one month

It's been one month tomorrow since the surgery.

There are good things happening and completely disheartening things happening.

The pulmonologist called him a rock star. He said that his lungs are cleared up and nobody knows why - but that he no longer classifies as someone who has pulmonary hypertention.

But "Not so fast," says the oncologist. Although the surgeon says the margins were clear, and the guy who put the Dalai Lama back together says the repair work looks beautiful, the oncologist - who is the only dude we really care about at this point says,

He says things like:
 "People think we know, but we don't really know anything."
"When it comes back."
"You technically could be a candidate for chemo if you'd like, but the risk of infection, heart damage and serious side effects is 4-9 percent, which completely negates the 3-7 percent chance that it would do you any good at all."

Thanks oncology. We get it - it's your job - but throw us a bone.

We do however have the good fortune of living across the street from a pair of doctors. Among the plethora of things they have done for us including feeding our kids, driving our kids, taking care of the dog, making deliveries to Mayo, perhaps the single most important thing they do is ask us about all of our visits, focus on the positive aspects and say, "That sounds like good news."

Which is all we need to hear.

We have google - we know the odds, we can read between the lines - they either got it, or they didn't. Just don't keep kicking us in the face with the "what if's?"

Because quite frankly, his leg could be on damn fire, and if Dr. J across the street looks at it and says, "Heat therapy is really good for circulation" - we're gonna take that information and and run with it.

Well - walk with it.

Well - maybe like shuffle with it.

Well - probably more like grab the walker and hope to heaven nobody left any legos on the floor and maybe get to the front porch with it.