Today I have a shock. Going into the hospital to see Dr B seemed straightforward. I had the routine blood test first and was expecting only to discuss the trial drug and whether or not I wanted to be considered for it. Then the bombshell:
“I do apologise. I mis-spelt your name and as a result haven’t had a chance to discuss your recent detailed scans with the liver surgeons. The tumours may not be operable, in which case we are speaking only of palliative care. I should have an answer for you in about half an hour, if you’d like to come back then.”
Chris and I go for a cup of tea. I am numb with shock. Do I prepare myself to die? Do I insist on a second opinion…what the hell do I do?
In the café I go through the motions of drinking. It is like seeing the world through distorted glasses. Everything feels weird, different as though I am detached. How do I deal with this? Chris can’t speak. His eyes say it all.
We return in silence. We wait no more than five minutes and are taken into one of the side rooms.
“They have decided that you are borderline operable. One of the tumours is close to a crucial blood vessel, which means that it could be dangerous to operate. We are hoping the Chemo will shrink it down sufficiently.”
I ask him what my statistical chances are. They are no higher than 40-50%. On that basis I opt to be part of the trial drug. It means weekly hospital visits skin rashes and acne. I feel there is little alternative. The research nurse explains that only fifty percent of trial patients receive the drug, though everyone accepted is carefully monitored. She promises to ring later and let me know the outcome.
When we get home there is an answer phone message. I am to have the new drug starting next week.
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