All's Well

I do like when the word "perfect" comes out of Dr. LaCasce's mouth, especially when it's prefaced with: "Your bloodwork is." That's the word from today's visit. We chatted more about lakehouses and summer houses (rent vs own, sebago vs winnipesauke), cats (siamese that cry vs. domestic short hairs that cry), sports and kids (she has a six-year old boy), our agency search (she's on the committee) than how I was feeling. 

So all clear until next visit in July - blood, scan, check up. 

This was my first visit since returning to DFCI and I did feel a bit incognito sitting in the waiting room with my ID bracelet tucked inconspicuously under my shirt sleeve. Outside my department, few people know that I'm also a patient but that my change. I think I'm going to come out, so to speak, via a blog post on our external blog 

Here's the theme: watch and wait.

Or wait and watch. It's a rehash of some of what I've been writing here, but it's a point that coalesced a bit today. See, whenever I told someone that I'm watching and waiting, I usually hear how difficult it is. Even Dr. LaCasce said that some people have a hard time with it because when you hear you have cancer, you want to GET IT OUT OF YOUR BODY. So the notion of sitting around waiting... and watching... and waiting, can seem stresful. But here's the deal: once someone tells you have cancer, you will always be watching and waiting -- whether you're waiting for a relapse, or waiting for a clean scan result, or clean blood work. Whether you're 20 days or 20 years out of treatment, you're still going to be watching and waiting. If I had treatment tomorrow and was cured in a week, or a month, or a year (not an option in follicular lymphoma), I'd still be watching and waiting. 

Which is kind of where I am now.

So let's recap. I feel great. (No longer tired now that I've kicked the little coldy thing I've been fighting). Nothing remarkable or palpably growing in terms of lymph nodes. Bloodwork perfect.