No evidence of disease

When I first met my oncologist, Dr. A., I wanted to run screaming from the exam room. She was reserved, a bit awkward, and not at all chit-chatty about the fact that we'd need to become BFFs over the coming months if I was going to trust her judgement. She sat in a chair practically across the room and spoke in hushed tones, rarely a smile. It was all a bit too much for me then, and I asked my surgeon, who I loved, if she could recommend someone else (she had recommended Dr. A. in the first place).

Since that first conversation with my surgeon when she convinced me to stick it out with my new onc., I have heard nothing but respect and love for Dr. A from the other docs and nurses I've met. "She's who I would want", "She's conscientious to a fault", "You could not have been assigned a better oncologist." I believe in all that now.

Yesterday, Dr. A. walked into the room in her usual gangly way and she had a gigantic gummy smile on her face. She had the nerve to ask me about any residual side effects of Tamoxifen, future medication options and about how I was feeling in general. Then she finally unloaded the goods.

"Your CT was all clear. No evidence of disease anywhere."

Um. Does fucking fantastic cover it here?!

Pete grabbed my leg like he did the time I was diagnosed. Relief. Release. Begin again.

We fairly skipped out of the place, which is obnoxious if you've ever been to a cancer clinic. And I felt a giant slap of guilt with the glee, because I thought of friends at different stages and the women who would hear that same day for the first time that they had cancer. But something huge died in me yesterday and I'll take that death as a good one and be over the moon about all this.

This feels new, this existence now. Like I've earned a do-over. It's a bunch of shit, though, from Steve Jobs, to the books I'm reading now, to work, to friends, to disease still surrounding everything. It's not about "getting back to normal" or "returning to my old life". It starts here, baby.