After waking early, getting in the car before first light, and heading off to get a pre-surgery diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound, we had plenty of time before the next portion of our day. “Let’s go to Johnny’s,” I suggested. We drove the ten minutes from the imaging center where she had the new imaging done. Got a table. Sat down, reviewed the menu.
We had been here before treatment two. The place was bustling that morning. We were still so fucking scared. Not that we aren’t now, but she still had her hair, more or less. It had just begun falling out the day before, actually. She had presented a clump of hair. She had plenty to spare, so it was a few more days before she resorted to hats, and a few days longer before she asked me to shave her.
This morning, I opted for the corned beef hash, eggs over medium (I don’t love a runny egg, but I didn’t want a completely solid yolk, either; it’s hash!), side of bacon. She opted for apple cider French toast. I pulled out my phone, saw there was a notification that the results were in.
She had seen the tumor, knew it was smaller. I read the report. I fought tears. She saw the fight and said, “You look stressed.”
“I’m just—I, uh.” I stammered around, and finally said, “This shit works. As bad you have felt, it works.”
“I know.”
Let’s talk numbers. They measure the little bastard tumor in three dimensions. Her original diagnostic test measured the tumor at 1 x 1.2 x 1.7 cm (centimeters). Or, to make the next presentation more sensible, 1000 x 1200 x 1700 mm (millimeters).
Today’s tumor size, after seven chemotherapy treatments since the beginning of August: 10 x 5 x 10 mm. Millimeters! It’s now 1% the size it was in August on the first dimension. And even smaller across the other dimensions!
She grinned, but she didn’t do any dances or shed tears. She let me do that, crying a few tears of relief and joy in the middle of that diner. If anyone noticed, they didn’t linger and stare. “Couple more treatments, the little bastard will be gone!” I declared.
“Just one more,” she reminded me. She was not volunteering for more. And I don’t blame her. While decisions will likely need to be made later today or sometime next week, about what surgery to have, when, etc., we can breathe (or at least, I can breathe) knowing that this portion of our adventure is nearly through. And has been worth at least some (all?) of the aggravation and uncertainty.
We knew things were going better with the disease, but putting quantities on it can make it feel a little more real.