insist. I keep going, telling them that it would be unethical of me to say they've got a 50% chance, or a 60% chance, or whatever. But they keep insisting, and eventually I give them a number, and they cling to that number for the rest of their treatment. If they survive, they remind me they beat the number. If things go bad, they spit the number back at me." He pauses. "In twenty years of dealing with this type of cancer, only one patient has ever failed to ask me for a number."
We sit in silence for a moment.
"If it'd make you feel better..." I start to say.
"No," he replies with a chuckle, "no, there's no need. I just find it interesting. As I've said before, your chances are good. This is the second time you've had basically the same cancer, and once again, you're getting it licked. That's pretty impressive, Joanna. Not miraculous, but certainly impressive. I just..." He pauses again. "What we talked about last time is still relevant. You said you'd do some research, and I have to ask if you've come to any kind of conclusion? My advice on the matter certainly hasn't changed in the interim."
"I've been rethinking my decision," I say, feeling my heart start to thump. I knew this question would come, and I've had my answer prepared for a few days, but it's still... uncomfortable. For a fraction of a second, I'm filled with doubt, and I consider changing my mind again. Damn it, this would be so much easier if I could roll into Dr. Gibbs' office with a few shots of whiskey in my belly. "I've been thinking about it," I continue, already aware that I'm stumbling with my words a little and betraying my nerves, "and, um..." I pause again.
"And?"
"And I think maybe you're right."
"So you'd be willing to go for it?"
"I've had this cancer twice now," I reply, feeling a kind of icy resolve in my heart. "I don't want it a third time."
He stares at me for a moment. "It runs in your family, Joanna," he says eventually. "There's a seam of this thing running right through your genetic make-up, and I don't think you can escape it, not without... A double mastectomy is a drastic option, but in cases such as yours, it's the only really effective way of beating the cancer permanently. You're already lucky that it hasn't metastasized, and -"
"We don't know that for sure," I remind him.
"All the checks so far are looking good," he says, "but you're right, we shouldn't count our chickens just yet. Still, you're doing good, but getting rid of the entire problem area, if you don't mind me describing it like that, would dramatically improve your long-term chances of survival. You can have reconstructive surgery. You can get these things rebuilt. It's not the life-changing thing it used to be." He pauses, and then he sighs. "Who am I kidding? It's still a big thing, but the point is, you have to focus on the positives. In this case -"
"I'll do it," I tell him.
Silence. It's as if my words are slowly settling in the room, like a kind of fine dust.
"You've thought about this?" he asks eventually.
"What's there to think about? It's a simple question. Do I want to live or do I want to die? I want to live, therefore I need to do this. Where do I sign?"
"That's a very straightforward way of seeing it. Have you spoken to other people about it?"
"My body," I reply. "My decision."
"And you're sure?"
I nod. "Everything I said last time... That was all just an instinctive reaction. It was my gut talking. I was in shock. I've had time to think about it since then, and it seems like the logical choice." I take a deep breath. "I don't want this coming back. I don't want to wake up one day, go to the bathroom, get into the shower, and feel another lump. It's happened to me twice already, and I can't let it happen again." I wait for him to say something. "When can you do it? Today? I'm ready today. I've got a clear schedule until Monday, so let's whack me on a table and get these puppies off."
"We'll have to look into getting you booked in," he
We sit in silence for a moment.
"If it'd make you feel better..." I start to say.
"No," he replies with a chuckle, "no, there's no need. I just find it interesting. As I've said before, your chances are good. This is the second time you've had basically the same cancer, and once again, you're getting it licked. That's pretty impressive, Joanna. Not miraculous, but certainly impressive. I just..." He pauses again. "What we talked about last time is still relevant. You said you'd do some research, and I have to ask if you've come to any kind of conclusion? My advice on the matter certainly hasn't changed in the interim."
"I've been rethinking my decision," I say, feeling my heart start to thump. I knew this question would come, and I've had my answer prepared for a few days, but it's still... uncomfortable. For a fraction of a second, I'm filled with doubt, and I consider changing my mind again. Damn it, this would be so much easier if I could roll into Dr. Gibbs' office with a few shots of whiskey in my belly. "I've been thinking about it," I continue, already aware that I'm stumbling with my words a little and betraying my nerves, "and, um..." I pause again.
"And?"
"And I think maybe you're right."
"So you'd be willing to go for it?"
"I've had this cancer twice now," I reply, feeling a kind of icy resolve in my heart. "I don't want it a third time."
He stares at me for a moment. "It runs in your family, Joanna," he says eventually. "There's a seam of this thing running right through your genetic make-up, and I don't think you can escape it, not without... A double mastectomy is a drastic option, but in cases such as yours, it's the only really effective way of beating the cancer permanently. You're already lucky that it hasn't metastasized, and -"
"We don't know that for sure," I remind him.
"All the checks so far are looking good," he says, "but you're right, we shouldn't count our chickens just yet. Still, you're doing good, but getting rid of the entire problem area, if you don't mind me describing it like that, would dramatically improve your long-term chances of survival. You can have reconstructive surgery. You can get these things rebuilt. It's not the life-changing thing it used to be." He pauses, and then he sighs. "Who am I kidding? It's still a big thing, but the point is, you have to focus on the positives. In this case -"
"I'll do it," I tell him.
Silence. It's as if my words are slowly settling in the room, like a kind of fine dust.
"You've thought about this?" he asks eventually.
"What's there to think about? It's a simple question. Do I want to live or do I want to die? I want to live, therefore I need to do this. Where do I sign?"
"That's a very straightforward way of seeing it. Have you spoken to other people about it?"
"My body," I reply. "My decision."
"And you're sure?"
I nod. "Everything I said last time... That was all just an instinctive reaction. It was my gut talking. I was in shock. I've had time to think about it since then, and it seems like the logical choice." I take a deep breath. "I don't want this coming back. I don't want to wake up one day, go to the bathroom, get into the shower, and feel another lump. It's happened to me twice already, and I can't let it happen again." I wait for him to say something. "When can you do it? Today? I'm ready today. I've got a clear schedule until Monday, so let's whack me on a table and get these puppies off."
"We'll have to look into getting you booked in," he
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