Lions and Tigers, Oh My

The doctor says I can go on safari. My oncologist happens to be going on one himself, and tells me in his way that I have no restrictions now, even my red blood cell count is good to go on safari, no more iron pills necessary.

Dr. George won’t give me the “clean bill of health” just yet. He’s cautious but indicates that treatment has worked thus far. Any minor discomforts I still have (a nagging cough; lingering queasiness; an esophagus that feels like an unchewed potato is living in it; the occasional internal pinch at the biopsy site; the bumpy, itchy, rectangular shaped rash on my back where the radiation beams struck) should all fade away shortly, like a perturbed rhino losing interest and wandering off for other fields.

He said I should feel great in a year (a year? I want now, of course).

But then he’s cautious. He won’t let me out of his sight for too long, although the stretches of tests and visits will space out over time. Now I’m scheduled to see him in six weeks following another CAT scan and blood test. I am not surprised. He has to see what the five weeks, or 25 radiation zappings have done to the swollen lymph nodes that started all of my cancerous escapades. Although he insists I’m cancer free, he wants to make sure I stay that way.

I comply even if he doesn’t invite me along on his African trip. I’ve already had to cancel one trip to visit my aunts and uncles in Connecticut due to the sudden need for radiation therapy. I’m weary to reschedule too soon. There’s also a writers workshop in Iowa, and a visit to see my sisters-in-law in Brooklyn over the next few months that I hope to make. That’s about as safari as I’m going to get, and that’s fine with me. I’ve already come face-to-face with something as wild as lions and tigers. I let Dr. George be the tamer, the whip and chair in his hands.

Give me a trip to the zoo and I’ll be happy.