My Bone Is Chipped

Forget about monkeys I think I have evolved from a dog. Not a loyal dog, because I am too selfish for that. But a dog that sometimes gnaws at its own leg.

Actually maybe I have evolved more from the original monkey-dog, I am sure there was one, as I am living proof of its genetic line. I have the skeleton of a monkey, make as much noise as one, and I tend to want to pick at anything left in your hair.

But I have the temperament of a dog that grovels for a bone when I see my oncologist. I whine, I tap my paws, I lick the roof of my mouth (that is as dry as a bone since chemo), I whimper when I don’t whine, and I shy away from that blow that I believe may be coming in my direction. Unlike people, I have a master; I am not my own master.

The volunteer and I are talking and she tells me how she has had cancer twice and is in fear of it coming back. ‘No shit’ I say. I hear my name called.

I get weighed (217) and am told I can wait in Room 2. The nurse asks how I am feeling and I tell her. I tell her too that I think I may have diabetes because I am always thirsty, overweight, and have foamy pee. She tells me to repeat it all to my oncologist and family doctor. I am told to put on the robe and then I wait and wait and wait.

I see my oncologist (whom I love) walk by and she doesn’t look in the room. Oh oh, does that mean something? Was she just walking by the room and didn’t see me, totally possible. It isn’t always about me, contrary to what I think, maybe she just saw someone else and is trying to keep her thoughts about them in her head before she writes it down and didn’t have time to say ‘hey’. She is not the type to say ‘hey’ and is probably, more than likely, just innocently walking down the hall like everybody else at the hospital. Notice that I don’t need to be screwed as I screw myself.

I notice my back paw is tapping the floor. I control it. My front paw on the right-hand side is starting to twitch, it is now tapping too. ‘Calm down already.’ My back paw continues to tap.

A fringe of hair is covering my eyes and I see through them that the door across the hall has the number 7 on it. Okay, I am in room number 2. I should be in number 7 because that is a lucky number. 7 + 2 = 9. 7 – 2 = 5. 9 + 5 = 13 unlucky number (I know now that it equals 14). Oh shit this is not turning out good. Gggrrrrr, woof woof. I need to re-jive those numbers. 7 + 2 = 72. 2 + 7 = 27. 72 +27 = 99. Okay, that is better; I think I have a good chance that the news will be 99% okay.

I only have a drop or two of water left in my bowl and I need to place it on my temples and forehead as I feel like I am going to faint. It is suddenly hot under my fur. My paws are scrapping along the floor and my tail is bent because I always sit in a crouched position.

Room number 2 is starting to feel like a small cage. A cage that is much too small for a 217 pound monkey-dog. I start to gulp because something is wrong with my breathing. For fuck’s sake, I should be in room 7! Calm down, people have been given bad news in each of these rooms. Never mind calm down, this is my life I’m worrying about. It doesn’t matter what room I am in. Okay, get your shit together, you need a clear head.

The doctor comes in just in the knick of time. Thank God, I haven’t lost it yet.

Hello, how are you feeling? Woof, woof. How are the family and that lovely granddaughter of yours? Woof, she is 1 ½ years old now, woof.

Unfortunately they were not able to get the dye in for your CT scan; however, I think the test is fine as it shows no change. There is no need for a retest because there is nothing suspicious there. The bone scan also showed no change. So the results are good, everything is stable.

I lick her face.

I find that I can string a sentence together again and we discuss the new little book by J.K. Rawlings.

I go get my pamidronite treatment which is given in chemo format (it is used to place calcium back in the bones as I have bone metastases). I am quite excited and want copies of my blood tests.

I look at my blood test results and I then start to make myself feel sick and anxious. I begin to play the what-if game. Because even though the results are stable and that is what I want, the blood test numbers are going down on the platelets (I want up) and the tumor markers are going up (I want down). Don’t get me wrong, I am happy, more than happy. I remind myself of what my Dad told me ‘When the what-ifs come knocking tell them to fuck off.’

I need to run with the good. I need to remind myself that I got the bone I came for even if it is a little chipped. I am thankful.

I phone Angelique and I tell her the results, we are able to exhale now. I start crying.

Thank you everyone for your prayers and your supportive comments to me. I want you all to know how much they mean to me. Merci.