Scan Day

The pediatric oncologist tells us even she crosses her fingers before she reads radiology reports. Surprised she’s as nervous as we are, we tip our heads the way we did when she told us that not all parents get their child to every scheduled chemo.

Back then, at the beginning, wanting gold stars for timeliness, we asked, Maybe showing up for treatments will keep us in the good stats? As if following directions could be enough.

But the oncologist said, No, you can’t always tell. There are prognostic factors, but . . .

Yes, but.

Odds have some meaning,

but some meaning isn’t all meaning.

In this case, some meaning isn’t any meaning at all.

At this appointment I ask,

Her hair is coming back and chemo is not even over, are you sure it’s working?

because a woman in the grocery store told me her sister died of cancer and she knew it was going to happen because her sister’s hair didn’t fall out all the way.

The oncologist is used to questions like this from the parents.

She says, This is everything we can do.

Yes, she’s sure. She looks directly into my eyes and then into your eyes.

We are doing everything we can do.

Sighing, she says, Even I don’t like scan days. She’s afraid too. She’s afraid to take off work because another doctor may have to give bad news or a family might have to hear it from a doctor they don’t know.

Today, good news, tempered with fear.

The oncologist’s fear: we are doing everything we can do.

Our fear: we are doing everything we can do.