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He lists gradual weight loss, indigestion, and his recent “precautionary” CT scan — a really non-standard procedure at this point — showing a pancreatic mass. We discussed the road ahead of the dreaded Whipple surgery in the near future (“You’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a truck,” I said); who is the best surgeon; the impact of this disease on his wife and children; and how to maintain the lab during extended absences. Pancreatic cancer has a bleak prognosis but of course no one knows what this means for V. Peace love jesus poster “Most of your test results are out,” said Emma, “You have the PI3K mutation, but no one knows what it means yet. Testing for EGFR, the most common mutation in patients like him, is still underway. I’m guessing you have this, and in that case there’s a drug called Tarceva, which you can take instead of chemotherapy. The results will come tomorrow, Friday, but if you are very sick I will give you chemotherapy as soon as Monday in case the EGFR test is negative.”
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Over the next six weeks, I adjusted my physical therapy program, focusing on increasing strength for surgery: Standing for hours, micromanipulating small objects, turning hands upside down to place screws spine support screws. That morning, I made a decision: I would force myself to go back to the operating room. Why? Because I can. Because that’s me. Because I have to learn to live differently, seeing death as an uninvited guest but understanding that even if I have to die, I will still live until I actually die. Peace love jesus poster I realize it’s true. For several months before that, I worked as a mere operating room technician. I used cancer as an excuse to not fulfill my responsibility to the patient. On the other hand, that’s a good excuse anyway, damn it. Now I started coming in earlier, leaving later, going back to caring for patients, adding four hours to a twelve-hour workday. Patients are therefore the focus of my thoughts all the time. For the first two days I thought I had to give up as I battled hordes of nausea, pain and fatigue, forced to sleep in an unused bed at times of dismay.
I jumped out of the CT scanner. It’s been seven months since going back to surgery. This was probably the last shot before finishing my residency, before becoming a father, before my future came true. Both the sower and the reaper rejoice. Indeed, the proverb “one sows, the other reaps” here is true. I send you to reap what you do not do; Others have done it for me, and I have come to share the fruits of their work. Peace love jesus poster Chemotherapy is started on Monday. Lucy, my mother, and I went to the transmission center together. I lay fixed on a comfortable chair, waiting while I attached the belt. A mixture of drugs takes up to four and a half hours to enter the body. I take a nap, read a book, and sometimes stare into the void to wait for the time to pass. Lucy and my mother were beside me, breaking the silence with a few chats. The other patients in the room were quite diverse — some bald, some well-dressed, some withered, some cheerful, some droopy, some dashing. All lay still, quietly with intravenous tubes dripping poison into the outstretched arm. Every three weeks, I would have to come back here.
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