It was a rough morning.

Mark and I rushed to the oncologist’s office–me inexplicably grim, Mark without his coffee.

And we sat. And sat. And sat.

When we finally saw Dr. Campbell’s face, almost a full two hours after our arrival, pretty much anything he said would have been met with tears on my part. I was a little fried.

So, when he came in not having even opened my file and tried to summarize the radiologist’s report while he read it, things were prepped for a tear-fest.

The radiologist’s report was actually fine. But just fine. No shrinkage, no growth, just fine.

And that made me cry. Not tears I could explain, just exhausted, worn-out, sick of waiting, sick of cancer, tired, anxious tears. I found myself fumbling around trying to tell him that actually I’m quite happy and I don’t think about cancer all the time and I sleep just fine and I really do enjoy life and and and.

All through these tears I couldn’t explain and couldn’t stop.

But, really, the news is nothing to cry about. I get to stay on the medicine I’m on. No shrinkage this time does not necessarily mean it couldn’t shrink more. Shrinking and arresting growth are both good. In fact, the nodule could be the dead tree stump in the yard and just sit there for years and years (I didn’t make that analogy up–we have yet to visit Dr. Campbell and not get an analogy like this.). We just have to…


That might involve some tears for me.

They’re nothing to get worried about. I really am quite happy. I really don’t think about cancer all the time.

I’m just not that good at waiting.

Perhaps you could tell Dr. Campbell.

9 replies on “waiting”

i have been thinking about you a lot. think about a stalker, and there you have me.
thanks for sharing this news. paul and i love you loads and we’ll do anything for you, including talking to dr. campbell.

OOOOHHHH! I apologize for the entire health care group. I would like to tell one I know that a little personal physical or emotional pain would make him a better provider. Glad that the report really is fine.

Aw, honey. Of course you cried! Heh, I cried the other night when I was sick in bed w/ the stomach flu and someone needed to go pick up Meli from the vet! Sometimes we are just fried beyond holding it together for another minute.

I get it. We get it. I’ll bet even Dr. Campbell gets it.

Love you so.

We love you & wait anxiously for every little tidbit of information – your thoughts about life, stories of trips outside w/Zoe, pics of the dog under the bed, or life at home with Mark…any news at all is so reassuring to us that you are still your strong, determined self.

I hate that your waiting involves so much worry.

If you need me, I am getting really good at self-depricating liturgical dance… I’ve done a few for Noel. No word yet on whether they helped or were appreciated but I’m offering my services just the same.

Do you remember making up gymnastics routines and getting our scores from the judges? (you, Becki and I?) We were unusually KIND judges. :o) I’d give you a 10 this week!!

I hate waiting bigtime, too.
Now I know a doctor who will make a housecall and bring his prescribed remedy: nice red Pinot Noir.

His wife accompanies him on such visits to make sure the remedy tastes Ok. . .

Love you!

anyone who knows you knows you hate to wait…
i have been visualizing those dead stumps in your lungs and am trusting they will stay that way. so thankful for you this week and always.

Dr. Campbell was my fathers oncologist back in 1992. He was I believe at that time a brand new Dr. at Butterworth. He was always Johnny on the Spot then…maybe you should remind him of this.

I cried reading your blog for heavens sake!…comes with the territory …

Love, big HUGS and a willingness to clean up after the party…..



I guess this post was enough to finally lure me out of the shadows and actually write a response.

But now I don’t know what to say. Except for maybe that I’m praying for “Strength for Today and Bright Hope for Tomorrow.”

I’m so glad that the the scan is fine.



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