I don't know which is harder: trying to read between the shifting lines of body language or the scathing sounds of spoken language.
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.
Another dark door to go through, with the usual posted warnings.
More as we go, El