Today, at my Imfinzi
infusion session, I also met with my oncologist to review the results of my
recent chest CT scan.
His body language told
me: “I’m concerned.”
Trouble is, so did his spoken
language: “I’m concerned.”
So, I pressed him, knowing
that he’d get as specific as he could, which is considerable, given his
expertise. I also knew that he’d stop short of using a crystal ball. I threw
mine away this past year, and this young Doc already has the wisdom to leave seering
to the seers.
He deals in facts.
Numbers. Ratios. Equivalents. Values. Imagery. Diagnostics. Degrees. Like this
one, a before and after comparison (minus the phony Photoshopped brush-ups).
This is my interior, courtesy of the art-science of tomography.
Yes, there is a virtual
slice of my chest: most recent on the left, three months ago on the right.
I’ll leave you to find “it,”
like one of those picture puzzles with subtle differences in the same drawings.
Ah, this one has a mustache; this one doesn’t. Find the missing shoe. One of
these things is not like the other (done in your best sing-songy Sesame Street
off-key).
Get the pictures? Get
the errant lymph node.
Yes, good Doc will
sometimes venture into prognostication, but not without first applying the
caveats of possibilities and probabilities. With predictions, there must be a
way out. That’s why crystal balls in my life are now junk novelties.
Not the best news today,
so next up? Another PET scan and EBUS/Biopsy to dammit see which new pronouns
and adverbs will be coming into play.
Good thing I love the language: wordy or worn.
More as we go, El
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