I keep trying to shorten this saga, but as much as I pare down to the essentials, the tale gets longer. If you’re new to these posts, welcome. If you’ve been sticking with me from the beginning, bless you. I’ll try to be succinct, but it always seems like there’s more to say….

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My husband had another scan in March, a week before family was due to visit, and several days before his third dual treatment, and appointment with the oncologist.

His itching and skin issues after dual treatments were noticeably more severe than they were after getting only one drug, which we planned to discuss with the doctor. But the latest scan results were first on the agenda, as the nodules had again reduced in size, with one disappearing, along with a worrisome new wrinkle: the appearance of fluid build-up in his lungs.

The oncologist said he wasn’t concerned about the fluid, and wanted the two treatments to proceed as scheduled. But my husband asked if the stronger drug could be paused for a few weeks, to give his skin a chance to calm down so that he might be in better shape for our guests. The doctor said he’d alert the pharmacy, and my husband then asked if he could take a cannabis gummy at night to help him sleep. The oncologist replied, I would never tell a terminal patient not to use something that might make them feel better. My husband didn’t catch it—his hearing is sketchy even with assistance, but I did. I looked into the man’s eyes in disbelief, and to my astonishment, he said it again, emphasizing the word, terminal.

It was one of those moments where every impulse in my body and brain urged me to snap, You realize, don’t you, that every living organism on this planet has an expiration date, including you, but I said nothing. I needed to think. I needed to sort through the stunning coldbloodedness of a doctor calling a cancer patient whose condition is IMPROVING, “Terminal.” I needed to deal with the shocking reality that this oncologist had already written my husband off. And worse, I needed to find the right way to discuss it with my husband.

I didn’t have to fret about it or search long. As soon as we got home, my husband said he was getting a really “bad feeling” about the oncologist, and wondered if he was being too sensitive. I assured him he wasn’t. We needed advice, but weren’t sure who to trust, since all of our doctors were part of the same system. Instead of stewing about it, we put the matter aside for the time being to get the house ready for our guests….

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