So this was it – the second prognosis after the aborted liver resection in September. Nog and I left the house early yesterday because we wanted to walk to the hospital through the park – the plan was to meet up with Pablo about 15 minutes before my appointment with the oncologist. And that’s basically what happened. Of course the appointment happened about two hours after the appointed time . . .
We finally got in to see the doctor, and there is no way to sugar-coat this, so here we go…
- my tumours are inoperable
- chemo might help slow down the inevitable
- without treatment I maybe have a year
It didn’t happen quite that succinctly. I had previously briefed Pablo on the situation and about all the questions I wanted answered, so he could back me up. In the end I did most of the talking but it was still good having him there. Nog came too because he didn’t want to be left at home waiting to hear the news, and in the end all three of us squeezed into the consulting room. Here is a pic I took of my two boys in the waiting room, standing in front of a decolourated Matisse print . . .
It was hard. I had to keep poking and prodding … trying to get something REAL out of the doctor. Because she didn’t want to tell me what she ended up telling me. Later she told Pablo she’d never had a patient so … well, so like me.
Afterwards we walked out of the hospital together and, since I hadn’t cried in the doctor’s office (I was soooo close…), I was determined not to cry while we went to find somewhere to have lunch. And when I ventured a self-pitying comment about being dead soon, Pablo quickly nipped that in the bud by saying that I didn’t have to worry because he and Peter weren’t that lucky. Ha! That snapped me out of it long enough to enjoy a wonderful lunch … photos to be supplied later.
But really … this totally sucks.
And I really, really don’t want to die.
Not like this, not so soon …