The most frustrating thing about my doctors, is that they are truly waiting for me to die. They don't believe that there's anything that can be done to extend my life (and yet they stiiiiill want to radiate). When we discussed the lack of change in tumor size from October 25th, and January 13th, the doctors said it didn't matter. They care about the big picture. I understand that they're trained to compile the chronological MRI scans to review and observe changes, but when I held the tumor at bay for three months I didn't get a "Woop woop!" Nor did I get a, "Huh. Interesting!" Nothing. They said it didn't matter. Really? I would have appreciated a small smile, or a, "That's great! Not what we typically see here, and you can't extrapolate that to anything one way or another, but heck it's better than the opposite." It's all always so negative. They don't believe in me, they don't believe in us collectively as brain cancer fighters. I've shopped for oncologists, trying to find a better fit, but to no avail. The truth is that according to modern medicine, I'm supposed to continuously get worse as the tumor grows. I'm supposed to progressively lose my speech, my cognitive skills, my independence, my motor skills, my dexterity, my body will start falling apart, echk...everything. I'm supposed to be a good girl, a model patient, and to just give in to whatever my doctors recommend, and succumb to this cancer, and I can see how people do. When you're surrounded by professionals who handle your care, and they don't believe in you, it's hard to believe in yourself.
It is true, the brain tumor did not grow in the time period from October 25 to January 13, the doctors verified that fact today in our appointment. It's amazing how Danny, my parents and I, find this astounding fact to be something to rejoice in, and yet the doctors completely blow it off. It's sad, really. We should be jumping up and down, using this momentum to catapult us to the next phase of our Adios Hermie mission. But somehow, instead, I just feel defeated, and wiped out. I don't cry very often, probably only once every three months, but I can feel a swelling of emotion.
It was a long day of appointments, and there was a lot of information. The main point is that my oncologists, and all of my doctors for that matter, are in the business of crushing dreams. They all expect me to die, it's in their words, and worst of all in their eyes. My dream is to live, and today they just peed on that.
