Getting Older Means You Get a Lot of Bad News
I’d just gone to GuideWell Urgent Care to confirm the probability of a UTI. We were leaving the next week for a vacation in Seattle with my daughter and her husband (that designation still thrills me eight months into their new marriage). Armed with a script for an anti-biotic and a newly sheered labradoodle, who had spent the past three hours at the Magic Pet grooming salon, I burst through the front door hollering, “Is the birthday boy home?” It seemed appropriate since it was May 8th and Jim’s 76th birthday.
The birthday Guy
“Can you come up here for a minute?” a voice from upstairs summoned, “I have something to show you.” I hoped for good news, but my husband’s tremulous voice betrayed his anxiety. “I was in the parking lot at Shake Shack and received an email telling me the results of my pet scan were on my health care portal,” Jim offered. “I shouldn’t have looked on the way to my birthday lunch with John, but I couldn’t help it,” he defended his actions, anticipating my inevitable “why in the world did you visit your portal in a parking lot?” wail.
The report from the reviewing radiologist used words like “the activity is upwardly trending, concerning for worsening disease,” and “a new focal activity localizing in the T5 vertebral body worrisome for new osseous metastasis.” Terrifying words which prompted us to (1) run to google for definitions (which made us even more afraid); (2) frantically try to get an appointment with the oncologist; and (3) send the cryptic report to doctor friends for interpretation and guidance.
Alas, no oncology appointment was in the stars until our designated appointment date (a week and a half later). In the meantime, our scheduled Seattle trip to celebrate the birthdays of my husband and son-in-law was imminent, so tucking our anxieties in our backpacks, we departed for the beautiful Pacific Northwest.
The View from Our Seattle VRBO
I’m always amazed when a brand-new place and its geographic idiosyncrasies manages to capture my entire focus. The 65-degree temperatures, the Pacific breezes sifting through the towering ancient trees, refreshed our quaking spirits. For three days we chose to concentrate on the gorgeous Ikebana flower arrangements and outdoor garden installations at the Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum,
Rowboat filled with Ikebana flower arrangements
and exploring the Museum of Pop Culture (MoPOP) with its iridescent, wavy form designed by Frank Gehry.
Guitar Sculpture in MoPOP
The architecture renders the iconic scene when Jimi Hendrix shattered his Fender guitar during a concert. (The roof top of MoPOP, as seen from the top of the Space Needle, is in the shape of the smashed guitar.) Hoping to see whales and other marine life indigenous to the northwest, we drove, occasionally hiked, and drove many more miles along the whale trail through the Olympic National Park. Yes, there was the requisite Seattle wind, rain, and snow (on May 12th I might add). Hoping to hike the Hurricane Ridge three-mile trail to what was described in the guidebook as a “jaw dropping view”, we were met with pelting snow. We lasted fifteen minutes. The next day, upon reaching La Push on the western end of the park, we hoped that this would be our view.
Instead, the cloud cover reduced visibility to ten percent and, we lasted ten minutes in the wind and pelting rain (yes, that word again which aptly describes the Olympic National Park weather). But we earned the right to say we have visited the western-most point in the continental United States.
Disappointed? Not really. On vacation, we somehow manage to accept what the vacation gods give us: good weather, bad weather, traffic congestion, head colds from airline travel. It seems harder to make that effort in real life. Maybe our bandwidth is just stretched too tightly with incessant to-do lists back home.
Speaking of to-do lists, high on ours was a visit the day after our return to our radiology oncologist. (I’ve noticed that I, and other similarly aged friends, have started referring collectively to our partner’s doctors, appointments, and even hospital rooms. This imminent appointment prompted a heart-to-heart conversation with my husband. “I’m going to cancel the apartment rental in Chicago,” I informed him, referring to the three-month rental we had recently secured for the coming fall. “We need to be near your doctors and treatment center while you are undergoing chemotherapy,” I said, acknowledging what we both believed would be an inevitability.
“Where do you want to live if something happens to me?” Jim asked, prompting an ostensibly morbid conversation we had only flirted with during the three years since the onset of his disease. It wasn’t morbid, however. It was grounding (no pun intended). The Conversation Project says it’s better to have these kinds of conversations at the kitchen table rather than the operating table. Good point. (I think.)
Following a night of visits from my constant companion, anxiety, Jim and I headed to Orlando Health for our appointment with the radiology oncologist. Girding ourselves for bad news, we were stunned when Dr. Kelly opined that the reviewing radiologist had mis-read the scans. “He wasn’t able to compare them with the previous MRIs.” The comparison indicated a slight growth in one and shrinking in the others. “We’ll keep an eye on it and do another scan in three months. No immediate change in our current treatment plan.”
“No change? No new drug therapies? No need to cancel plans?” Jaw dropping news, considering our resignation five minutes earlier to the prospect of more involved therapy.
Had the news been the opposite, I had resolved to write my way through the experience. I envisioned myself like writers of yore with a cigarette dangling from my mouth as I pounded the keyboard. Thank God I don’t have to take up smoking, but I am resolved to write more words and more frequently, and even with a dash of humor. The problem with getting older is that you get a lot of bad news. Writing helps me, and hopefully, my readers, process the bad/good/bad/okay news.
