It was now the end of March and time for Mateo’s first appointment in the city to see Dr. Parker. The Brain Center building was across the street from the main hospital. The main hospital was much bigger than the last two. Having been a patient here myself as a child many times, I was somewhat familiar with the different parts and departments. However, this was an entirely new addition, so we needed to ask for directions from a very helpful lady located on the bottom floor. After a short hallway walk, a right turn, an elevator ride, a walk down another hallway, couple of more turns, another elevator ride, two more turns, we finally found the right department. Upon checking in, we filled out papers and supplied Mateo’s identification and insurance cards.
“If you will, please have a seat over there,” said the receptionist, pointing to seating down the hall. “Dr. Parker will be with you shortly.”
This was a major appointment, so Todd had taken the day off work to accompany Mateo and me. There was ample seating for us, and the view from the twenty-seventh-floor windows was breathtaking. I spent my time trying not to anticipate the results, but somehow my mind seemed to wander back to “he has six months.”
I don’t know how long it took. It always seemed to take forever. An older, gray-haired man—slim, wearing a very well-laundered, heavily starched white coat—approached from the hallway door.
“Mateo Sanders?”
“Yes,” Mateo responded, standing up.
Dr. Parker walked forward, extending his hand out to Mateo, partially to help him up and partially to greet him.
“How are you, Mateo? Why don’t you all come with me?” Turning, he walked through the doorway leading back to a narrow, artificially lit hallway and then into a small side room.
“Have a seat, please,” he said, addressing us all at one time while he placed an additional chair, making sure there was enough seating for everyone.
The doctor had arranged the chairs so we were all sitting in a semi-circle in front of two computer screens. On one of the screens was the image of a brain—Mateo’s. Once we were all seated and settled, Dr. Parker began speaking, addressing us all equally.
“I understand you have a grade two Astrocytoma Glioblastoma, which is rare in a young man your age. Because of where this tumor is located, and the type of tumor that this is, surgery is not an option. As you can see here, the tumor is directly in the brain stem, growing to the right side of his brain.” Dr. Parker spoke while he outlined the images on the computer screen.
“The best thing we can hope for is to shrink this area here,” he said, pointing to an enlightened area on the computer image. “If we can shrink it to a smaller size, the most we can hope for is for it to become dormant.”
“So, is that possible?” I asked him surprised. “To have this tumor become dormant?”
“Yes, it is,” he answered.
I glanced immediately at Mateo’s face to see if he fully understood what that meant for him. I could see a glimmer of hope in his eyes, bringing tears to mine.
“However,” Dr. Parker added, “that’s depending on how well Mateo responds to the treatment.”
The doctor stood up and asked Mateo to also stand so he could examine and check his strength.
“His strength is good,” he commented during the exam.
I explained the problem Mateo had had with the “tingling and lack of feeling” on his right side since the shunt placement, but Dr. Parker didn’t respond to that information.
“Don’t worry, Mateo,” he said as we were walking out of the room. “Medical science has come a long way in treating brain tumors.”
I had dropped my head as tears began filling my eyes. I didn’t want the doctor or Mateo to see that I was beginning to cry at the relief of hearing those words. My heart began to feel hope. I took a deep breath as Dr. Parker, sensing my emotion, put his arm around my shoulders. Before leaving, he handed us a note to give to the Cancer Center doctor for our appointment the next day.