Twenty-four? Or More?

We stepped outside the hotel to walk to the white Hyundai rental car which was sitting half-way across the parking lot. The skies were monotone, grey, uninteresting. It was a nothing day. A kind of neutral day, one that had no effect on your mood or attitude. Other things took precedence. It was just simply there. Static, motionless, curtain like. Draped as a nondescript background to the scenery in front of it, and to those moving about. In spite of that, many were excited about the day; children, elementary teachers, and party goers for sure. It was Halloween. Children and party goers, we understand. Elementary teachers, well they were excited for a different reason. They had to manage all the little ones, keeping them on track all day long while attempting to teach, then controlling the energy and excitement all the while joining in with them at party time. Those teachers who had their own children at home, got to repeat the whole party process once more that evening trick-or-treating with their families. For them, the day is exhausting. Deb and I? Well, we were anxious.  

I had two scans the day before. One was a CT scan. The other was an MRI. The key word for this scan was “anesthesia”. Imaging the inside of the body in great detail takes powerful machines, with powerful processes, done as close to the body as possible, and here-in lies the problem for me. At least it does to the greatest extent in the MRI machine. The MRI machine is essentially a 24” wide tube. Not unlike a torpedo tube if you’re a fan of military submarines. The only difference is, you are the torpedo and you stay inside it. You’re not GOING ANYWHERE FOR A LONG TIME. Due to a spelunking incident back in the 70s where I was confined, arms stretched out in front, legs trailing behind, inside a long downward spiraling worm hole passageway no bigger than my body for what seem like an eternity, I can no longer deal with tight confining spaces. Unless of course, anesthesia is involved. 

No matter how hard I try now, I can’t remember one thing about the MRI machine or the scan and that’s absolutely fantastic. Apparently, everything went well procedure wise and the CT scan was quick and painless as well. I don’t recall the nurse’s name who inserted the IV, but everyone involved was commenting about what a great IV it was, and great IVs are fantastic whether you’re the patient, the doctor, or the technician. Gotta get those dyes and contrasts going in pain free and flawless. That’s just the way I like it. I’ve had it the other way. I don’t recommend it.

The chill in the air on the short walk to the car caused me to reach for the zipper of my apparently less than adequate fall jacket to snug it up tighter. There was nowhere for the zipper to go. The jacket with it’s high collar was already zipped up as tight as it could be against my neck, which wasn’t tight enough. I glanced at my watch. The temperature was 22 degrees. I quickened my pace. 

We quickly got in and started the car. I liked this rental. While the engine was a little lacking in power, everything else was tight, quiet and agile. We exited the hotel lot and sped down the short access road to the highway towards town. By the time we hit 60 mph the car was nice and toasty inside. Our Hotel was on the east outskirts of Rochester out towards the airport and the drive to the Mayo Clinic, Gonda building in downtown Rochester took only about 20 minutes. Today we would get the results of the scans that were done to look for cancer cells that existed in my body in two locations. So, I suppose the fact that it was Halloween was somewhat appropriate. Would today hold for us a trick or a treat? Hence, our anxiety.

This appointment was also noteworthy for another reason. It had been exactly two years, 24 months, to the month that I was first told that scans did not reveal any signs of cancer. “No evidence of disease” (NED) is the term that’s used when your cancer has metastasized (left its original location and invaded other parts of your body), but scans can’t see any. It’s a relative kind of healing, not a definite kind, at least from the doctor’s perspective. From my perspective?  Well, basically if they can’t see any cancer, I’m a happy camper. But it’s a little more complicated than that. I’ll explain.

Not being proclaimed as ‘healed’ has a downside. This notion that your body is harboring cells that can or will someday come back and extinguish your life can eat at your peace of mind during those times when you have aches, pains, or feel slightly unwell. Especially if you can’t recall any specific reasons for the issue that exists. I’ve had a number of those days lately with back pain, some foot pain, other ordinary aches and pains, but are they ordinary? So, you wonder. Has it come back?

This trip would be somewhere near my 30th trip to Mayo. Most were for me, a few for my son, and several for my father-in-law. We quickly found a spot in the parking ramp on the south side of the Gonda building using a trick we learned along the way. Ask me about it sometime. 

Everything so far is familiar, the roads, the parking ramp, the elevator to the subway level, the beautiful interior of the Gonda building, and the endless throng of people on their way to or from appointments. All of it was familiar, except for the individual patients. Rarely do you recognize anyone from your previous visits. You wonder, at a place like Mayo, how many different diseases, physical and mental maladies, and health issues are represented at any one moment among the throngs of people you walk past. 

My appointment was on the tenth floor, as usual. If you arrive just a little bit early, there’s a chance you can get in just a little bit early. If not, I’ve never had to wait very long. Everyone treats you professionally, but also kindly and with compassion and a certain friendliness that is calming and reassuring.  It seems genuine.

We checked in and sat down. Within a few minutes my name was called. We were taken back to a small exam room with a comfortable couch/bench on one side and an exam table on the other. 

The Dr came in with a smile which I noticed right away. With a firm hand he shook mine and asked how I was doing. 

“Just fine”, I replied.

“Well, you saw the urologist this morning and it looks like they want to do a biopsy regarding your prostate, but I’ve looked at the scans for my concerns and everything here looks fantastic. Even the suspect nodules we saw in your lungs 4 months ago are gone! There’s nothing of note. There is no evidence of disease, which is really quite amazing.”

“It is amazing for us to hear that”, Deb says “Thank you so much!”

“No, thank you”, said the Dr. “I wish my other patients could have a report like yours.” He was excited as he spoke. Previously he held back emotion from other reports that were positive. This time around he was not guarded, but confident in his enthusiasm. 

We talked a little bit more about the urology report, and after a short basic physical exam he asked,

“When would you like to come back?”

Now, this was a very telling and very important question, simply because he asked it. Ordinarily he would tell me when I was coming back which up to this point was every 3 or 4 months. It was this frequent because he expected the cancer to show up again. His question signaled that he has confidence that my cancer may very well remain as NED for quite a while longer. In fact, at one point in our conversation he used the word “remission”. It was an indication that I would not necessarily need to see him so often, that at my discretion I could extend the visits out to six months, possibly longer. Had it not been for Urology’s request for a biopsy, I might have extended the duration for this next checkup. As it was however, I thought it best to keep it at 4 months for the time being, timing my visit to Urology with his. Next time around, I’l extend it.

Deb and I have a little extra spring in our step these last few days. We are thankful, and yet at the same time I feel awkward when around others whose illnesses were not abated by doctors or by “miracles” as mine was. Also, with those who have serious illness like mine, who’s struggles are more painful and lasting. I find it hard to see meaning and understanding in those situations. I remain confused about the apparent inequality and injustice of it. Why me? What should this mean for me? How do I respond? 

Perhaps I just think too much. Gifts are simply to be accepted.

None the less, we are both very grateful for your support, for your friendship, and for your prayers. 

God Bless.  

More than twenty-four!