Remember Fabio?

Did I ever mention that I was once an active member of the Romance Writer’s of America?  I know right?  You had no idea I was someone of celebrity status.  I even completed a novel, which was submitted to several publishers, rewritten based on constructive criticism and then buried in a box somewhere and forgotten.  What I’m getting at is, at that time, a face graced the covers of most romance novels that was beyond gorgeous.  He was the Greek god of men, all chisseled and yummy, Michelangelo's David, a love starved housewife’s fantasy of all fantasies; he is Fabio Lanzoni.  To this day, even the name makes my heart skip a beat or two, and at my age, I can’t afford that kind of excitement anymore.  But that’s beside the point, and because I don’t take short cuts when telling a story --‘cause I don’t want to take the chance of omitting a whole lot of drama -- I have to take you around the world and back before making my point.   

I had my last CT scan and chest x-ray yesterday.  While sitting in my surgeon’s office waiting for him to enter and give me the news that 1) I will either be moving on to having the surgery that would fix me, or 2) they can’t fix me quite yet or perhaps never and I may have to have ongoing treatment to extend my life and/or to make me comfortable. 

So I wait, and wait…then in walks a young woman who introduces herself to me with a name I fail to remember.  I smile patiently and shake her hand (I think I shook her hand).  She sits down and asks me questions about my current meds.  I'm thinking, I was just in Dr. Picozzi’s office a week ago and they reviewed my meds which they have on the computer.  I’m frustrated but trying not to let it show.  She asks me how I'm doing.  Just fine, I answer.  She asks me where I live.  In Tacoma, I answer.  It’s all in the records!  We talk about Tacoma.  We talk about the exact location of my home and whether I walked, bussed or drove to my appointment.  I know these are questions she has to ask but frankly I want to know whether I'm going to have a chance at life, and her questions are making my bottom lip droop.  She is obviously stalling, and inside my spirits drop.  She pulls up the results of the blood draws I took only an hour before and went through them.  Then she brings up my CT scan and chatters some more, and seriously I can not recall the words that came out of her mouth because none of them sounded anything at all like all is clear and we will proceed with the surgery.  She clarifies that the tumor had shrunk slightly from the chemo.  Slightly?  Was slightly good enough?  My heart plummets.  I could barely speak these words. Will I be able to have the surgery?  She stands up ending what I feel has been an interrogation, and explains that she will need to review the CT scan with her boss (a.k.a. the surgeon), and will be back shortly.  It’s weird that your heart can continue to beat even when you feel that it has stopped completely.  She didn't  answer my question, which I thought I asked out loud.

So I wait. What seems like an hour, but in the real world is probably only a few short minutes, in walks the assistant and my doctor.  He smiles.  A lot.  He extends his hand to me and I grab hold, desparately, like I'm drowning and he's pulling me to safety.  I have to say he’s one of the most jovial doctors I’ve ever met (besides my wonderful Dr. Picozzi that is).  He sits down and his next words work magic on my heart like it’d just been resuscitated.  “So,” he says all happy-like.  “Looks like we’re ready for surgery.”  I’m not sure if that is an exact quote, but hey…it’s my best recall after just being shocked back into life.  I’m going to have the surgery.  He then shows me a picture of what my insides look like, said they will cut here, move something over there, wrap around here…um…let’s see…cut some vessels and rebuild them…(yikes!), whole thing will take about 8 hours.  Okay, now I’m back to being terrified, but in a good way because they are going to try and fix me.  I can still be fixed.

The doctor asks me if July 12^th works for me, and I tell him yes, like I'd have something better to do than have a procedure that could save my life.  He smiles all nice and happy as if the surgery he’s going to perform on me is easy-breezy, which makes me feel better, and left the room. 

So there you have it.  Oh wait, there was actually a point to why I brought up all that romance stuff, and the great Fabio.  My doctor’s name is Flavio Rocha.  Yes, I have Dr. Picozzi, the pancreatic cancer rock star of oncology doctors, and Flavio Rocha, the Fabio of all surgeons because he's as skilled as Fabio is rock star gorgeous.  I’m in good hands guys.

Thanks for holding my hand over the last six months.  I couldn't have made it without you!

P.S. Sorry for making you read all of this.  LOL.  Not sorry.