Two momentous doctor appointments this week. Monday morning was with the radiation oncologist to discuss the pros and cons of blasting me with gamma rays. Before the appointment, Lisa fired up our new juicer and made a delicious beet-orange concoction for breakfast. By the time I hopped up on the table for the poking, prodding, and deep breathing portion of the visit, my ileostomy bag slowly filling with blood red fluid from the morning’s juice. I didn’t notice, the doctor’s assistant say anything, but Lisa pointed it out, laughing.

I should point out that something else had appeared during my surgery that is a cause for concern. A few bumps of mesothelioma were found, completely unrelated to the colorectal cancer. The surgeon removed them, did a hard search for others, then sewed me up. This commonly occurs in the lungs due to asbestos exposure. My little guys were down by the prostate. How they got there, who knows? So this added bit of strangeness is yet another variable in the equation.

The doctor came in and seemed to be more concerned with the mesothelioma than the colorectal cancer. He asked about asbestos exposure as a kid and lamented the lack of hard data about my situation. Basically, he told us that there was no hard data to support doing radiation in my case. Close observation was the recommendation. CT scans every three months for a year.

Whew!

He wasn’t sure about the possible use of chemotherapy and suggested we make an appointment with the medical oncologist. The doctor wanted to see how the scar was healing. I lifted my shirt. He saw the bag, now looking like a pint of O positive.

“How long as it been bleeding like that?” the doctor asked, frowning.

Lisa and I laughed. “Beet juice,” I explained. “The assistant didn’t say anything about it.”

The doctor smiled. “You know, we should mess with her. Play along.”

He poked his head out the door and called the assistant in. Lisa turned away to hide a grin, and I tried very hard not to laugh as I held my shirt up.

“We’re going to have to get him to the ER. He seems to be hemorrhaging, says he’s feeling lightheaded.”

The assistant’s face dropped and eyes widened. I couldn’t hold it any longer and started laughing. We all laughed a lot. It felt great.

That afternoon I made an appointment to see the medical oncologist – Steve-O, Little Steven, etc – for Wednesday morning. There was no hi-jinks with Steve-O. He sat down and talked about how on the fence he was about my case and possibility of a two-for-one treatment for the colorectal and mesothelioma, but I couldn’t get a sense for where he was landing. He was presenting two sides, walking through the decision-making process they’d gone through, but not answering the key question.

I finally asked: “To be blunt, this means no chemo, right?”

“Yes. Close observation.”

Double whew!