Mass Confusion

“I don’t care if we cure your kidney cancer.”

“I care that your kidney cancer doesn’t kill you.”

Those, the exact words of my mother’s radiologist.

After a wait that felt like forever, we finally got into the doctor’s office yesterday.

And that’s when we heard the news we didn’t want to hear.

My 81-year old mother has kidney cancer.

The meeting yesterday came nearly seven weeks after doctors found a mass on her right kidney during a cat scan.

Even with yesterday’s news, the doctors remain very optimistic that we still have options.

And that’s all any of us can ever hope for.

Options.

They explained that they have the option of burning off the tumor.

That’s called a Radio Frequency Ablation.

They have the option of freezing the tumor.

That’s called Cryoablation.

I think.

They can shoot alcohol directly into the tumor to wipe it out.

That’s called...

...shooting alcohol directly into the tumor.

They can take the entire kidney out.

That’s why we have two.

Or they can do nothing.

Come back in six months.

See if this thing has grown.

And go from there.

When we first arrived in the exam room the nurse practitioner came in to get things started.

She put on a brave smile and started talking.

She made a point to call the tumor a “mass”.

Except for the couple of times she called it a tumor.

Then she quickly corrected herself.

Calling it a mass.

When I asked a question about the kidney, she answered almost immediately.

She said something like, “pretend the kidney was a football and if you only treat the part with the laces, then....”

Football?

What page is that in the handbook?

-- If man asks question, quickly make sports reference.

After about 15 minutes, the doctor came in.

Considering she probably does this type of thing way too many times every day, there wasn’t a whole lot of foreplay.

There were no references to a “mass”.

Just tumor.

She whipped out the x-ray to show us where everything was.

She then told us based on where the mass, I mean tumor is located, some options are not a real option.

They’d rather not try to freeze the tumor.

Since it is close to some other body part.

And not too far from the spine.

The same goes for burning it off.

She said removing that kidney is still an option.

But not a good option.

Considering they are talking about an 81-year old patient.

So that left us with two.

Alcohol injection or nothing.

I must say considering the heavy news we had just been dealt, there was a whole lot of optimism in the room.

At least for me.

Hearing the doctor explain the facts the way she did made me feel encouraged about my mother’s future.

And very confident in the people who will be treating her.

Biology was not my best subject in college.

Either time I took it.

But when I’m not distracted by almost everything, I can be a pretty good listener.

Yesterday I heard every word they said.

I’m not sure the same can be said for my mom.

Long story short, she is scared.

And who wouldn’t be?

As I sat a foot away from her yesterday, I could feel her shake.

I could feel her pain.

I could feel her fear.

Nobody thinks that they are going to live forever.

But other than George Harrison, most of us are not ready to go.

And the good news is my mom is not going anywhere.

Not yet.

The doctors are going to talk again before suggesting the best plan for my mom.

Considering they don’t know how long this tumor has been there, leaving it alone might be the best thing to do.

I asked my mom if she would be comfortable with that.

I didn’t get much of an answer.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

41 days.

It’s been 41 days since my mother was told of the mass on her right kidney.

A “small” mass.

Or tumor.

Or whatever.

Here we are 41 days later.

And she has received zero treatment.

None.

Nunca.

Nada.

Oh, it’s not due to a lack of effort.

On our part.

Or a lack of phone calls.

It’s due to politics.

Or contracts.

Or insurance.

Or whatever its name is.

More on that in 642 words.

The bottom line is 41 days ago she got the news.

And 41 days later she has received nothing.

But stress.

Not a good prescription for an 81-year grandmother with a bipolar disorder.

Sure, she did have that one visit to the oncologist.

That same doctor who said she would make sure my mom gets the best care.

That meeting was 13 days ago.

28 days after my mom received the news.

And so far the only care she has received is care-less.

I have made calls.

And more calls.

And the answer is always the same.

“We are working on it.”

“The paperwork takes time.”

“Be patient.”

Be patient!

My mom is 81-years old.

She has a mass on her kidney.

You should be using patient as a noun, not an adjective.

There’s a pretty clear plan with my mother’s insurance.

Stay in the plan.

Go to this hospital.

Go to this doctor.

No mulligans.

We were told to go to this oncologist.

So we were there.

Early.

The oncologist said she would be the point person throughout this process.

And she would personally contact the other doctors my mom had seen to come up with the master plan.

Growing up I remember going to a restaurant and thinking our waitress was the best waitress in the world.

I was sure she had trained all her life for that job.

And that the job was her dream.

But as you get older you realize that dream was a nightmare.

In many cases, she’s a single mom just trying to make a living.

Deep down, she really doesn’t care if your pot pie is cold in the middle.

I’m really not sure doctors are any different.

Sure they take that hypocritical oath.

Or whatever it is called.

But many doctors really don’t care.

Or they don’t have the time to care.

I took my seven-year old to the doctor yesterday.

We were in the waiting room for 10 minutes.

Waited in the exam room for another 10.

Then the doctor came in.

And within four seconds he had made his diagnosis.

Shook our hands.

