Page 114 of A Chance for Us
“Good.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I can too.”
I straighten, walk away, and laugh when the paper towels hit me in the back of the head.
* * *
“Thank you for seeing me on a Friday night,” I say to Dr. Dowdle, the oncologist I was referred to.
“Janet is a good friend of mine, so I was happy to fit you in on her behalf. How are you feeling?”
I want to flip the fuck out right now because I’m feeling an array of things and none of them are good. I vary each day from hateful to hopeful to ready to terrified. I don’t know which end is up.
Each time I talk to Maren, I have to pretend as if I’m not scared out of my fucking mind.
But I am. I have cancer.
The thing that just robbed her of her father and might possibly rob her of me.
“I’m not doing great, as you can imagine.”
“I can empathize even if I can’t understand fully. How is the lymph node swelling?”
“It’s gone down, but . . . I mean, I don’t know if it really has. I want to think it’s smaller, but yesterday, I would have sworn it doubled in size and grew eyes.”
He smiles at that. “Your mind can do that to you. What helps is information and we’ll go over the test results from yesterday first, and then we can talk about the lymphatic system and Hodgkin’s Lymphoma specifically, which is the most common and treatable type to have.”
I could give two shits about the system or anything. “Honestly, Doc, I just want to know what the results are and then the plan to get rid of the cancer.”
He nods. “I understand. Please, have a seat.”
I do as he says, taking the chair from the desk. Dr. Dowdle rubs his chest as he looks over my test results. Yesterday, he had me go for a CT scan, more blood work, and a biopsy in another lymph node.
I got home, curled into a ball, and passed out. I’d never felt so exhausted in my life. Between the constant worrying, trying to pretend that I’m fine, and working twelve-hour days, I just don’t have much in me.
“I agree with Dr. Pang’s diagnosis of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, which is very treatable, so I want you to feel a little relief there. The scan indicates that it hasnotspread past the lymph node in your groin, which is another good thing. As far as staging goes, you are Stage IA.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that it’s the best kind of cancer staging we have, if you can call any of it good. You’re young, overall healthy, and the only real symptoms you’ve had are intolerance to alcohol and a swollen lymph node. Sometimes, we’ll see severe fevers, unexplained weight loss, or night sweats, and that would mean you’d be IB. Your stage number and letter determine your course of treatment.”
Yeah, I’m still lost. I’ve gathered that this is the better of the stages and letters, but I still have cancer. “What’s my prognosis? How long do I have?”
Dr. Dowdle shakes his head. “Oliver, you caught this extremely early. You’ll need two rounds of chemotherapy over the course of two months to start. Most likely, that will be enough to put you into remission. If it isn’t, we will reassess and make a new plan. I want to assure you that Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is treatable.”
The weight that’s been sitting on my chest eases the slightest bit. “You think I’ll be okay?”
“We’ve seen exceptional rates of remission with this course of treatment. As I said, you’re in optimal health, and there is no sign that it has started to extend into the lymph system.”
I let out a huge sigh. “Okay. So, I’m not dying.”
“Not today, no. I’d like to start treatment next Friday. Who do you have as far as caretakers or family?”
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“No? Do you have a spouse or family member who can help if you experience side effects from the chemotherapy?”
“My wife doesn’t know. Her father just died from cancer last week, and I . . . well, I can’t really burden her with it.”
His eyes fill with sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear about that, but you’re going to need someone to at least check in on you.”
