So today I got to go see Dr. Awesomesauce, who is still awesome even if he does give me crap over that stupid toucan shirt and cuts back his hours in the clinic. Actually, it wasn’t his idea—his superiors thought it would be just a dandy idea for him to stop seeing patients and only supervise the resident doctors ”downstairs”—but he fought to keep at least a few of us and work 16 hours a week in the clinic. Now he’ll only be available on Mondays and Fridays, but the good news is I get to keep him. With the new turmoil going on in my life right now, I need all the help I can get.
Thankfully, I’m still stable moodwise, even though Will and I got some very bad news on Monday when we went to see his oncologist. The tumors on his liver have for some reason decided to start growing again, even though the cancer elsewhere isn’t. Worse, they’ve gotten remarkably bigger and the current therapy isn’t touching them. So it’s looking like more tests, another trip to Portland, and Lord knows what else is in store for my poor husband, who is beginning to lose his happy thoughts even though he still refuses to give up.
This is one of those times when I wish I didn’t know so much. I read the results of his recent CT scan and my blood ran cold. I know what all that medicalese means. I know these new developments make Will’s prognosis look very grim. Sometimes I wish I were completely in the dark about all this stuff so I could pretend everything is OK. But I can’t, and I’m having a hard time not letting him see how scared I am.
Needless to say, all this has the potential to lead to depression, which is why Dr. A doesn’t want to try another step down on the Geodon right now. He also isn’t touching the Zyprexa with a ten-foot pole because it went so badly the last time we tried decreasing it by the tiniest of amounts. That’s reassuring because Z is what keeps me glued together, and heaven knows I need all my marbles to deal with this nasty situation. I’m not depressed, thank God, but this is reminiscent of the time we first learned Will had cancer, and sometimes when I look at him I just want to weep until I throw up.
It’s been two years now since the original diagnosis. That’s two years we didn’t believe we would get, and we did. I wonder if there is enough magic in the medicine the doctors are considering to give us even more time… to celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary, to go on our cruise, to love and laugh and live. I guess I’m being selfish to want more, but I can’t help it; all I know is I’ve got to keep my emotions in check because he is still here, still vital, and there’s no need to ruin whatever time is left to us with tears and sadness.
That’s what logic says… but could someone please explain it to my heart?