It was cool.
So we met with the doctor, and the short version is there was no bad news, all good. The MRI C got when he started chemo didn't have any nasty surprises, no developments that would change our plans. C told him that as of a couple days ago, post chemo, he could breathe through his right nostril again. The tumor had been blocking it and now it wasn't, which has been like the clouds parting for C. Seriously, big time morale boost. We were wondering if the doctor would say, "Oh, that's just such and such," and rain on this parade, but he didn't. He seemed genuinely encouraged, in a Dr. C, I'm not a public display of emotion kind of guy way. That was great.
Dr. C checked C out and started to head out the door. I piped up, "If we need questions answered what's the best way to go about that?" He said, "Just write them down and bring them in," and as he started for the door I said, "I have them right here," and showed him my clipboard.
Crestfallen, he walked over and sat down. I started going through the list and getting his brief answers, but I was afraid to pause and look down at my list because I was afraid he would bolt if I lost eye contact. Along the way he mentioned that he is also a lab guy, testing protocols on rats and such, which C and I both agreed explained a lot.
When asking about the chemo treatments he mentioned that C would be getting irinotecan on the 17th. To give some idea of what this means, it's that he had made the decision (which we don't necessarily disagree with) that C would start getting the trial chemo protocol, a more agressive chemo drug that previously had been used when rhabdo recurs, which it has a tendency to do, but in the trial it is being tried earlier in treatment. It comes with risks and side effects and such, but appears to be promising. But it's what Joe Biden would accurately call a Big F**king Deal. If we had let him out the door we would not have known that was what would be happening at the chemo date on the 17th. Once again, nice to know!
That's the way it goes, and that was not the end of it. Basically all the important info we got was gleaned during the time we spent after he had tried to skedaddle. It's just something we need to learn to manage, or go elsewhere. But whereas his approach initially caused massive stress, now it's kind of comical. And we don't doubt his medical prowess, or we'd be gone. When he walked out of the room to check on something C said, "I almost feel bad for the guy. It's like he wants to run out of the room."
We headed over to infusion to get C's dose. It's done in a room of curtained off sections, each with a reclining chair for a patient, and IV stand and a sweet rocking-type chair for their date. C settled in and a nurse (wearing her "Cancer Sucks" button) came in to see everything was OK, and sarcastically showed C his "plasma TV".
The process started and pretty much as soon as it started it was over. Each chemo drug has a different duration to be infused - today's vincristine just takes a few minutes. The woman on the other side of the curtain was going to be there for four hours.
And so it goes. The new normal. We left and went to Denny's and got some burgers. The waitress seated us asking, "How're you doing?" It's a richer, deeper question under the circumstances. But we both said, "Great," and sat down.
On the face of it things suck, but why be stuck in that when you don't have to? And I'm sure days will come when that waitress's question might just get a glare, or worse. But not today, and that's worth enjoying. I drop C off at his house and I drive back to the office. I check my email, and there's this picture of Kezya - survivor, advisor and moral supporter - sending in a picture of her tagging Montara Mountain. You just have to love the days that are more than half full.
Poor Dr. C! All those Haygoods coming at him with their clipboards and advanced communication skills, and nowhere to run. I think we need to hold him in the Light... (and bless his expertise).
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