Sightseeing at the oncologist's office...

We went to see my oncologist today.   We were very encouraged by some of the things she said.   The word 'curable' was used a few times.    So was 'if'.    We are still guarded, and know that this will be a fight.   The doctor sat in the examination room and spoke with us for at least 30 minutes.   That surprised me.   She had to move into a larger area because she has so many patients, yet took that amount of time just to chat with us.   It wasn't all history gathering stuff - she answered all of our questions, gave advice, and made us feel really good about our situation.   That is so much different from seeing a general practioner, where they try to move people through as quickly as possible.  It was very nice.

To some of the finer points of the visit:  certain procedures are being scheduled.   We should hear from my oncologist's office tomorrow with details and will let you know, but I have to have a PET scan.   Surprisingly, it has nothing to do with my dogs.   A PET scan is where they pump you up with a special formula (it takes an hour to do so, I believe), and send you through an MRI looking gizmo.   The liquid hunts down cancer cells and pools there, and will show up in the gizmo, as long as the growth is at least 1 centimeter.   That sounds fairly painless.  

Next is an ultrasound for my heart.   One of the medicines in the chemo treatment, R-CHOP, is kind of tough on the ticker.   An ultrasound will make sure that my heart can take the treatment.   Another painless treatment.

Then, I need to have a port installed.   A port will allow the chemo to be more easily administered, and will allow me to download pictures faster.  This will be installed in my chest, and  I'll have to go under the knife again for this.   More stitches.

These things should happen early next week, with the ultrasound and the PET scan happening on the same day.  

Staging.   This is where the doctors determine how widespread the cancer is.    We are all hopeful that we caught this early since I have no other symptoms than the knot that was on my neck.   But the PET scan and bone marrow biopsy will let us know for sure.

I know what you are thinking.   He didn't mention a bone marrow biopsy.   Sure I did.   Look 4 sentences back and you'll see it right there.   Before my oncologist walked out of the examination room, she mentioned that I needed a bone marrow biopsy.   Today.   Now.   I had heard others speak of it, but there is nothing like going through it yourself.   The nurse took me to another room, which was good because I didn't want my wife to see me go through it.   I saw my second son have something very similar to this when he was 2 and had a bout with ITP (google it.   It can be nasty, but he is ok now) and I knew it would not be pleasant.  Spoilers are ahead, so if you don't want to know, its best to skip forward. 
I had to pull my pants down enough to expose my hip bone, and lie stomach down on a hospital bed.    The doctor then administered a local anesthetic.   This is the first point of the procedure that needs to be clarified.  The greek anesthesia means “want of feeling,” and the local would indicate that nerves in the localized area would "want of feeling," or be asleep.   That is what I expected.   However, I think the hospital staff used a different anesthesia, perhaps from a german root, which means "amplification of pain," and the local would indicate everywhere within the same zip code.  She shot the anesthesia, or molten lava,  into my hip and I almost hit the ceiling.    Pain from the 'local' area spread down my right leg to my knee and persisted for what seemed an hour, but was only a couple of  minutes.  That pain stopped only when she inserted a needle into my hip bone.   Insert gives the impression of a smooth, even gliding application of the needle.   Nothing could be further from the truth.   I think she had to use a hammer to drive it into the bone.   Interesting point:  local anesthesia only affects nerves in the skin and muscle tissue.  NOT BONE.   So yes, that hurt.   Then she had to draw out the marrow.   Holy cow, I think that I felt my foot draw up from the suction.   I can still hear the sucking sound that was made drawing out the marrow, but, in all honesty, it could have just been me trying to get oxygen to deal with the pain.   Everything on me was clenched.   The nurses were asking me questions the whole time, presumably to take my mind off of the procedure.  I tried to answer, but I don't know if I was speaking any known language.   She removed the needle, which was mildly painful, like having a finger snatched off of your hand, and started to retrieve bone.   Actual bone.   I think she used a hole-saw for this, the kind you would use to cut a hole in a door to install a knob.   I experienced brand new levels of pain here, and continued to speak in my newly acquired tongue.   The sample was then place into some kind of sample tray, femur sized, and I was given a band aid.   A band aid.  Really?   For that?   I needed some kind of butt sling.   After the bleeding stopped, and I returned to my native language, I was taken back to the room with my wife.   The nurse came back almost immediately with scheduling instructions to give to the scheduling assistant.   The nurse must have had a sick sense of humor, because she briskly walked to the door down the hall to point us toward the assistant.   I was not at race speed.   I finally got to the door, and she finished her lunch, and we were on our way.   The assistant will call us tomorrow with the details of the procedures we have to do next.

It is possible that I will start chemo next week, but most likely it will be the week after.   I'm ready now.  Let's go.   Hear me, cancer?   It's on!