Immediately after my consult with the surgical second opinion surgeon on January 4, I texted my oncologist with “I’m going to see if we can schedule the scans for next week. Let’s get this shit over. Thanks again for being awesome. xo”. She wrote back: “Got your scans approved yesterday! Are they set?” (Ah, the joys of negotiating treatments with insurance companies. Obama’s “death committees” or whatever the Republicans have dubbed them have NOTHING, I repeat NOTHING, on Blue Cross Blue Shield. Clearly none of the naysayers have ever actually experienced what it currently takes to get treatments approved.) Shortly thereafter her assistant called me (while I was on the treadmill, I might add with some pride) with “January 8 at 10:15.”
January 8 rolls around and I dutifully show up for my PET, hand in hand with my husband, hoping and praying to whomever might be listening that this one will fire off a perfectly clean result.
After, I went home and proceeded to spend the day with a glass of wine and three movies. And then my doctor called at 4:06.
“The scan showed that the tumor is the same size and that the weird activity is still there, and may be slightly more pronounced.”
I poured myself another glass of wine. (Look out! I haven’t had two glasses of wine within the same 24-hour period in MONTHS.)
“I spoke to your surgeon; he’ll be giving you a call this afternoon or tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“You okay?”
“Yes and no. I really want the tumor out of my body, but I was hoping that the scan would show that the earlier one had been a false positive.”
“Yeah, I get that. I want the tumor out as well. I really want to see what we’re dealing with because none of this makes any sense.”
Hope, as ever, springs eternal.
Surgery is scheduled for January 24.