Washed his hands.

Collected our $30 deductible.

And moved onto the next piece of meat.

And even with that quick diagnosis.

I’m not convinced they know any more than I do.

Ok, they know a lot more than I do. 

But there’s a reason why they call it their “practice”.

They are guessing as much as the guy at the Caesar’s Palace Sports Book.

But as long as they throw out some terms none of us have ever heard of.

Their beach home is in good shape.

When we met with the oncologist nearly two weeks ago, she said the best plan for my mom would be to perform a biopsy.

To see if the mass was cancerous.

Great plan.

Except that exact plan was brought up and veto’ed by the doctors in the hospital.

When they discovered the mass.

28 days earlier.

The oncologist said she wasn’t sure why the procedure wasn’t done in the hospital when my mom was there.

But she would be sure to find out.

So she called the something-or-other-ologist.

And the whatchamacall-ogist.

And the whozamawhati-cologist.

And the plan now is to remove the mass through some type of radiation.

She called it Radiotherapy.

I thought that was channel 392 on Sirius XM.

But hey, Radiotherapy it is.

They must know.

They are the doctors.

And Radiotherapy has six syllables.

It must be good.

She also told me they pondered doing something called Cryotherapy.

But that was only five syllables.

She said she had the perfect doctor in mind to do the procedure.

But after a week she learned the doctor she requested was not -- in network.

And so we waited to see if he could get a contract to help out just this one time.

And a week later we are still waiting.

So let me get this straight....

The "perfect" doctor, who could remove the tumor from my mom's kidney, can't remove the tumor.

Because he is not -- in network.

Hey listen, I get insurance.

I got insurance.

And I understand the game.

But as we sit here entering week six.

And my mom is not able to sleep.

Because the doctor who could possibly save her is not in network.

All we can do is wait?

Something is not right.

Let's Get Physical

I’ve always been very good at keeping with the schedule.

I get my teeth cleaned every six months.

I get my bills paid on time.

And I get my oil changed every 5,000 miles.

In fact, I’m writing this blog in the waiting room while that oil is being changed.

I’m also very regular at getting an annual physical.

That’s what I did yesterday.

Can you tell I have a lot of time on my hands?

Before I turned 40 the annual physical was little more than a cough here.

Say aaahhh there.

Oh how times have changed.

I can only hope the car people check under the hood as well as my doctor did.

She started with the usual.

The urine test.

A test I didn’t need to study for.

And like most of my exams in college, I passed.

But barely.

“You need to drink more water,” she said.

Check.

They checked my height.

Still the same.

And my weight.

Down ten pounds from the start of my diet.

Boo-yeah.

Then she asked if anything hurt.

Talk about opening a can of worms.

But somehow I resisted.

She then went through her series of tests.

Temp.   Good.

Ears and throat.  Good.

Blood pressure.   Low.

Amazing.

Then, that sound.

The snap of the rubber gloves.

The sound that says “you are not as young as you used to be.” 

At home those rubber gloves mean cleaning the dishes.

Or the garden.

At the doctor’s office, the snap of the rubber gloves means it is time to check the pipes.

So much for 40 being the new 30.

Like my car mechanic, the good doctor checked everything from front to back.

In that order.

When I got home I told my kids about “those” tests.

They thought it was funny.

“Oh, you just wait,” I thought.

They really liked the part where I told them the doctor said, “ok, you are going to feel some pressure.”

When I screamed the word PRESSURE, they doubled over.

The same position I was in for the exam.

Ironic.

The doctor did a couple of quick tests for cancer.

A little too quick for a “Cancer Test”, but maybe that’s just me.

The positive is that they were both negative.

Then came the next exam on the menu.

The EKG.

The doctor said she wanted to check my heart because of my father’s history.

He passed away from a massive heart attack at age 75.

“No problem”, I said.

Her assistant came in and got things set up.

“Please remove anything with metal.”

I joked that it was a good thing I left my belly button ring at home.

She smirked.

Out of courtesy.

Then she asked me to do something that hurt me more than that prostate exam.

“Please turn off your phone.”

WHAT!

“And put it on the other side of the room.”

WHAT!

“Are you kidding?”, I thought to myself.

Don’t you know the NBA Trade Deadline is coming up?

What if I miss something in the next six minutes?

But as painful as it was, I did it.

As she requested.

And as soon as I moved the phone, she started putting these sticky pieces of something all over me.

Ten of them.

She counted.

All over my body.

From my chest to my calf to my arm.

They were used to register my heart rate.

The test took all of a minute.

Then came the real pain.

The removal of those sticky things.

Not quite the Steve Carell scene from 40-Year Old Virgin.

But close.

Now I’m not the hairiest guy of all-time.

But I can guarantee you I had less body hair after the EKG than I had before.

A small price to pay for a good result.

The doctor said was my heart beat was good.

A little slow.

But she said I must’ve been really relaxed during the test.

Hmmm.

Maybe I should shut off my phone more often.

All-in-all, it was a good day in the doctor’s office.

Everything checked out just fine.

I hope my car has the same result.