It happens every time.
Regardless how much improvement I seem to have made in the previous six months, just before my next oncology appointment I get anxious. I get this sense that I’ve relapsed – even though it is more likely than not that I am fine. Yet in the back of my mind there is a voice.
“It’s too close to call. You’re not out of the woods yet. It’s only bee three years. Other people relapse about now, why should you be so lucky? At your age it is only 50/50.”
Gulp is all I can manage.
I have been doing well these past six months. Not much purpura (purple blotches on the skin), hardly any neuropathy, no petechiae to speak of, and I’ve been dedicated and disciplined in my working out and diet.
So I should be alright … yet there is always a doubt.
Tomorrow morning I’ll get up, have a cup of coffee, and head to the Helen F. Graham Cancer Center, take the elevator to the third floor, and get my blood drawn. Then I’ll wait a little, maybe stop by the chemo suite to see the ladies, and then go see my doc.
He’ll check me out, we’ll exchange quips, and then I’ll be on my way for a celebratory lunch … All the while wanting to puke before lunch.
I guess that’s it.
And I’ll keep working at living – for six more months – until my next appointment.