By Aldona Koudelka
For this doctor’s appointment you put on a suit. You were ready for the good news. It had to be. After all, Dr. Smith told us that you would beat it. You sat there in the chair like a school boy so eager to receive that passing grade. Buoyant, as if the small examination room could not hold all your hope. After all you, my dear husband, had done all they said. Finished the chemo regimen with grace, never complaining.
The doctor came in barely making eye contact, and right away sat down to summon up the CT scan. I knew at once the news was bad. You sat expectantly, not a sign of doubt on your face.
“The cancer appears to have spread to the liver. But there is good news. I am heading a new immunotherapy trial and you will be perfect for it,” said the doctor, like a game show host with nothing to lose, but data to gain. The smile on your face only wavered a moment before returning. Yes, you would do whatever the good doctor ordered.
We didn’t expect what followed: the week-long hospitalization from the sepsis infection induced by the biopsy of the liver. A procedure necessary for your eligibility for the trial. They already knew it was cancer. They just had to cut out a slice and note it somewhere in a file.
At the next visit it was evident the doctor was losing interest. The wheel of good fortune had stopped spinning with the infection and so had the trial. As he delivered the news, he seemed distracted, more focused on managing his fractured foot from a skiing accident. “But we can continue with more chemo,” he said, shifting in his seat to be more comfortable, “and we can see about adding another stent. Might take four to six weeks to recover from that.”
You sat there quietly nodding, not knowing that you didn’t even have that much time left. Although weak and emaciated, you sat as upright as your fading strength would allow. You struggled to smile. You would go on, whatever they said. You were grateful for another chance.
And I, what did I do? All I wanted was to scream: Look at him! Don’t you see him? Not as a source of data, but a man suffering, dying. How much more can you do to him? How much more pain must he endure? Let him go. Tell him it’s time to stop.
But I sat, not saying a word. Then watched you, the love of my life, your clothes hanging on your scarecrow frame, shuffle out of the office, down to the infusion center to follow the doctor’s orders. Never giving up.
After a few steps, you turned to look back at me. A tender smile on your face and a thumbs up.