“This X-ray doesn’t show me what I need to see” said Regina’s doctor yesterday.
Last month Regina finished her 6th month of chemotherapy and over the past few days she’s had an ultrasound, blood tests, and an X-ray taken of her chest to find out if there are still signs of her breast cancer.
“The ultrasound and blood tests look good though” her doctor continued. Still, he looked at me and I could tell he was uneasy with declaring her cancer in remission and her treatment course finished. It takes a few days for the Central Hospital to schedule and perform an X-ray for a patient, a result of a valiant effort to keep up with the constant demand in a city of 2 million people combined with the limited resources of a developing country.
“I tell you what,” I said, “I will take her to a private clinic this afternoon and pay for an X-ray there, then tomorrow I’ll bring that back to you so you can feel better about making an informed decision and we can all rest easier about her health.”
“No problem.” Her doctor replied, “Just swing by in the morning and I’ll look at it then write up her discharge papers and she can be on her way home the next day!”
“Perfect!” I said, “See you in the morning.”
Regina and I left the doctor’s office smiling and I could see in Regina’s eyes the anticipation and joy of being so close to going back to seeing her family. That afternoon we sped through a little private clinic up the road from our house (where we’ve taken Pedro and Filomena for emergencies in the past) and got a quick X-ray done.
This morning I found Regina’s doctor in the oncology conference room busily doing his best to care for the hundreds of patients he is responsible for. He looked up at me and smiled and, when I asked if he had a sec to look at Regina’s X-ray, he quickly moved aside his current task and held out his hand for the X-ray.
When he pulled out the plastic film and held it up to the light, his face clouded over.
“This isn’t what I wanted to see.”
My heart sunk. Still… I hoped.
“This isn’t what I hoped for.” He reaffirmed.
He indicated a cloudy section, contrasting with the dark around it, and said, “This should be cleaner.”
“What do we do?” I asked.
My heart was racing. Regina, dear sweet Regina, oh, how I wanted to send her home tomorrow. Oh, how I wanted to get her to the “nice” bus at 2:00 AM tomorrow, the one with air conditioning, with a TV, with a bathroom. Oh, how I wanted her to see her grandchildren, all waiting and hoping that their grandma would be home soon.
“She needs a CT scan.” said Regina’s doctor. And he pulled a little piece of paper out and started writing instructions to the CT scan technician.
Carcinoma of the breast, suspected it has metastasized to the lung or bone.
My heart sunk further.
Beach Day
Regina
Metastasized.
The word no cancer patient ever wants to hear.
After a few more minutes of conversation with the doctor, I called Layne. She was at home with our three girls and Regina was preparing to leave early tomorrow morning. I told Layne what the doctor told me. We agreed that Layne needed to tell Regina right away.
So, three kids running, playing, crying in the background, Layne approached Regina and started, “Regina, Jon talked to the doctor. We have some bad news…”
Regina listened stoically to the report. Her face betrayed little emotion as it began to sink in. She tried to keep doing the cleaning Layne had found her in the middle of. Soon she was leaning against the wall… crying… asking God for reasons that didn’t come… looking for answers to questions too terrible to voice.
Sitting on a bench back at the hospital, praying and venting my frustration I shook my head over and over.
Not this one. Not this one. Cancer! You shall not have this one! My heart and soul screamed out, desperate for a confirmation to my challenge. I sat, lungs and throat sucked dry and raged against a disease that ravages so many people I love here.
NOT THIS ONE, CANCER! My silent scream echoed out to an empty courtyard.
I don’t know if I’m right. I don’t know if Regina will have a clean CT scan. I don’t know.
But I pray.
I pray.
Layne told Regina the plan. For the next 8 days we will pray. Regina will pray. Regina’s friends and family will pray. Our friends and family will pray.
We pray for a miracle.
We pray for a clean CT scan.
Don’t make us liars.
Pray with us.