After looking at all my test results and proclaiming "This is not good, this is not good at all" after looking at every sheet of paper, he told me that if this mass in my cervical region (called the pouch of Douglas) wasn't operable, there would be no hope for me.
"I'm sorry.." long dramatic pause, looking at me sympathetically. I think he half expected me to burst into tears but when he saw no tears forthcoming, he continued "I'm really very sorry."
We've been monitoring this lesion since we found out about it last year, and after a few failed tests we haven't been able to confirm if it is cancerous or just a harmless fibroid. All my previous doctors have been very positive since my nodes are all clear, and technically the melanoma would have to travel through my nodes before they can reach my abdominal area.
When I asked him why he was treating it like it was a confirmed case of metastasic melanoma when there's been no confirmative report, "It most likely is" he said. It was almost like he wanted it to be.
I was far from crying. Of course, it's scary to hear words like that, but I was too angry to focus too much on fear. How can anyone tell you that there is no hope? It is my choice, my decision to keep hoping or not to. No one should ever tell someone that there is no hope because hoping is a personal right, one that we can choose to cling to even on our death beds.
As I sat there, listening to all these dark predictions, all I could think of was how off everything seemed. "I feel like a million dollars, and yet this is what the doctor is telling me. How can I be dying when I feel so great?" It may sound a bit dense, but cancer or not, when you feel so healthy and ...alive, the thought of dying just can't really sink in. Even when this fancy doctor in this fancy hospital with all his fancy degrees tell you that there is no hope for you, your mind just refuses to believe the things you hear.
Anyway, Doctor Doom ordered a battery of tests and appointments with a radiologist (because he was positive I needed radiation therapy) and an oncological surgeon.
To cut a long story short, the senior surgeon was angry that a big deal was made out of something that was possibly nothing. He canceled all the tests that Doom ordered, and asked me to do another ultrasound guided FNAC (this is the only thing that's made me cry so far by the way, the pain is freaking intense).
I will get my test result on Friday. I feel very positive about everything. Hopefully, things will not be as bad as Doctor Doom predicted.
Well that's all on the dying side. On the living side, I am awesome! :) I signed up for one of the girls football team for the Google Football League. My team is called The Tribe, and guess who's captain? :) And it is only appropriate that a true tribal captains a team called The Tribe :P
That's me, #1, winning all the tosses for my team.
We've played two matches so far. Lost one 1-0, and I'll admit we were not very good losers. We sulked and remained dour-faced for the rest of the day.
Football is healthy. And I don't mean just physically. Believe me, when you're out on the ground engaged in full-out combat with your enemy, cancer is the last thing on your mind.
Love is also healthy :-)