Window Shopping
TOM AND I WENT TO M. D. ANDERSON, a large cancer research hospital in Houston attached to the University of Texas. Two doctors, each with grave expressions and impressive credentials, examined me. “I believe,” the more senior doctor said, “you could survive our treatment.”
THEY EXPLAINED A SIX-WEEK COURSE of chemotherapy with cheerful enthusiasm. Provided the cancer hadn’t spread to my brain, I would be checked into the hospital the next day. They had no treatment for the brain, he explained, handing me a consent form.
“JUST A MINUTE,” I said, “I’m here window shopping. I need more information. For starters, what are the remission statistics?”
HE PAUSED IN THE PROCESS of pulling a pen out of his pocket. “We have about a sixty percent response rate.”
RESPONSE WASN’T REMISSION. He hadn’t answered my question. “And remission?” I asked again.
THE PEN WAS STILL ANGLED toward me. “Well, it’s too early to tell. Patients must survive five years for us to be able to declare remission. And . . .”
“SO, WHAT IS the recurrence rate?”
“UNH.” HE BEGAN WRITING on the paper sheet that covered the examination table. Sixty percent—response. Seventy percent—recurrence.
“AND THE SIDE-EFFECTS?”
HE DESCRIBED PAIN, nausea, the inability to eat, and shrugged. “It’s pretty rough.”
“BOTTOM LINE. How long are you able to prolong the life of a patient with my stage cancer?”
“ON AVERAGE about nine months.”
“OKAY,” I SAID. “It’s August. With this treatment you’re saying I’ve got until April?”
HE NODDED.
“AND SIX WEEKS of that I’ll be sick as a dog?”
HE OPENED HIS HANDS in a gesture of defeat. “There are alternatives, but they aren’t much better.” He began to list the others along with their dismal statistics on the paper sheet. “That’s about it.”
“YOU’VE BEEN VERY KIND,” I said, “but I think I want to keep looking—and use your therapy as a last-ditch effort.”
BOTH DOCTORS NODDED.
“I WILL PRAY FOR YOUR PROJECT and your research. I think you’ll find a cure for melanoma in the next five years. All I have to do is stay alive long enough for you to do that.”
THE MORE SENIOR DOCTOR smiled. “Keep in touch. If you need me, call me.” We all shook hands.
HAD I BEEN DESPERATE, I would have been heading for the hospital instead of heading for home. Being able to face death without fear had let me ask questions and let me say no when I didn’t like the answers.
SOMETIMES THE MOST YOU CAN PRAY for is the courage to exercise choice.
You’re blessed. Be a blessing!
THEY EXPLAINED A SIX-WEEK COURSE of chemotherapy with cheerful enthusiasm. Provided the cancer hadn’t spread to my brain, I would be checked into the hospital the next day. They had no treatment for the brain, he explained, handing me a consent form.
“JUST A MINUTE,” I said, “I’m here window shopping. I need more information. For starters, what are the remission statistics?”HE PAUSED IN THE PROCESS of pulling a pen out of his pocket. “We have about a sixty percent response rate.”
RESPONSE WASN’T REMISSION. He hadn’t answered my question. “And remission?” I asked again.
THE PEN WAS STILL ANGLED toward me. “Well, it’s too early to tell. Patients must survive five years for us to be able to declare remission. And . . .”
“SO, WHAT IS the recurrence rate?”
“UNH.” HE BEGAN WRITING on the paper sheet that covered the examination table. Sixty percent—response. Seventy percent—recurrence.
“AND THE SIDE-EFFECTS?”
HE DESCRIBED PAIN, nausea, the inability to eat, and shrugged. “It’s pretty rough.”
“BOTTOM LINE. How long are you able to prolong the life of a patient with my stage cancer?”
“ON AVERAGE about nine months.”
“OKAY,” I SAID. “It’s August. With this treatment you’re saying I’ve got until April?”
HE NODDED.
“AND SIX WEEKS of that I’ll be sick as a dog?”
HE OPENED HIS HANDS in a gesture of defeat. “There are alternatives, but they aren’t much better.” He began to list the others along with their dismal statistics on the paper sheet. “That’s about it.”
“YOU’VE BEEN VERY KIND,” I said, “but I think I want to keep looking—and use your therapy as a last-ditch effort.”
BOTH DOCTORS NODDED.
“I WILL PRAY FOR YOUR PROJECT and your research. I think you’ll find a cure for melanoma in the next five years. All I have to do is stay alive long enough for you to do that.”
THE MORE SENIOR DOCTOR smiled. “Keep in touch. If you need me, call me.” We all shook hands.
HAD I BEEN DESPERATE, I would have been heading for the hospital instead of heading for home. Being able to face death without fear had let me ask questions and let me say no when I didn’t like the answers.
SOMETIMES THE MOST YOU CAN PRAY for is the courage to exercise choice.
You’re blessed. Be a blessing!
posted by Chronic Hope at 7:24 AM
1 Comments:
We're on the same page when it comes to choice-making. There's ALWAYS a choice. Sometimes the choice is only whether to grin or growl, but there's ALWAYS a choice, and making it always makes a difference. Hugs to you, tootsie.
Post a Comment
<< Home