Live 'er

A tiny little spot has been bothering me for months. It turned up on my CT scan last October, and was on my liver.

‘I’m not concerned,' snapped my crabby oncologist, dismissing it as though I’d just announced that we were running low on paper clips. My surgeon agreed I needn’t worry, but said so more kindly. He said we have spots all over the place, and I really needn’t fret. So I turned to his Nurse and said ‘What if it is something?!’ She said that if it was something, which was quite unlikely, we’d deal with it later.

So for the last few months I’ve been thinking about this spot on my liver and praying (to various entities) that it was indeed nothing. But not-so-deep down, I was quite scared. Breast cancer is a bitch, but liver cancer would be a motherfu*ker. And this spot has been in the back of my mind every day as I covered my food in flax, while cutting out my beloved red wine, and sugar.

My secret plan was, that if the spot should turn out to be something, I would go directly to Brazil and take a pilgrammage to see ‘John of God’.  We’d line up for three days in order to be operated on with a rusty knife. (It works. My Russian Nurse told me) And Jim would go with me because every man needs the opportunity to run down a beach in Rio, wearing nothing but a thong.

Tuscan Soup & a Basset Hounf

Last Monday I had another CT scan, and since then I’ve been waiting impatiently for the results. I’ve been a wreck. I’ve slept very little and have forced myself to keep busy, resulting in an excessively clean house and a six gallons of Tuscan bean soup in the freezer.

Last Tuesday I went to see my psychiatrist, who asked about my current state of mind. When I told her I was afraid of dying from liver cancer she said, ‘That’s what we’re here for – to help you through.' Of course, I assumed this to mean she was privy to some top-secret information, and was preparing me for the worst. I related this conversation to Sue who said,  ‘She’s an asshole, don’t see her anymore.'

But what if the spot was something after all. That would only give me a few years to write my memoirs, eat escargot in France, learn to paint, build a house in Cape Breton, spend more time with my nieces an nephews, go hand gliding, take Jed on a road trip to Alaska in a Winnebago, and marry Jon Bon Jovi.

Lucky Frog

This morning I had an appointment with my mean oncologist. Not only did I want my test results, but I had chemo questions as well. I pictured Dr C coming in the room wearing high heels, opening her manila folder, and telling me she had some bad news.  In preparation I’d filled my pockets with some of my little talismans. A little frog (for longevity), a bag of sea salt (to ward off bad energy), and a picture of my father. I also took ½ an Adavin. After sitting in the exam room for an hour, we were told that doctor crabby pants would be late, but her intern was available. Desperate for someone to talk to, I said I’d talk to the intern until Dr C arrived to give me my test results.

Moments later the door opened and in breezed the intern. All white teeth and long hair, and so young she couldn't legally rent a vehicle.  I sat nervously in my chair, my list of questions perched on my lap, ready to fire away. ‘Hi Janet,’ she chirped,  hopping up on to the counter, ‘Nice to see you. By the way, your test results are fine.’

And that was it. No manila folder. No high heels. No sympathetic looks. No talking about how much time I had left. No problem with my liver. In six short seconds she’d just given me back my whole life. Downstairs in the lobby I shed a few tears of relief, and Jim’s ears let go of his shoulders. He opened a pocket and took out a green crane.

My liver is fine. We’re back to nearly normal. The road trip in the Winnebago will surely happen. And tonight we’re going out for wine.