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.
