Ox Fall Down

Yoon examines me before spilling. Throat and neck first with his hands. Then the chest and back with the stethoscope. Then the abdomen, pelvis, legs and ankles. Nothing extraordinary. Up off the table and Yoon calls up the scan on the computer screen. Frequently in post-surgical, post-radiation baseline scans you'll see some haze. It's like the old Zen joke. They call this "post-operative change" if it's nothing more than inflammation or scar tissue. Given the activity the site saw this winter p.o.c. is reasonable. If the haze represents a "tumor" they call it "cancer." "Cancer" produces "tumors" when cells divide rapidly, abnormally and without cease.

Yoon is comfortable waiting three months until the next scan. No treatment in the interim. His last words are, "I wouldn't be that concerned about it."

Across the street to the Proton Therapy Center. In the basement Delaney races past and says hello. You wait for him in the hallway with Dianna and the radiation techs Phil and Ron. Parking and dive bars in Brighton are discussed. When Delaney is ready he wants to know how Dianna fits in. I almost blurt out, "Isn't it clear? She's Lonzo's ex!" but I stay silent and enjoy his confusion. As soon as we're in the exam room he leaves to answer a page. I weigh myself. 201. Need to drink more beer and eat more. Run less. I'm 15 pounds underweight. When he returns he agrees with Yoon. Biopsy and exploratory surgery are too aggressive. There's no need to restart chemo when I feel well. If new symptoms arise we could change the plan. For now it's best to assume it's nothing until August's scan. At that point we'll know. "If it's tumor it will declare itself."

So now, Step. You're from Philly. You down with p.o.c.? Yeah, you know me. Who's down with p.o.c.? Every last lady.

Nervous?