October 3, 2013
Once the catheter has been removed, we are all smiles until ...
Dr. B glances over the path report that he's taken out of Will's patient file. Then, when this kind-hearted surgeon raises his head to lock eyes with Will's, his eyes grow serious and his voice conveys empathy while he relates news that no one wants to hear:
Will, the margins are not clean—and I know how that makes you feel, because, ten years ago, I experienced the same result, but just as I'm doing well, that's what I expect for you …
Though we hear everything that's just been said, it takes a while for the positive side of this piece of news to sink in, because our minds are busy absorbing information that triggers a fearful reaction—
When Will questions what happens next, Dr. B reviews that which we already know but, somehow need to hear, again:
Hopefully, your first psa test, three months from now, will prove negligible, and if that's the case, You'll breathe more easily for the next two and a half months until two weeks before the next test ... And so on.
Will responds: Tell me truthfully, how long was it till you felt more relaxed?
Dr. B replies: Personally, it took about two and a half years.
Every three months, a psa test ... Two and a half years until we relax ...
While making our way out of the surgeon's office, two weeks after a radical cancer surgery, who wants to think of the possibility of cancerous cells metastasizing while we walk along the outdoor corridor, wait for the elevator and cross the parking lot where our car waits to take us home, where we'll await Will's first PSA test, which can not be drawn for another ten weeks, at which time Dr. B will determine whether radiating this sensitive area of Will's body may prove necessary … and in this way does the next stage of this nerve-wracking, waiting game continue without end ...
Once the catheter has been removed, we are all smiles until ...
Dr. B glances over the path report that he's taken out of Will's patient file. Then, when this kind-hearted surgeon raises his head to lock eyes with Will's, his eyes grow serious and his voice conveys empathy while he relates news that no one wants to hear:
Will, the margins are not clean—and I know how that makes you feel, because, ten years ago, I experienced the same result, but just as I'm doing well, that's what I expect for you …
Though we hear everything that's just been said, it takes a while for the positive side of this piece of news to sink in, because our minds are busy absorbing information that triggers a fearful reaction—
When Will questions what happens next, Dr. B reviews that which we already know but, somehow need to hear, again:
Hopefully, your first psa test, three months from now, will prove negligible, and if that's the case, You'll breathe more easily for the next two and a half months until two weeks before the next test ... And so on.
Will responds: Tell me truthfully, how long was it till you felt more relaxed?
Dr. B replies: Personally, it took about two and a half years.
Every three months, a psa test ... Two and a half years until we relax ...
While making our way out of the surgeon's office, two weeks after a radical cancer surgery, who wants to think of the possibility of cancerous cells metastasizing while we walk along the outdoor corridor, wait for the elevator and cross the parking lot where our car waits to take us home, where we'll await Will's first PSA test, which can not be drawn for another ten weeks, at which time Dr. B will determine whether radiating this sensitive area of Will's body may prove necessary … and in this way does the next stage of this nerve-wracking, waiting game continue without end ...
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