dating and first married, without kids, when we would go to the local water park in Pittsburgh to spend the day together riding all the slides. Seven years later in Galveston, Texas, we were having the time of our lives. We tried every slide in the seventy-thousand-square-foot park! Some were very tall, and we had to climb flights of stairs after waiting in long lines. Other slides were twisty and short. And of course there was a long lazy river, which we floated down holding hands as though we didn’t have a care in the world. This excursion would not have been possible just four months earlier, when Randy was so depleted from chemotherapy. Instead, he was like his old self, like the Randy I had first met and fallen in love with: energetic, upbeat, full of kidlikeexcitement to try the next ride. It was a wonderful day, a sweet memory I treasure.
After such an upbeat experience, we walked into the oncologist’s office in Houston full of confidence that the cancer had not returned. Nevertheless, we both experienced the usual “scanxiety”—the nervous feeling one gets at the approach of a scan date. Everyone who has ever had cancer feels anxious and a bit worried as a scan date approaches, even someone who has been cancer-free for ten years. Still, we felt pretty sure that Randy would dodge another bullet. How could he not? He looked and acted so healthy!
As we sat in the waiting area to see the oncologist, I remember looking around discreetly at the other couples and families. Statistically, someone sitting in that waiting room was going to hear bad news. I wondered who it might be. Usually when a patient and loved one would exit an examining room area crying softly, we collectively looked away while our hearts sank in our chests. I remember thinking that would not be us today. Not today. That’s all I could hang my hat on.
Randy worked away on his laptop. I knew he was worried, but he kept it to himself. Then it was our turn. In a flash, Randy put away his laptop, slung his backpack onto his shoulder, and jumped to his feet. Once back in the examining room, he underwent a routine examination from the nurse. Then we were left to wait on our own for the oncologist. I can’t remember what we talked about in our last few moments of hope. Because that’s what we were living in: a bubble of hope about to pop. Then Randy’s curiosity got the better of him, and he started searching through his medical records, which the nurse had left open on the computer.
Maybe it was better that he discovered the scan and saw the tumors growing inside him than hearing it first from the doctor.Maybe it gave him the opportunity to see for himself, to know—really know—that the cancer cells had outsmarted all our treatments and were rapidly multiplying. We both knew that when pancreatic cancer metastasizes, there is little hope that further treatments will arrest its growth. When he blurted out, “My goose is cooked, Jai,” and he started counting the tumors, Randy had accepted the trajectory his life had now taken. A cure would be next to impossible—that ship had sailed and with it our hope. His mind had embraced what his eyes saw. I, on the other hand, scrambled out of the chair to look over his shoulder. I tried to find the error in the data. “It’s an older scan, not the one from this trip,” I reasoned.
He corrected me. “No, it’s the most recent scan. Look at the date.” He started looking through more files on the computer to confirm what he believed. I told him I needed to go to the bathroom, and I slipped out the door to find the nurse in charge of the protocol regimen. I explained to her that Randy had been poking around in his electronic files and asked her to see him quickly because Randy believed he was going to die. I thought she would set him straight. He wasn’t an expert on their computer system, I reasoned. He couldn’t be trusted to read this information and interpret it correctly. I was searching for
After such an upbeat experience, we walked into the oncologist’s office in Houston full of confidence that the cancer had not returned. Nevertheless, we both experienced the usual “scanxiety”—the nervous feeling one gets at the approach of a scan date. Everyone who has ever had cancer feels anxious and a bit worried as a scan date approaches, even someone who has been cancer-free for ten years. Still, we felt pretty sure that Randy would dodge another bullet. How could he not? He looked and acted so healthy!
As we sat in the waiting area to see the oncologist, I remember looking around discreetly at the other couples and families. Statistically, someone sitting in that waiting room was going to hear bad news. I wondered who it might be. Usually when a patient and loved one would exit an examining room area crying softly, we collectively looked away while our hearts sank in our chests. I remember thinking that would not be us today. Not today. That’s all I could hang my hat on.
Randy worked away on his laptop. I knew he was worried, but he kept it to himself. Then it was our turn. In a flash, Randy put away his laptop, slung his backpack onto his shoulder, and jumped to his feet. Once back in the examining room, he underwent a routine examination from the nurse. Then we were left to wait on our own for the oncologist. I can’t remember what we talked about in our last few moments of hope. Because that’s what we were living in: a bubble of hope about to pop. Then Randy’s curiosity got the better of him, and he started searching through his medical records, which the nurse had left open on the computer.
Maybe it was better that he discovered the scan and saw the tumors growing inside him than hearing it first from the doctor.Maybe it gave him the opportunity to see for himself, to know—really know—that the cancer cells had outsmarted all our treatments and were rapidly multiplying. We both knew that when pancreatic cancer metastasizes, there is little hope that further treatments will arrest its growth. When he blurted out, “My goose is cooked, Jai,” and he started counting the tumors, Randy had accepted the trajectory his life had now taken. A cure would be next to impossible—that ship had sailed and with it our hope. His mind had embraced what his eyes saw. I, on the other hand, scrambled out of the chair to look over his shoulder. I tried to find the error in the data. “It’s an older scan, not the one from this trip,” I reasoned.
He corrected me. “No, it’s the most recent scan. Look at the date.” He started looking through more files on the computer to confirm what he believed. I told him I needed to go to the bathroom, and I slipped out the door to find the nurse in charge of the protocol regimen. I explained to her that Randy had been poking around in his electronic files and asked her to see him quickly because Randy believed he was going to die. I thought she would set him straight. He wasn’t an expert on their computer system, I reasoned. He couldn’t be trusted to read this information and interpret it correctly. I was searching for
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