The next weeks were spent preparing for an exact diagnosis because although my team was fairly certain I was about to battle Lymphoma, there was no indication of the specific form of Lymphoma. If the diagnosis were going to come easily, it would be via a needle sliding into the top of my chest to retrieve a significant number of cells that were willing to cooperate. Small hole, small scar, fat chance. Of course, my diagnosis was not going to come easily. The initial tone was set by the dramatic bleed. Therefore, my diagnosis must show itself through an equally dramatic entrance. If the diagnosis was not going to come easily, Thoracic Surgeon informed me it was going to come once he put me to sleep, collapsed my right lung, and cut out a significant portion of tissue from the tumors, leaving me with a six week recovery during which, I was not to pick up my daughter or do anything that involved getting winded. To complete this summary of the surgical biopsy, he said, "No problem." I said, "God, no!" He made some calls and both biopsies were scheduled. Why both biopsies? Because Thoracic Surgeon believed my diagnosis was not going to come easily. He was partly correct.
The needle biopsy came and went without the dramatic flare suitable for my diagnosis. I received a call from Thoracic Sureon a few days after the cells had been taken. I was about to leave for the hospital, where I would later witness the birth of my beautiful niece, when the phone rang. He greated me in his all-business style and told me the needle biopsy had failed to retrieve enough cells for a diagnosis and I would need to come in for the surgical biopsy, which would be performed by his partner because he had forgotten he would be on vacation that week. He quickly told me that the "guys in the lab" had reported it looked suspiciously like Hodgkin's. However, he dismissed this remark as quickly as it had flown from his memory to his mouth. This was the first time I had considered Hodgkin's. "Suspicously" turned into certainly once Hodgkins became the clinical diagnosis.
The clinical diagnosis came with Thoracic Surgeon's partner, Dr. Evil Eye. The first time I met Dr. Evil Eye was in a small exam room. She was dressed professionally in a skirt suit with an evil eye charm dangling from a thin silver chain around her neck. She was calm, cool, and collected. She had me once again tell the tale of how I had gotten to this point. She was confident and careful not to scare me. Compared to that of her predecessors, her demeanor was refreshing. I was relieved when I walked out of our visit as she had just informed me she was going to make a small incision in the base and along the side of my throat to retrieve the cells needed for proper diagnosis. There would be no collapsing of my lung. There would be a few days of recovery as opposed to six weeks. I couldn't believe her less-than-dramatic plan for this surgical biopsy. That evil eye was clearly on my side and ready to thwart the painful and dramatic schemes of all the thoracic surgeon thugs that came my way!
All that was left to do was rest up, get through the surgery, and prepare myself for the inevitable life-changing news I was about to receive.
I rested up, got through the surgery, and took the phone call that delivered the inevitable life-changing news. I put down my fork at dinner and picked up the phone to listen as Dr. Evil Eye carefully informed me I had Hodgkin's Lymphoma. No drama, just next steps. Well, no drama on her part, only mine. I wept.
There were numerous and sporadic tears in the days and weeks to come. I was caught in a tornado of emotion that I may not successfully be able to communicate through the letters on this keyboard, but trust that I will attempt.
Buckle up, and as always, thanks for reading.
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