The Hard Truths

 

Written by Sarah Elliott after our last visit to Mayo Clinic.

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Shit!” Micheal said, halfway into our 4 am drive down to Mayo in Jacksonville, “I forgot my shoes”

After we laugh and laugh, he tells me he has his black-and-white buffalo plaid fluffy socks on.

We quickly learn that truck stop gas stations do not sell flip flops. I thought they might since they have showers. And with our first appointment at 7am, most stores are still closed.

“Well, Mayo hospital is one place it will look normal for you to be in those socks,” I tell him.

I sit in the waiting room as my honey receives his MRI and then as he goes in for a different (PET) scan and then blood work.

Each time he emerges his black-and-white buffalo plaid fluffy socks make me burst out in laughter.

Who knew that forgetting one's shoes could be the joyful twist throughout the dauntingness of our day of appointments.  

Pouring over the results online before we meet with our oncologist, we are better prepared for our visit.

“Well, you do have two completely separate dueling cancers,” our oncologist shares.

We listen as he confirms that in addition to stage 4 pancreatic cancer and skin cancer, Micheal also has stage 4 prostate cancer.

The three of us in the room all look at one another, quietly digesting what we already knew, but now can actually see which is where in Micheal’s body.

We talk about treatment options and their side effects again for each cancer. Any treatment will not cure these cancers, but may help slow their progression. We do know surgery is not an option.

We openly discuss the hard truths.

Asking about our plans, I share  

“Well we are going to Colorado to visit our daughter, our other daughter just got engaged and…”

Knowing this is not what he was asking, but he smiles and understands.

We are too busy living to think about dying.

We do know that the window of time for additional treatments to be helpful is closing. We understand that treatments come with their own cost.

As we have always done, Micheal and I will process over the next several days.

Standing to leave our oncologist hugs my Micheal.  He hugs me and then hugs Micheal again. He walks us to the waiting room reassuring us  that he respects and supports whatever we decide.

“Enjoy your fun trips!” he concludes as we exit.

Squeezing Micheal’s hand, I see those black-and-white buffalo plaid fluffy socks and laugh.

“Shit!” Micheal says.