After our surgeon, Dr. Senkowski, successfully cut and carved 99% of the cancer out, rearranging various internal organs and actually throwing a couple away, he broke up with us.
It was abrupt.
"There's nothing else I can do for you you," he grinned, "but when you need a port installed, I'm your guy."
Sarah and I were devastated.
We've rebounded though with Dr. Jason Starr, our oncologist, who was very clear that his is a lifelong commitment!
My life.
Dr. Starr and Sarah intensely stare at three pictures of the cancer growing inside, which is visible to the naked eye.
"The growth is in millimeters," he explains, minimizing the disturbing expansion.
"But a millimeter in the University of Georgia National Championship came was huge," Sarah says.
Dr. Starr's scrunches up before his eyes dance and he laughingly agrees, "A millimeter is huge in that context."
I beam proudly at my wife, glance at the computer screen but have no desire to "eyeball" it.
In terms of treatment, Dr. Starr recommends continuing monthly injections and monitor the cancer's growth.
"I've got one patient that has the exact same thing as you and I've been treating her for 20 years," Dr. Starr smiles.
"Who cares!" I laugh.
He looks bewildered as I continue, "She's your outliner. She's the exception and not the rule. Every Doctor's got one. Let's talk about me."
The world stops for a second.
There is no sound.
There is no time, the second seems as a thousand years.
There is hope.
With his head tilted down, large coweyes stare intensely through black framed glasses over cupped hands, resting on a mostly black beard.
Sarah's waits, staring intensely at the Doctor staring at me.
"We understand," I continued, "I'm in pretty rare air! Stage 4 Pancreatic cancer for 3 years now. Not many people can say that."
The pregnant silence returns and a second is as a million years again.
Slowly, he leans forward in his chair, smiles solemnly and says, "Play with your little girl as much as you can."
And I laugh out loud.
Sarah joins in and as we all stand, I impulsively hug Jason who returns in kind.
It is a holy moment.
With his arm still around my waist, he guides Sarah and I down the hall, stopping at the Nurses station while explaining his 7 year old who lives in fear of his Dad dying.
"How do you two talk to Che about it?"
Sarah explains we're honest about everything and the conversation continues as through we're friends talking about their kids over morning coffee.
Except to the Nurses, all frozen at their stations, staring while pretending to not stare, and hanging on our every word.
We retrieved Che and Cassidy from the hotel we'd stayed at for the 2 days for testing.
"What did the Doctor say?" the girls ask as Sarah drives us to Zaxby's.
"It's playtime," we explain, as Sarah drives us home.
"There's nothing else I can do for you you," he grinned, "but when you need a port installed, I'm your guy."
Sarah and I were devastated.
We've rebounded though with Dr. Jason Starr, our oncologist, who was very clear that his is a lifelong commitment!
My life.
Dr. Starr and Sarah intensely stare at three pictures of the cancer growing inside, which is visible to the naked eye.
"The growth is in millimeters," he explains, minimizing the disturbing expansion.
"But a millimeter in the University of Georgia National Championship came was huge," Sarah says.
Dr. Starr's scrunches up before his eyes dance and he laughingly agrees, "A millimeter is huge in that context."
I beam proudly at my wife, glance at the computer screen but have no desire to "eyeball" it.
In terms of treatment, Dr. Starr recommends continuing monthly injections and monitor the cancer's growth.
"I've got one patient that has the exact same thing as you and I've been treating her for 20 years," Dr. Starr smiles.
"Who cares!" I laugh.
He looks bewildered as I continue, "She's your outliner. She's the exception and not the rule. Every Doctor's got one. Let's talk about me."
The world stops for a second.
There is no sound.
There is no time, the second seems as a thousand years.
There is hope.
With his head tilted down, large coweyes stare intensely through black framed glasses over cupped hands, resting on a mostly black beard.
Sarah's waits, staring intensely at the Doctor staring at me.
"We understand," I continued, "I'm in pretty rare air! Stage 4 Pancreatic cancer for 3 years now. Not many people can say that."
The pregnant silence returns and a second is as a million years again.
Slowly, he leans forward in his chair, smiles solemnly and says, "Play with your little girl as much as you can."
And I laugh out loud.
Sarah joins in and as we all stand, I impulsively hug Jason who returns in kind.
It is a holy moment.
With his arm still around my waist, he guides Sarah and I down the hall, stopping at the Nurses station while explaining his 7 year old who lives in fear of his Dad dying.
"How do you two talk to Che about it?"
Sarah explains we're honest about everything and the conversation continues as through we're friends talking about their kids over morning coffee.
Except to the Nurses, all frozen at their stations, staring while pretending to not stare, and hanging on our every word.
We retrieved Che and Cassidy from the hotel we'd stayed at for the 2 days for testing.
"What did the Doctor say?" the girls ask as Sarah drives us to Zaxby's.
"It's playtime," we explain, as Sarah drives us home.
Hi Mike: I am so glad I tracked you down. Your blog is excellent! Your daughter is both precious and adorable. She also sounds quite brilliant like her Dad.
ReplyDeleteFLASHBACK:
It is the summer of 1982. A naive smoky mountain girl from NC arrives for summer missions at 733 East Jefferson St. Probably so many of us you may not recall and that's okay if you don't.
I am here in Louisville for the first time since summer of 82' attending the International Gideons and Auxillary Convention.
Drove by 733 in the rental car and it is still standing. However, the Clarksburg housing project is gone, replaced by what looks newer and hopefully won't breed more generations of abject poverty and slavery of inner city blacks.
News of me. Bachelor's in Social Work from Mars Hill University in NC, Master's in Missions from Fuller Seminary in Pasadena, CA. Three teaching credentials. Retired 2 years ago from teaching Special Education. I love children. I am so thankful I did not work exclusively with adults. No doubt I would be in jail for assault and battery or something worse. Kids are great.
Married now for 33 years and Rich and I have 3 grown young adult kids and a fantastic son-in-law. I have lived most of my adult life in Southern California, currently in Irvine in Orange County. Rich is a native of So Cal.
However, Rich worked as an executive for Georgia Pacific for a while in Atlanta and we lived in Marietta.YUCK!!! That was the Babylonian Exile. Zillions of insects seem to breed there and if you didn't grow up there, marry your seventh grade crush, and pronounce the word dogs as "dawgs" well....
Back to you. Mike, I want to thank you for being real. Growing up Southern Baptist,(UGH) Did I actually type that out loud? I hope no one was listening. Growing up So Baptist I never could figure out why they believed a sip of any form of alcohol was a straight shot to hell. I loved and love to dance, but as you may recall, dancing leads to other unseemly activities such as holding hands. I had grown weary of the platitudes and wanted to do more outreach such as missions.
I recognized you seemed to understand what it meant to really stretch outside your comfort zone, drop the religious jargon, and truly listen to the suffering of others such as Lorenzo. You encouraged me. You never know who is watching.
Confession. I skipped the Auxillary Business Meeting today and went to the Muhammed Ali Museum instead. With thousands of people here no one noticed. I always loved how Ali would brag about how pretty he was and declare that the other boxers were ugly. What wonderful unabashed confidence!!!
If one more east coaster tells me after viewing my badge how bad the state of California's politics are, I might very well get locked up by the Louisville police. Wickedly, I check out their badges and click my Smoky Mountain/So CAL tongue in response, " Well, bless your heart. All those mosquitos must be driving you crazy and the humidity will surely be the death of you."
Tybee Island. Very cool. Go easy on that medicine. It might lead to dancing. And, don't be afraid. You got this Mike!!
P.S. I had to create this damn blog to get in touch with you.