We have to go back to PAMF next week for another marathon appointment. I will be meeting with my cancer team: Dr. Chattopadhyay (surgical oncologist), Dr. Leibowitz (hematology/oncology) and Dr. Chang (radiation oncology). We will devise our treatment plan that day.
An Indian, a Jew and an Asian — I hit the friggin’ doctor jackpot!!!
We finally got home around 5ish. We ordered a pizza for dinner. We sat on the couch watching the prior night’s taped episode of Modern Family. We went about our business as usual. So much so in fact, that I farted (like I said, usual business). Paul gave me a sideways glance. To which my reply was “What? I have cancer (insert innocent shoulder shrug and puppy dog eyes)”.
We laughed our asses off.
At the end of the day there is no doubt that I will survive this. It’s just going to be a shitty, shitty 6 months to a year.
We caught it early (thanks to me being anal and doing breast self exams, noticing a lump and booking an ultrasound to get it checked out — all of which happened during breast cancer awareness month — again, the irony is not lost on me), it’s stage 1. I guess they grade aggressiveness of the cancer on a scale of 1 to 3, with 3 being the most aggressive. The only thing that seems to be worrying the doctors is that my pathology report indicates a 3. Apparently that’s what the term “poorly differentiated” is code for — recall my diagnosis is “poorly differentiated infiltrating ductal carcinoma”. Doesn’t that just roll off the tongue?! We should make up a song for it — like the one for supercalafragalisticexpialadoshous.