Time after time.

Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick and think of you

caught up in circles 

confusion

is nothing new. 

flashback, warm nights

Almost left behind

Suitcase of memories,

Time after 

Sometimes you picture me 

I'm walking too far ahead

You're calling to me, I can't hear

What you said 

Then you say go slow 

I fall behind 

The second hand unwinds

If you're lost you can look and you will find me

Time after time

If you fall I will catch you I'll be waiting 

Time after time

If you're lost you can look and you will find me

Time after time

If you fall I will catch you I will be waiting 

Time after time

After my picture fades and darkness has 

Turned to gray

Watching through windows you're wondering

If I'm OK

Secrets stolen from deep inside

The drum beats out of time

If you're lost you can look and you will find me

Time after time

If you fall I will catch you I'll be waiting

Time after time

You say go slow

I fall behind

The second hand unwinds

If you're lost you can look and you will find me

Time after time

If you fall I will catch you I'll be waiting

Time after time

If you're lost you can look and you will find me

Time after time

If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting

Time after time

Time after time

Time after time

Time after time

                                                 
                                                                ~Cyndi Lauper, Songwriter

I tried to do the drive to the city, the appointment alone this time - the appointment again this last Monday - the scan with IV contrast & barium, the bloodwork, the appt with the Hematologist Oncologist...every 6 months since October 2011. The partially removed tumor for the very rare disease I have - Unicentric Castlemans, Hyaline vascular type - still sits inside me, clinging to my right iliac vein. Its curable if they can remove it all, but unfortunately they couldnt, and it can return, spread, morph into cancer - they treat it as a cancer. I also ended up with a permanent DVT from the surgery that i wear a compression sock for, and a permanent 8 inch Paisley motif scar on my belly; two reminders that i ignore frequently.  I go into the familiar radiology department and wait; then my name is called, and I see familiar faces. it takes 4 people, 6 tries to put a catheter in - they end up using an MRI machine to seek my veins, pressing down hard, trying both arms. and poking. and poking. Nerves are hit; my fingers pulsate with electricity and I yelp quietly, they apologize. and continue to poke. and apologize. and poke.  It took 90 minutes before I was put into the scanner- my arms ache - but i am obedient and lay down on the movable bed, raise my arms, iv attached, close my eyes, listening to the hum of the machine as it glides me through and listening to the disembodied voice tell me when to hold my breath, to let me know when the contrast hits my veins and I feel the familiar heat in my body wash through, the sensation of urination and the metallic taste in my mouth. it takes 10 minutes. They ease me up, make me sit because they could tell, tell that i wanted to run out of there NOW, like a pacing feral horse in a stall circling, wanting a way OUT. When they finally let me get up, I walked out as fast as i can, like the buildings on fire, pushing the swinging doors open - i dart for the main hallway - I hear my name called - I turn and look - my Foresterman is standing there, alone, his look of concern, his love for me written on his face. He   drove 3 hours to surprise me, because he knew. He just knew. My lifeline in a sea of strange surroundings, i rush to him and cling, feeling the sob that wants to escape from my throat. no. not here. I pull him off to the side and tell him I dont want to do this anymore. no. more. and he holds me with no words. Time after time.

But we have to run to catch the next appointment, no time to lunch even though my stomach is empty from last night's fast and here we are, once again at the cancer clinic, my full head of hair in a room full of people without. I feel awkward. I hate this. i hate this. I hate this. But they move people through respectfully fast here, they dont let us linger, we are important and time is important, to all of us who sit here and wait. Time after time.

My name is called, we both get up, i dont have to do this alone - we follow the nurse and go through the ritual of weigh in, chattiness on her part to fill the dead air of the unknowing (because thats why we are here, to find out results yet again), she comments on my high blood pressure reading, gets up and says Dr. W will be in shortly. we wait.  we talk about the questions we want to ask - about freedom - and in walks Dr. W. he is a quiet, unassuming man, stops to shake our hands hello in formality -  but he knows why we are here, so he sits at his desk, pulling up the results on his laptop right away, even though the test was just a half hr ago. We've all done this before. Time after time.

We hold our breath. and wait for him to speak.

"it looks good. all of it" he says, looking up smiling. I exhale like a deer does when they call out in warning "shhuuushh". Its good. all of it. Before we can ask our questions Dr. W tells me to get undressed and up on the table - he steps out - i shed my clothes quickly, tossing them at my foresterman like we are warming up 5 minutes before the game throwing softballs and stop for a moment to ponder the gown question again, tie in front or back? (time after time!) and before we know it hes back in the room, asking politely for me to hop up on the table and hes poking me and prodding all my lymph nodes and peering in my mouth and ears, making me take deep breaths...and i try so hard not to start talking because I know it will slow this process down.  my heart pounds - we have questions to ask - Time after time.

"okay, we're done" Dr. W says sitting back at his desk, and me on the table and then I ask the most important question first.  How long will these scans last?  

"5 years total every 6 months".

my mouth drops involuntary and my hands grip the table im sitting on - I can see the surprise in his eyes at my reaction - "i cant do this-" my foresterman chimes in "she had a rough go of it today" . Theres silence in the room. Dr. W coughs, his polite hand making a fist at his mouth, and he looks at me again. "we could eliminate the contrast, but then the readings will not be clear..." his voice trails off.  the rest of it I could not hear because my mind stopped. It literally stopped. I interrupted both of them and heard this voice, coming from me, in control and full of power - "i was not expecting you to say this, and I need to think about all of this. But not now. we have time." They both stare at me, and somewhere inside of my being i felt strong. not sick. strong. Time after time.

So then the questions start. And Dr. W always gets a little smile on his face when we ask questions - "I want to go backpacking and live above 10,000 feet this summer on the mountains for a week, can i?" yes. "can she free dive while snorkeling, and how deep?" yes, 15 ft should be okay. more goofy questions, more serious answers. After this odd exchange that makes him smile our time is up. As he is leaving, he takes my hand, looks into my eyes, searching for me. We connect, and he says meaningfully "youre doing VERY good. VERY good." This word, "VERY" is new. I am doing VERY good. my foresterman and I both grin at each other after the door closes. "VERY good." 

we can make decisions later on testing, 

but today we are doing VERY good.

very good.

~

The picture of me above was taken by Mr. Foresterman in 2005. 

Its a special place off trail, above treeline and above 10,000 ft.

I am going there again to flyfish, this year.

and

who the heck has their own supply of barium?

(and its not a smoothie taste - trust me...)

~

VERY GOOD.