Forceful

Sorry it's been a while. Some of you have asked me what's going on. As I've said, I like to post only when I have concrete 'medical news'. This time it took my oncologist longer than usual to report back after my regular brain scan.

It all started two weeks ago, a day before I was to be briefed about the latest results.

A day in the life

1524. I receive a voice message notification but don't listen to the message as I'm running around sorting out stuff around the house. The usual: dishwasher, mail, bills, Ernesto's toys, my toys (bikes!). A voice message? How old-school! Must be my dad. I'll call him tonight.

1613. I find a minute to sit down. Finally. I listen to the message. It's not my dad, it's the radiologist. The radiologist? Odd. I've never met or spoken with the man. Normally he sends a briefing to my oncologist, who then explains the results to me. This time, the radiologist wants me to do another scan. Fifteen minutes, that's all he needs. Just 15? Why? WTF?!! I call both radiologist and oncologist. Receptionists pick up. Someone will give me a call later. When later? Just 'later'. Damn it, typical.

1846. I'm waiting for the call. This sucks. I've been here before. They never want another scan to confirm good news. It's got to be to confirm something ugly. I recall how I was telling Ashik just the night before, how I knew this moment was coming, sooner or later. Not today, surely? I did not fucking mean today! I was telling him that probabilistically speaking the tumour's return is a near certainty. Probabilistically speaking? You've always been a loser at statistics! 'The tumour will be back', I had said confidently. But I had spoken in an almost academic tone, as if I was referring to a character in a dusty, long-forgotten book.

No, it is me. This is happening to me. But what makes 'me' so special? 'In the long run, we're all dead'. Hah, one of the few economics theories that have proven true. It just feels so concrete, so probable, so unfair, so soon... so... so... 

Then words (about a young namesake from the novel Dune) I had read earlier that day hit me:

It's the look of terrible awareness, of someone forced to the knowledge of his own mortality.

... so forced. That's it.

A black swan

Let me fast-forward a couple of weeks to the punch-line and spare you the roller-coaster of thoughts and emotions I experienced over the following hours and days before eventually receiving a concrete report: not much has changed, everything looks stable, but--there is a but. There is a possible increase in tumour activity. To use my oncologist's words: 'don't sweat it'.

He's right. It may be nothing. The reading of concern, even after the second scan, is within the scanner's margin of error. And even if it is something, it doesn't change things much. This is what brain tumours do. They come back. They always do, slowly but surely. All the same, I'm feeling as healthy as ever, continuing to build on my last Ironman performance (remember Wales? Time flies...) to get even faster.

I've always used the metaphor of an Australian magpie to describe my 'swoop' on Hawaii Ironman qualification. But I think right now another antipodean bird is more relevant: the black swan. I will continue paddling all out in training and in life (we're busy these days. Ingrid continues to accomplish ever greater things; Ernie is causing all kinds of beautiful havoc as he learns to walk; I'm about to start a PhD), doing it with a graceful smile.

And yes, the tumour will force its way back, sooner or later. And I will still be here pecking like hell, doing my best to force it back--God willing, creating my own statistical black swan one peck at a time.