The trip to the office is uneventful, rapid, even. Like life cleared the way to insure I didn’t miss this event. I never have liked the sterile, beige-white buildings. Or the antiseptic smell.
I sit nervously waiting in the front office. Why is it you always have to wait when you have an appointment? It’s bad enough you’re waiting for answers that have the potential to change the course of your life. It’s like sitting in the waiting room of life, really. That’s how it feels. Like sitting, waiting for someone to tell you that life has decided you get a break. Or miss one, I suppose.
They finally call my name. I look closely at the nurse’s face, trying to discern the outcome. Is her careful blankness a sign, or just the facade of professionalism? I never know. I feel slightly resentful that it isn’t just given to me. Like I need to be coddled or cosseted. It seems they only treat you gently when it’s bad news. I’ve never quite understood it.
Oh yeah. it’s bad. They’re taking me to the doctor’s private office. I can feel my back straightening slightly, how my chin comes up just a bit. The girls are jostling in my head and making their threat postures, muttering darkly and reminding me that they’re not scared of shit.
I, on the other hand, am trembling and trying not to cry.
He comes in at last. He clutches the folder with my life in it almost as carefully as he is speaking, “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news….”
I am sitting here thinking about how much it would suck to have to be someone to do this. Ever. And I feel sorry for the man. He looks sad and I suppose he is feeling sorry for me. I don’t know, maybe we’re both right about how awful it is.
I realize I’m not listening, and from the corner the gatekeeper says, “It’s ok, dear, I’m keeping track.” I tune in again and pick up the thread of his voice, “….Acute lymphocytic leukemia. The important thing is to keep it from spreading to the central nervous system or to ramp up immediate, intensive therapy if we find it there.”
I hear the gatekeeper ask, “And how is that managed?” The vocal drone continues, but I’m not really paying attention. I’m thinking about my maternal grandfather. He died of this. It started with leg pain and swollen ankles. They misdiagnosed him three times before getting it right. By the time they did, it was too late. From diagnosis to death was less than six months.
Narrator whispers from the corner, “He says survival rates are high. Almost 50% in adults.” I hear the fear in her voice and am awed. I have never heard her afraid in my life. Ever.
We listen quietly as he outlines immediate follow up tests and therapies. I interrupt, “I just started a new job. There’s no way they’re going to give me this kind of time off.” He is quiet for a moment and then asks, “Do you have disability insurance?” I nod. Short-term. Just got it. It won’t be near enough. He continues, “You can always take a federal medical leave. It’s unpaid, but they have to hold your job for you.”
In the back corner, She laughs madly and jibbers about how wonderful it will be to have a job waiting for me while I’m staggering around homeless between prednisone and chemo treatments. I ignore her and nod to the doctor, “I’ll figure it out. When do we start?”
“Tomorrow if you can. Frankly, the sooner the better. You say you started having these problems in ’93. Your counts are off the charts at the moment. I’m surprised the ankles and feet are the only things demonstrating symptoms, to tell you the truth.”
I nod again. My mind is working feverishly to decide which path is going to render the fastest stability. New Jersey is out. Too far to travel and the insurance won’t transfer. I know I cannot count on my daughter or son. The Zettys will rent me the room again, and I think between SSI and Medicare, I may have enough, at least initially, to manage things. I can deal with disability and the rest when it peters out.
I shake his hand and turn to go, but his voice stops me at the halfway point, “I know this is a hard time for you. It may help to keep in mind that most adults see remission within two years with treatment.” I look at him and smile, “I reckon if anyone is going to beat it, it will be me. But I won’t lie to you, I’m already tired.”
He gives me a half-smile and a nod and says nothing more.
I am sitting in the car, replaying it in my head over and over again. The girls are filling in the gaps so I have the whole picture.
I am sitting at home. I cannot remember how I got here. Wikipedia and several other research sites are up on the computer screen in front of me.
I look at the clock. Four hours have passed. One of the girls has taken pictures. One has written this up to this point. I sigh and add my small footnote — Will I ever get to hug the people I love most in life? Or will this be the first step along the path to the long goodbye?
I still have not accepted this. I think of second opinions. But Narrator reminds me that blood work doesn’t have an opinion. It is what it is.
I ask her who took the pictures. She tells me the Pit did. I think she must be mellowing. Either that or she needs love. Narrator interrupts, “Will you blog this?” I think about it a moment, “Likely so. But as fiction, I think. A future look at a past event… or is it a look into a possible future… or is it completely fabricated? I’m the only one who knows and I suspect that’s the way it should be.”
I can feel the warmth of her close by, “It hasn’t happened yet. It would be cruel to even hint that it might have.” I laugh, “I don’t know how many different ways I can say ‘caveat emptor’… can you?” She chuckles, “You’re too good at writing. You convince people. Then you blame them for being convinced. Hardly fair.”
I wink at her, “They could always ask, you know.” She laughs aloud, “As if. They never do.”
I paste the gallery into the header of the post. She did a good job with the photos. I’d be convinced.