This week has been a little harried—I had to do a scan on Monday morning, then learned late Tuesday night that they hadn’t done it correctly, forcing me to race back downtown yesterday.
They felt badly about it—apologizing, paying for my parking, and ultimately turning around the radiologist’s report in record time: it hit MyChart just before dinner.
We anxiously reviewed it, trying to decipher the most important sentences: “No suspicious focal hepatic lesion is identified to suggest new residual metastatic disease. All the major hepatic vessels remain patent. The previously described ill-defined hypoattenuation is no longer well visualized.”
Translation: My scan was clean!
We don’t yet know what, if anything, this will mean for treatment. I’m scheduled for chemo again on Monday. While a part of me hopes for a chemo break, a bigger part of me suspects that is not likely what I will hear. And I’m trying to make my peace with that—and stay focused on the good and not the bad.
My hair suddenly seems to be leaving by the handful; its demise feels inevitable. Per says I look like a bad ass, but it’s not my preferred look. I’ll start my day tomorrow at a wig store. As soon as I made the appointment, I stopped feeling teary every time I ran my hand through my hair.
I’m so glad to be able to share some good news with all of you, even if my days of looking like a bad ass might soon be over.
