Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [77]
WE FLEW HOME the next day and her mammogram was the following morning. They took the pictures, brought her back to the waiting room and Abbie sat next to me, legs crossed, and quiet.
Twenty minutes later, three doctors walked in. Given Abbie’s high profile, the hospital assigned us a team of three doctors. The senior doctor, Dr. Ruddy Hampton, was what you might think. Gray hair and a reassuring bedside manner. The other two, Dr. Roy Smith and Dr. Katherine Meyer, were younger and credited as being on the cutting edge of knowledge and technology.
They hung Abbie’s images on the wall behind us and, for reference, hung up prints from a set of disease-free breasts. We didn’t need the diagnosis. Dr. Hampton spoke first, “Abbie…” He pointed at the picture with a pencil. “These pictures confirm invasive ductile carcinoma.” The clusters he circled looked like miniature Milky Ways. He drew imaginary lines on the films and said, “These are what we call satellite lesions. In English, this means that your cancer has invaded the milk ducts.” As he spoke, I wrestled with the term your cancer.
While he explained the films, I realized that the bump I felt was just one of many, and even worse, it had spread to both breasts. If you doubt that cancer is evil, then why does it start in the milk ducts? Answer that. Abbie studied the films and turned her head sideways. “It looks like someone shot both my breasts with white paintballs.”
Dr. Smith continued, “In oncology, there are three ways to attack cancer: surgery, chemotherapy and radiation.”
Abbie interrupted. “Don’t you call that ‘slash, poison and burn’?”
He nodded. “Yes, but here’s what’s important for you two.” He looked at Abbie. “We can address your particular situation with just chemotherapy and surgery.” That’s when I clued in to the fact that they intended to cut on my wife.
I scratched my head. “How’s that?”
Dr. Meyer broke in. “Abbie needs a double mastectomy in order to give her the best chance.”
“The best chance of what?”
“Beating this.”
Somewhere in there, it struck me that the three of them were drawing a distinction between life and death.
Dr. Hampton had been quiet, but given the awkward silence, he spoke up. “This is an advanced form of cancer.”
The word advanced floated around the room. Dr. Smith continued, “Before surgery, we will want to administer a strong and aggressive dose of chemotherapy—to shrink the tumors prior to surgery. Another aggressive course of chemo would follow—just to make certain.”
“Will it get rid of the cancer?”
Everybody nodded. “Survival rate is ninety-seven percent.”
I looked at the three doctors looking at us. “What about the other three percent?”
They reassured me, “We caught it in time. We’ll look at the lymph nodes and make sure our margins are clear, but I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”
Lose sleep? I wasn’t worried about losing sleep. I was worried about losing my wife.
After outlining some breast reconstruction options, they left us alone in the room. “Honey. I’m so sorry. Maybe we should get a second opinion. I mean, they don’t know everything.”
She nodded, but there was no agreement in it. I compared the two sets of films.
We didn’t need a second opinion.
She pressed her forehead to mine. “I’m glad you’re in my corner.”
“I wish I had a magic wand.”
“Me too.”
26
JUNE 5, MORNING
Just after daybreak, a mile south from Boulogne, we crossed Scotts Landing. A local boat ramp on the Florida side used mostly by fishermen. There’s also a trailer park, rope swing and bait shop where they sell crickets, minnows, worms, artificial baits and absolutely no beer whatsoever. Lining the boat ramp a sign reads WARNING: IT IS NOT ADVISABLE TO GO SWIMMING AFTER IT RAINS, SUDDEN AND DANGEROUS UNDERCURRENTS OCCUR EVEN WHEN SURFACE APPEARS CALM,