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So, today I lie back on a narrow examining-bed in the dim light of an outpatient radiology procedure room, while a friendly, efficient technician squeezes warm goo around the base of my neck, then slowly sends her handheld transducer gliding over my skin. She concentrates on the right side, where the phantom lymph nodes are, but also takes a quick look at the left, for comparison purposes. She peers into a computer monitor, looking at the watery, black-and-white images. (They don't look like much to me, but diagnosis is in the eye of the beholder.) Every once in a while, an automaton beep emanates from the machine. This, I take it, means she's capturing a screen shot for the radiologist to look at, to compare with my earlier CT scan images.
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So, no miraculous disappearance. I didn’t think so, anyway.
After five minutes or so of this, the tech asks me to just lie there and stay comfortable, while she steps out to confer with the radiologist. A few minutes later, she returns. He wants a few more pictures. More goo, more images – then, she steps out again.
The technician returns: "You're all done," she says, cheerily. When will the results be ready, I ask? Possibly as early as tomorrow afternoon. It all depends on how fast the doctor's report gets transcribed.
A staffer from Dr. Gornish's office told me yesterday that he probably wouldn't get any word to me before Monday, so that sounds consistent. I wonder if he's going to be in the office on Friday – and, if so, if there's any chance he could get back to me before the weekend? It would be nice to hear sooner, rather than later: to find out what my next step on this journey will be. I'm getting tired of this interminable, one-day-at-a-time vagueness. It's been more than a month since Dr. Lerner told me I'd need a biopsy, and I'm still not any closer to having one, let alone knowing the results. This is playing havoc with my summer plans, particularly with knowing whether or not I'll get any significant chunk of time up at our Adirondacks place.
I could really use a vacation – although, as I should know by now, there's no vacation from cancer.
1 comment:
Carl; Do you remember that old Tom Petty song, "the waiaiaiting is the hardest part"? Go find it and put it on. Then go outside and play. Have a nice weekend. MB
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