house when you get home."
He laughed and finished up.
"So, Dr. Hugyen, what do you think?"
He paused for a long, long time. Coughed nervously. Then spoke in a calm, measured way.
"I'm concerned it's cancer."
He paused even longer.
"I'd say the chances are about 50/50. Either way, it has to come out. The blessing is that we caught it early. Because I wasn't asked to look at this side. Sometimes medicine is science, and sometimes it's art. Sometimes I just get a feeling, and I've learned over the years to trust that feeling, because I've been right too often."
A radiologist with ESP. As blessings go, it doesn't get much better than that.
"Your results will be in by Tuesday, but call on Monday, just in case they get here quicker. You're going to be okay. Because your boys need you."
Now I was staring into one of my worst fears. Third, actually. Because I started making a mental list.
1. Burying one of my children, especially while they're still children.
2. Getting bitten by a snake.
3. Getting cancer, especially while my children are still children.
Now I know that's not rational. Because very, very few people in this country die of snakebites. Fewer than ten per year, in fact. You can tell it's my #2 fear because I actually read things like this on the internet. But they're my fears, damn it, and I can rank them as I please. Which reminds me of my friend who's undergoing chemo, and he needs a stem cell transplant soon, and what he's most afraid of is having to get all of his childhood immunizations afterwards to rebuild his immune system. Not logical, but still real.
So when Max started asking questions this weekend about which of us would die first, it meant something entirely different to me than it would have the week before.
"Honey, none of us knows the answer to that question. Only God does. He has a plan for each of our lives, and we don't know what it is."
"I think I know," Max responded. "I think Daddy's going to die first. And then you. Then me. And then Boo."
"That may be so, or maybe not. None of us knows for sure."
On any other day, this might have been just another conversation with a curious six year old. After all, last week Max wanted to know whether people die really fast or slowly.
But it wasn't just another day. I was awaiting the results of a biopsy. And I was terrified.
Last Tuesday I'd had my annual mammogram. Because I've had recurring pain for years, I also have an ultrasound on the left side. I changed radiologists a year ago because I'd heard too many stories of missed tumors at the other hospital. When I saw Dr. Huygen for the first time last December, we went through the expected motions and he declared me good to go.
This year was a different story.
"Your mammograms look completely normal."
"Great."
"Let's take a look at the ultrasound."
Several minutes later, after careful examination: "Everything looks just fine."
(Long pause.)
"I want to take a look at the other side."
Other side? Who said anything about the other side?
One swipe later: "We're going to biopsy that."
What on earth just happened?
"Did you just have a hunch?"
"Yeah. I just had a feeling. The mass is very small, 7 mm, so if there's a problem, we caught it early."
Holy cow. On Friday I was back for more. But not before I learned more distressing news. Irregular borders. Indistinct margins. Small spots of calcification. I knew enough to know none of this was good news.
As I waited, shivering, the nurse explained what would happen. "And after he's done, he'll tell you what he thinks." Really? A radiologist willing to express an opinion to the patient. How extraordinary.
Dr. Hugyen entered the room. He checked my wrist band. "You have a birthday coming up!" 46 on Oct. 11. "How are you celebrating?"
"One of my dear friends is coming from Chicago for the weekend."
What I didn't say was that of the three couples she was coming to visit, two were already in the throes of cancer treatment.
"And we're getting ready for my son's birthday on Monday."
"How old will your boy be?"
"Four."
"I have a three year old son, too. Do you have any other children?"
"Another son. Just turned six."
"Me, too."
"So I have some idea what it will be like at your house when you get home."
He laughed and finished up.
"So, Dr. Hugyen, what do you think?"
He paused for a long, long time. Coughed nervously. Then spoke in a calm, measured way.
"I'm concerned it's cancer."
He paused even longer.
"I'd say the chances are about 50/50. Either way, it has to come out. The blessing is that we caught it early. Because I wasn't asked to look at this side. Sometimes medicine is science, and sometimes it's art. Sometimes I just get a feeling, and I've learned over the years to trust that feeling, because I've been right too often."
A radiologist with ESP. As blessings go, it doesn't get much better than that.
"Your results will be in by Tuesday, but call on Monday, just in case they get here quicker. You're going to be okay. Because your boys need you."
Now I was staring into one of my worst fears. Third, actually. Because I started making a mental list.
1. Burying one of my children, especially while they're still children.
2. Getting bitten by a snake.
3. Getting cancer, especially while my children are still children.
Now I know that's not rational. Because very, very few people in this country die of snakebites. Fewer than ten per year, in fact. You can tell it's my #2 fear because I actually read things like this on the internet. But they're my fears, damn it, and I can rank them as I please. Which reminds me of my friend who's undergoing chemo, and he needs a stem cell transplant soon, and what he's most afraid of is having to get all of his childhood immunizations afterwards to rebuild his immune system. Not logical, but still real.
So when Max started asking questions this weekend about which of us would die first, it meant something entirely different to me than it would have the week before.
At 6:20 this evening, Dr. Hugyen called. Just from his tone of voice, I could tell he had an early present for me.
"I just received your results. I knew your doctor probably wouldn't get them until tomorrow, and I didn't want you to worry for another day. Plus I love delivering good news."
I'm not sure what he said from there, but I did catch "benign."
"It does have to come out, so your doctor will be calling you to suggest a surgeon. Happy birthday, Mrs. Hightower. And to your son, too."
So I'll be having surgery in the next couple of weeks, and make no mistake. I will be the happiest patient in the O.R.
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