Great news: Doctor thinks he got it all, lymph nodes are clear, and I don’t have to do chemo, or like, die or anything.
Although… it’s disconcerting to realize how many things I was secretly hoping I might get out of doing, had it come to that. When you think hard about what your own death might mean, it’s amazing how many positives you can come up with. So many diets not to go on, so many miles not to run, so many distasteful work assignments, lawns, weeds… seriously. The list goes on… literally… As in, it’s still in force; I still have to do those things.
I’ll get over the disappointment. Probably.
More great news: the feeling is beginning to return in my arm and, er, chest. Great, because I didn’t really want to spend the rest of my life feeling like I’m hauling around someone else’s flesh; it’s somewhat creepy. Temporarily not great because, well, now I can feel it healing, and that’s not actually that great of a sensation.
Yet more great news: I can now taunt my oh-so-normally-smug seventeen-year-old that I got over cancer faster than he got over a broken foot.
He doesn’t think that’s funny. In fact, he accuses me of not playing fair, having fake cancer, and/or taking the easy, just-amputate-the-problem-route. Which isn’t really accurate–they were excisions, not amputations.
He had to get a new cast today, and found out his bones hadn’t healed at all since New Year’s Eve, so he’s playing sore loser. Even though I didn’t rub it in.
The doctor was not at all fooled by the duct tape holding together the cast; said seventeen-year-old got another lecture about what, precisely, “no weight bearing”, means. He’s annoyed enough with the new cast that he might start believing what the good doc says, but it’s hard to predict these things.
He is, after all, seventeen.