Sunny Day, Ray of Hope

March 10, 2011: Beautiful day in the neighborhood. Almost 70 degrees. Spring is in the air. Mom and I leave early this AM for the Salt Lake Clinic to have lab work and an MRI done. I have a nervous tummy...again. Drink lots of water, thinking I'll have to pee in a cup. Nope. Only blood work. When I'm about to be stuck, I always think, "Where is my Robby? He would be oh so gentle and sure on the first try!" As I am called to have the MRI, Bob (the technician) says my mommy would be much more comfortable in the waiting room because we are going "outside" - the MRI unit is in a trailer in the back of the clinic. Seriously? I am wearing my comfy black "only at home" pants because they have told me not to wear clothing with metal on them. That rules out my favorite studded jeans. I've had nightmares about the MRI machine, hoping that I'm really not claustrophic like I've assured everyone, but obviously progress has made this beast much more comfortable. Immediately I see that there is a window just above my head where I can look out into the room and even watch the technicians. Ah, yes. This will be okay. In the last five minutes of the test, I'm injected with "contrast" (same name as the yucky lemonade stuff you drink, but this goes right in the arm). The first nurse misses the vein. ("Robby!") The second nurse is quick and easy. Test done, out the door by 9:15. I am up for a little breakfast at The Bakery and a slow stroll through Walgreens. Back at home, I snuggle into bed for a little nap. About an hour later, I hear the phone ring. Mom is quick to answer. I don't hear the conversation, except Mom saying, "That's good news, isn't it?" I am wide awake now. When she comes in to tell me, she is already crying with relief. Dr. Robinson, our favorite dermatologist, has called with the results of the biopsy from the top of my head. As far as they can tell under the microscope, the spot no longer holds melanoma cells. What? He tries to explain (I later call him to get the scoop firsthand) that there are little things called dermal melanosis (no idea how to spell) that will actually ATTACK and EAT melanoma cells when they first discover them in a mole. He couldn't say how long I've had this thing on the top of my head, but thinks those little Pac-Man soldiers in my body attacked and ate the cancer cells in the mole. Of course, the melanoma still went into the lymph nodes in my neck, but for now, I will not have to have a big thing cut off of my head unless something else shows up in the scans. He said that spot is in "regression". Hooray for my little army! The best news of hope is that Dr. R said, "People who have this happen respond the best to treatment." Miracles...and hope...miracles...and hope...
Tomorrow we go to hear all the news from the tests and scans. Dear sweet Dr. Bradley. My heart aches for him, as for all doctors, who have to break bad news to a family clutching at any sliver of hope. But we pray for him, too. Tonight, I feel very strongly that this journey has only confirmed my faith in our human family. So many of my heavenly brothers and sisters are praying for me that it would be impossible not to feel comfort and peace in knowing God is listening. He brought this miracle today. He will bring more. Don't worry, Ally and Lachlan. Grammy will sleep well tonight and try not to be scared tomorrow.