Visited the gynecological oncologist today. This is the surgeon who, once he performed the tumor-removal (removal of uterus, cervix, fallopian tubes and ovaries) took 3 months off to move his practice and vacation in Rome while I tried to figure out what WTF!?! to do with what I thought was the end of my life. In all fairness, he left me with one option (one referral) as he exited the hospital room - radiation. When I saw him last December, he expected that I would have done what he told me to do which I did not. While he was off vacationing in Rome, I would have radiation. I had enough time to research options, go to other doctors, have chemotherapy, gather opinions and read a bible's worth of scientific articles, gleaning bits and pieces from each paper to support my case (whatever the case was on any given day). Ultimately this is all okay because when I was going to all those other doctors, reading and researching, I got another education I would not have chosen otherwise. I don't show any signs of cancer. For today, I'm happy.
The doctor asked me if I had the radiation? I told him "no."' I was really apprehensive prior to that "no." My blood pressure was abnormally high when the nurse-person-janitor took my BP. I was just short of freaking. Once I told him "no, I did not..." he said, "Good, I'm glad you didn't have the radiation." And went on to explain why he thought it was good that I didn't have the radiation. He explained that he was glad that I chose not to do radiation because it would be better to live (a few? some? many? one?) years of quality life than many years without much quality ie, wheelchair-bound, unable to walk, bed-bound, diaper-wearing. He used the 100 year old person in a wheel chair (with no quality of life per se) as an example. "It's better to live (what life you have left) than be 100 years old ,confined to a wheelchair for the last 40 years of your life."
Well, that was certainly reassuring.
Doctor Gynecological Oncologist is a old flirt. From my very first appointment (when I was all cancery and tumor-ridden) he asked me if I were Canadian (odd) and if I could speak French? He likes my voice and shakes his head in dismay when I tell him I took four years of German. (More Aggressive German than Passive Sexy French -- I guess.) The extent of my command of the French language is comment allez- vu, and now, Derailleur (in my previous bicycle subject).
Perhaps in his youth, Herr Docktor had a tete a tete (italics are so French-like)with a French mailman or a l'Affaire with a French milkman or maybe he ate a french fry. Whatever it was, he liked it. And I push some button for him. It's kind of creepy but I can deal. I dealt with cancer. I can handle anything now.
I have until December, my next appointment, to learn French. I'm supposed to be able to speak entirely in French. And at the end of the visit, I'm going to give him the bill.
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