You wait to get an appointment with a Doctor. You wait in the waiting room to get your labs, so you can wait in another waiting room to finally see the Doctor, who then has to wait to see the results of said labs so he or she can order scans. Once you wait and get the scans you wait for the results and then you wait for an appointment with the Doctor to explain what the results actually mean that you’ve been waiting in line for.
And this goes round and round. If you’re lucky, for years on end.
All this to point out that I’m waiting once again. You see, yesterday marked chemo cycle number six, 22 weeks of treatment. After two more weeks of vomiting and mouth sores there is another scan and then more waiting on the results.
The plan is: if the tumors have been stopped at the border, their forward progress through my lungs and neck halted… we will wait… for three more months and then do another scan. But if the scan reveals things are worse, new tumors, more “cellular activity”… we will press on with a different chemo regimen. And if all the tumors are somehow miraculously gone then I will go on Oprah and cry and get a book deal and the cover of US Weekly and I’ll be America’s new sweetheart and hopefully be powerful enough to force TLC to cancel that damn “Honey Boo Boo” show.
I’m counting on option A. I’m hoping the tumor’s membership drive has failed. Their numbers diminished and frustrated, they have voted and decided to hunker down in their fox holes through a long cold winter. I could use the break. My body is so worn down it is reacting to every one of the hundreds of drugs they pump into my system in ways they never have before. Suddenly, one makes me dizzy, another achy, itchy, blurry, dopey… instead of the five stages of grief I am experiencing the seven dwarfs of side effects.
So we wait. Again.