All told, I was happy with the results of the latest cancer test.
No tumors, no area needing special attention. As always, I worried beforehand.
There have been a couple of dozen cystoscopies in three years; only two have
ever come back clean, and even after that, the cancer, that nasty, unwanted
guest, managed to return.
The nurse has prepared me for the examination, and I think
of the old joke: normally, when a woman handles me that way, a dinner and a
movie were involved.
I’m lying on an examining table, wearing one of those paper horrors
that never close right and show your butt. I am fixated on a small tear in one of
the ceiling tiles. I focus on that because what is happening definitely does
not feel good. Then I watch my doctor watch the screen depicting my innards as
he moves a tiny camera up my urethrae and into my bladder.
“Looks good,” he says after a minute or two, and gives me a
pat on the shoulder. He strips off his blue latex gloves and tosses them into
the wastebasket. He adjusts his tie.
“I was worried,” he adds. “The last procedure found some new
cells, invasive ones. So I was holding my breath… But right now it looks as if
everything is all right. You’ll just have to be extra vigilant.”
I like my doctor. He has a toothy grin and the look of a somewhat
frustrated bon vivant. He enjoys life
and told me he brought in the New Year by drinking a little too much with his
neighbors. I answered that I was glad he
wasn’t operating on me January first. He
said, “Oh no, the hospital is closed then.” Then he got it and went, “Ha! Ha ha!
Yes! Ha!”
I suppose that ethically, he had to tell me about the last
surgery’s test results, and I’m grateful he didn’t pass that information on
last March, because I would have worried for three straight months. But still,
that news tarnished the silver cloud.
This being said, I’m particularly happy not to have to be put
under again. I really believe that being anesthetized isn’t good for my health,
and that essentially being put in a supervised coma—that’s how one doctor described
it—nine times in three years could have negative and lasting implications. I
remember reading about brain cell loss among patients with high anesthesia
rates…
Today, though, I think I’m going to opt for being happy. I
have every intention of making myself a prosciutto provolone mortadella sweet
peppers camembert and baby tomato sandwich on a French baguette. There will be
mustard and olive oil and vinegar from the south of France. I will eat half-a-jar
of those tiny little pickles you folks call gherkins and my folks call cornichons. I will make an excellent
salad with spinach, Belgian endives and macadamia nuts but, since I’ll be full
from the sandwich, I probably won’t eat it right now. I’ll nibble on it later
today as I watch the FIFA Women’s World Cup, which is the best televised sport
of the decade. I will then drink a quadruple decaf espresso, and sleep the sleep
of the blessed.
All in all, so far, a good day.
No comments:
Post a Comment