I saw my Richmond Oncologist today, Dr. Sherman Baker. I like him a lot. I was hoping to get a more specific answer to the question, when is this thing going to happen? The fact is, they don’t know. Days? Weeks? A couple of months? Don’t know. And no tests can tell me anything particularly specific about that. So we pretty much decided not to do any more scans or tests unless something changes. I feel good about that decision.
The prognosis? Sometime in the next month, more or less, I should start going rather gently into that good night. The usual course is that I’ll continue to get weaker and more tired. I’ll lose my apetite even more than I already have. (I’ve lost seventy pounds since my high point last year.) Breathing difficulties will be handled by morphine, so it shouldn’t be too painful.
Shame this has to end at the very time I’m getting good at this patient thing. Three times a day I explain to complete strangers in nurses’ uniforms exactly how my bowels are doing. I do that with a straight face even when my daughter-in-law’s sitting at the side of the bed. This must be what John Donne meant when he wrote “Death be not proud.” He could have added “Death, be not dignified.”