That roller coaster analogy about life. As I contemplate it, it doesn’t really make sense. Unless,that is, you are terrified of roller coasters and got strapped to one unwillingly. Since, don’t we get on that roller coaster for the thrill of the downs? What would aptly describe the unexpected hits we take in life?

Anyways, it was time for the monthly follow-up of appointments and shots. Upon check-in at the international health services (IHS), we ordered a copy of the recent MRI, as well as a copy of the year’s records till date. We’d pick it all up in between our appointments instead of waiting. And then it was off to blood draw first. The blood draw area was bustling with its usual daytime bustle, a departure from our eerie wee hours experience the past weekend. We briefly attempted to count the number of times she’s been poked the last few months, and decided to abort that count.

First up, appointment with the neurologist. Dr L greeted us cheerfully as he entered the appointment room. Smiling more than usual. Perhaps because it’s a few days to Christmas holidays. He opens the conversation differently this time, not asking, “How are you?” Instead, he waves towards two of his four monitors and says, “I’ve seen your MRI. The spinal cord compression is much better. The older MRI showed severe compression. Now, it looks much better.”

Pulling up the first MRI from early summer for a side-by-side comparison, he pointed it out to us. In that moment, there was a comforting feeling. It felt warm, nice, light. Like a relaxing day at the beach. I’m not sure whether to call it relief, or joy. He proceeds to ask about Annie’s current symptoms. They were similar to when we last saw him. He then points out that vertebrae compression fracture had occurred at T3, which might explain some of the pain she has been having. Oh.

That moment you see a rogue wave coming towards you. It’s a happy day at the beach and you’re ready, so you take a swim under, prepared for a little undertow. Or perhaps, as a beginner surfer, you’re starting to learn how to take off at an angle, and ready for the wipeout. A little tumble, but it’s okay.

In the residual enthusiasm of the earlier news, Annie laughed, “Now I know why I’m shorter.” She’s about 2cm shorter in recent measurements. The neurologist continued in his upbeat tone, stating that since there were no developing neurologic deficits, we no longer needed to see him as regularly; and to schedule our next appointment with him 3 months out. Still in that bubble of earlier positiveness, I lost track of staying analytical and being on top of questions. We exited the office exchanging holiday well wishes.

Annie and I had a simple lunch sitting in the cancer building’s atrium. It was bright and sun lit. Things felt good. We joked about being shorter, and being glad that there weren’t complications to the fracture. With the cord compression alleviated, we talked about returning home in the not too distant future. To spend some quality time with the people in our lives. On the flip side, it also surfaced the old question of whether to stay on here; for a multitude of reasons such as treatment, and avoiding any healthcare messes being brought upon by the new administration stateside. With all the conversation, the time for the next appointment, with her main oncologist, was upon us. We decided to pick up the medical records ordered earlier after the appointment instead.

Dr P had her usual caring demeanor. Asking about pain, symptoms and how medication was working out. Lyrica (pregabalin) had been added to help with neuropathic pain at the last month’s appointment. Annie’s neutrophil counts looked to be holding up; low, but good enough to continue the same dosage for the next cycle of Ibrance.

The topic then went towards the MRI. Dr P re-capped an earlier mention that the modalities differed between this MRI and the earlier MRI, so more consistent comparisons would arise primarily from later scans. The T3 compression fracture was brought up and among other points, she mentioned that she would bring forward the bisphosphonates infusion to today. This topic led to us inquiring about a good level of exercise. She must wonder if we are fitness freaks, as it’s becoming the regular question at every meeting.

At the tail end of her reply, Dr P said, “You know, I want you to live like a princess. Do you understand what I am trying to say?” Everyone burst out laughing. Annie gave me a good slap on the shoulder, pointed at me, and grinned, “Did you hear that? Princess.”

With that, the atmosphere was light, we reviewed the shots to be done, and medications being renewed and off we went. Back at IHS, we figured it would be more efficient if we paralleled some tasks. Annie heading to her jabs and infusion; while I picked up the imaging CD, records, and prescriptions. Perhaps allowing us not to exceed spending 6 hours at the hospital again. I got the records and headed towards prescriptions. As I was walking, I realized the blood work report was missing blood markers and went back to the IHS. The really helpful nurse that always assists us figured out that the system had changed and so she would have to give me loose sheets instead of one nicely tabulated date-series that included the cancer markers. Not a problem at all, so I gathered the printouts in my hands and quickly walked out, hoping to get prescriptions before Annie was done.

Strolling down the hallway, I peeked at the page containing the latest MRI’s radiologist report. I frowned. There were items that weren’t discussed, and a new word.

Vertebra compression fracture at T3 AND T9, the report read. Oh.

Another line read, “Suggestive of leptomeningeal metastasis.” Lepto… what? Alright, new word. Despite being cognizant of the low utility of shallow google searches, especially with medical terms, I get out my phone and type it in anyway. A self-absorbed character walking though the hospital hallway; bag and jacket in one hand, folder and papers in another, phone pinched on finger tips. I scan the summary snippets of the first page search results. Like the winter wind which clears the hanging autumn leaves, I feel a slight chill. My arms tremble ever so slightly, and the sheets of paper cradled in my arm go sliding to the ground around me.

That moment you clear the surface of the ocean, and take a deep breath, enjoying air. But another rogue wave is already upon you, with a plunging break. It crashes on you, and in an instant, you’re in the washing machine, tumbling uncontrollably.

I stoop to gather the sheets of paper strewn on the hallway floor. Standing up and taking a deep breath, I remind myself that there were bound to be surprises along this path. Whatever it is, it is. I collect the prescriptions at the pharmacy and walk towards the treatment department to find my beloved.

Still grateful. Because today, I still get to hold the hands I love.

When the evening shadows and the stars appear
And there is no one there to dry your tears
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love
~ Bob Dylan