Thirty minutes ago, B came into my home office where I had just wrapped up a video call, and he closed the door.
He had just had a (phone) consultation with an oncologist, and he needed to update me.
“There’s a 70% – 75% chance it’s cancer,” he said. “But it hasn’t really grown since the first scan.”
B was diagnosed with colitis a few years ago, and a few times a year, it flares up so bad that he undergoes CT scans and other tests to make sure there’s nothing internally wrong. He had a scan in early fall, and another a month ago. Neither showed anything related to the colitis. But the second one caused his doc to refer B to an oncologist for further evaluation.
There was a spot on his kidney that was very suspicious.
The oncologist consultation was scheduled then rescheduled. Today, because of restrictions on hospitals and the cancer center, that consultation took place by phone. The doc was running two hours late for the call, but B was assured it would still happen.
The news: very much most likely cancer, but super slow growing (as if that would be reassuring). The spot WAS on the first CT scan, but no one was looking at the kidneys so they didn’t see it. If it’s grown between scans, the grown wad super minimal, but still the spot needs to be removed.
The oncologist told B this type of cancer doesn’t usually need chemo or radiation. And it can be removed while keeping the kidney intact and functioning. One night in the hospital, and then it’s about a six week recovery (basically, no heavy lifting or hits to the kidney). Bing. Bang. Boom.
But surgery can’t be scheduled until mid- to late-May — at the earliest. The oncologist has canceled surgeries like this, given the situation with COVID-19. (The oncologist originally told B it would be June or July, but B pushed back because of a major work project in July and our scheduled family vacation.)
So I guess we have to wait.
As a cancer survivor and a widow, I’m a mess. B is acting all “whatever” about it, but I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to hold him and cuddle him. I want to break down. I want to ask the doctor a million questions. I want to get B in for surgery RIGHT NOW.
But I can’t. B doesn’t want to say anything to anyone. He doesn’t want family worried. Or kids to worry.
I’m hoping he’s told me everything, but I imagine he doesn’t want me to worry. Hell, I’d hold back info to me right now, too.
I’m scared. Really, really scared.