Another Day, Another Doctor

March 15, 2011: Another waiting room. Another history to fill out. Another receptionist asking if any information has changed. What, since a week ago? I'm grateful to have my darling DIL by my side to make me laugh as she looks down the list of current distresses: anxiety - check; high blood pressure - check; nervous stomach - check, check; CANCER - do I have to check? Is there a grace period where you're still allowed to think you might wake up from this nightmare? No, I have to check it...but I add my postscript - "diagnosed 3/7/11", as if that makes it less real. Inside Dr. Scott's exam room, his Medical Assistant, Lani, sees beyond our too-bright smiles, our too-ready laughter, the way our eyes beg for good news. She assures us that this will be one of those good news days and we clutch her words to our hearts. I go into another room for X-rays on my foot, one flat, one bending to one side, one to the other side. I remember when I sprained this foot in the 8th grade - I was jumping over rough wooden saw horses in our backyard, Olympic-style, and landed wrong. The foot wasn't broken - I could still walk on it, barely - but it was the most painful thing I'd experienced. I remember that those X-rays showed I was still growing - the leg bone and the foot bone were not "connected" yet - and I was devastated. I was already 5'7" - a giant among the short boys at school. The X-rays were right. I added another two inches before I finally hit my peak.
Back in the exam room, Dr. Scott walks in, and immediately I am at ease. He is kind and friendly. He pulls a chair closer to me and says, "I know I'm probably the 100th doctor you've seen in the past few days, but will you tell me your story?" It's as if I'm talking to an old friend who is sincerely interested. Then, he asks, "And what about this foot? What has gone on in your life with this foot?" I laugh. Feet are funny things. Mine, especially. They're big. I've broken my little pinky toes about four times. I can't wear flip-flops any more because I get heel pain. Oh, and by the way, I sprained this ankle when I was about 13 and it's been weak and susceptible to wrenching and tweaking ever since.
Dr. Scott is so patient. He brings out a model of a skeletal foot, tells me why I'm here in his office today, why we're looking at the PET scan for a supposed "hot spot". Then, with a mischievous grin, he says, "Have you seen your PET scan? Let's have a look at it." Linds and I sit up. Wow, really? He jokes, "Doctors shouldn't have all the fun looking at this stuff!" He pulls up the files on his computer and tells us that scans are like Doppler weather - they show images - slices - of our bodies and different colors mean different things. Suddenly, there I am on the screen - well, there is the INSIDE of Lisa, the images of my heart, my stomach (gosh, it's huge!), my lungs, my intestines and bowels, my brain - all lit up like a Christmas tree. And there, right below my right ear, are two little yellow circles. My tumors. Solid. Real. Little orbs of chaos. Mayhem, trying to mess up my life.
Way down at the bottom are the scans of my legs and feet. Dr. Scott points to a sliver - a wisp - of yellow on the side of my right foot. "That's why you're here." It looks like the flame from a match, long and willowy. Nothing like the two beasties in my neck.
He feels my foot, compares it to the other one. "That's why we have two," he says. He sits back and says, in pure hope-filled words, that there's nothing to be concerned about. No cancer. No melanoma. To him, it appears to be consistent with an old injury, probably my sprained ankle and the countless re-injuries over the years. Linds and I sigh with relief. We thank Dr. Scott with all our hearts, and I feel like skipping down to the parking lot.
The army trudges onward. Next stop, Thursday and surgery. And so we prepare with more prayer, more priesthood blessings, more love, more gratitude. More hope. And - forgive my selfishness - more miracles.