Part Two, Treatment

Part Two

The specialist called us a few days before my appointment and said he wanted to take my case to a board meeting at the Huntsman Center.  The meeting was the same day we were to leave for Australia. 

I told the doctor about our trip and asked what he advised.  He said though he wasn’t exactly sure what to do with a case like mine (I can’t remember why it was unusual.  It seems like he was looking for input on what the treatment should be, if any) I shouldn’t be worried and I should make my appointment after my trip. 

…do they teach doctors to be blatantly contradictory in med school?  Because “don’t worry, we’re not sure what to do with your cancer treatment go ahead and call me after your six week travels,”  fits right along with “relax in those stirrups while I stick this metal object in places we don’t talk about” and “Congratulations on having triplets, now don’t lift anything over five pounds.”

Anyway, I was recovering well from my surgery and felt good enough to at least travel and observe, if not to participate in most activities on our trip. 

We enjoyed Rotorua’s hot springs, the LDS temple and glow worm caves near Hamilton,  the drive to Wellington past Mount Doom,  the ferry ride through the channel amongst the giant massifs of the south island, Kaikoura and its  fish and chips, overland walk, and baby fur seals, and witnessing the earthquake damage in Christchurch.

We saw the Sidney Opera house, attended the Sydney temple, played and shopped at Bondi Beach, and took a thousand steps to the bottom of the blue mountain crevasses. 

We watched hundreds of penguins march onto shore at dusk, burnt two large batches of Kangaroo stew, fortunately not torching the modern vacation cottages we were lucky enough to secure in the off season. 

We were hosted in Tasmania by a young adult ward and hiked down to Wineglass bay, playing with the silent little wallabies in the parking lot as we waited for those who chose to take the longer trail. 

We flew to the deep red desert at Ayers Rock where we hiked around the famous Aboriginal monument, hiked the very southern Utah like Kings Canyon, and rode camels. 

After Ayers Rock, we flew to Cairns where we camped in tiny cabins in town, shopped at the Saturday market, scuba and snorkel dived the Great Barrier Reef, and got pictures holding a Koala Bear. 

We ended our trip in Fiji where we witnessed a massive sugar cane fire across the street from our hotel; attended the temple and Sunday Services where my youngest son got to pass the sacrament for the first time.  We shopped in the mixed Fijian/Indian cultured shopping district; flew in three separate small planes to the island of Kadavu and were taken by boat to the Papageno Resort where we slept in lush burres on our own private beach in the jungle.  

We scuba and snorkeled again then took a couple kayak runs from the resort and after two nights and one roasted pig, we kayaked to Ono Island where we stayed in a native village.  The memory of the children singing and dancing for us, their energy, their shyness, their full voiced, whole hearted perfect harmony, is burned forever in my heart. 

Along the way, I recall a thorough gratitude as I watched my children snuggled in hammocks on the beach; as I stood by Steven’s side announcing the activities of the day; when I stressed out, not knowing the buses shut down at six pm on Saturdays, how to find rides  for twenty four people to our lodging in Sydney; while I held hands with Jeff, flashing a thumbs up as we floated atop the waters of the Great Barrier Reef, hundreds of colorful fish putting on a show below.

Having  the constant reminder about my health deepened the intensity of my experience.  I got to take a step out of normalcy and deliberate each person I got to interact with, every expanse of new scenery I was able to behold, every special moment I was enjoying with my family.  My heart was full. 

Upon returning home I had a few days to recover from jetlag and possible parasites from the sweet Fijian’s home cooked food. 

I remember pulling in to the hospital parking lot, riding the elevator to the cancer floor.  As I stepped into the office I was struck with the reality that I was there, for my own diagnosis.  I wasn't totally convinced I was having the whole cancer experience but I was still standing there, looking at the nurse at the desk, being a cancer patient.  

 Out of respect for their privacy, I tried hard to avoid making eye contact with the others in the waiting room.  Would I be battling nausea, baldness, grief?  Were they?  I wanted to see into their lives,  my heart went out to them.  I wanted to send them comfort for whatever they were experiencing. 

 I realized I had been given the chance to witness a limited inside view into the life of a cancer patient because, after the nurses took my vitals and the doctor asked a bunch of questions and poked around a little, I was told the best treatment would be to watch and wait.  They said I looked good and they were pretty sure they had gotten everything. 

I walked out of the doctor’s office a little hesitant to celebrate but relieved at the prognosis.  I was grateful for the chance to see life through new eyes, for not having to go through chemo or radiation. 

I was glad I didn’t tell too many people.  I would have felt like I had to apologize for not having to go through the treatment.  It was easy to feel like a fake, but I’ll take that guilt.

Still, to this day, when I have a strange pain, or an unusual health concern, there is that nagging question, did the cancer come back? 

Stay tuned for part three:  Finding "my place,"  enduring the long dark winter of discontent, the awakening, and tender mercies all around.