The oncologist does not mince words when delivering the scan report. Good news (“Good Pet”) or bad, it’s the facts minus emotion. December 2016 brought the first bad news since the original “incurable but treatable” diagnosis. My cancer was active: the Nancy in MALIGNANCY. “Whoa” popped out of my mouth involuntarily, as the details of my options hit me. Stop, please, was what I meant. The man took offense: “I am not a horse,” he puffed, though later apologized on email for “snapping,” after I apologized for “whoa.” The moment retains the mark of trauma, and it has recurred, April 2018, along with new activity. A second surgery (best of bad options). This time, the last.
