Because the strange beautiful world we live in is full of undeniable coincidences, I was having a long overdue catch up with one of my dearest friends this morning on the phone and she told me about a person she knows who not only had exactly the same “extremely rare” tumour, but they received a radical treatment for it are is still alive and kicking 9 years later!
Thats a darn sight more hopeful than Dr Google who gave me a year to live, tops.
So that conversation not only reminded me how much I love and miss my beautiful friend (she lives interstate) but it also gave me just a little bit of hope.
The gastroenterologist called just after I got off the phone and essentially confirmed the universes little offering of hope by telling me the moving forward plan. Next week we will have to have an endoscopy and a colonoscopy, but I don’t know the date and I’m doing my best to not think about that at all right now as it is as triggering as all get out. Our intelligent and kind GP is organising all of our appointments for us so we don’t
chicken out have to and our psychiatrist M, who absolutely does not have time for this is once again offering to come and hold our hand so we don’t flip out.
The gastroenterologist has linked us with an oncologist who we will see through the Cancer Centre in the city, and he suggesting that the very same surgical specialist who had dealt with my friends friend’s cancer and that they might be able to perform the same surgery she had.
The surgery part… That part is still an issue, a giant red flag waving glaring issue especially as this kind of surgery is the polar opposite of keyhole. It is in fact a huge, massive, painful scary as fuck procedure with a Hell of a long recovery, and it would have to be in Sydney, which means amongst so many other things, that our psychiatrist probably wouldn’t be able to save us that time either. That sounds extra frightening and quite lonely.
I know, I know, I should stop counting my anxiety chickens before they hatch, the fact that I’m even entertaining the very idea of crazy radical methods of extending our life confuses the crap out of me, I mean how will the others feel about it? Didn’t we all want to die last week?
For all I know, they might look at all our test results and decide that we aren’t a candidate for that kind of surgery anyway, but you know me, I like to overthink and stress as much as possible and once a coincidence involves itself things start to seem inevitable. Perhaps I should ask if the surgeon drives a Mustang…