Waiting for the referral

Me and Lily, taken by Steve

Yesterday, Lily joined Steve and me at the coffee shop. She was wanting to do some grocery shopping at the Farmers' Market and had some time before, which she spent with the two of us. She had her usual latte, while I enjoyed my double Americano, and Steve filled his own coffee cup holder with his usual straight coffee. Then we set out for a walk. It was shortened by Lily's visit, but it was worth it to have her tell some stories about her recent visit with her son, who came up from Guatemala to help celebrate her new status as an American citizen.

I have been more than a little rattled by last week's discovery that the thing on my neck is cancerous and needs to be removed as soon as possible. Then I found out when I tried to see if the referral had been accomplished, that no, it hasn't happened yet because my primary dermatologist was on vacation, had just returned and didn't get around to it yet. I do know that the referral should happen early next week, but I just don't understand why it is taking so long, I found that indeed I will probably see a young female doctor by the name of Joy Makdisi for the procedure. I think it's auspicious that someone named "Joy" will remove the growth. But shouldn't I be first in line?

The pathology report didn't inspire any confidence, either. This is what the report said:

FINAL DIAGNOSIS

SKIN, LEFT NECK, SHAVE:

Squamous cell carcinoma in situ, involving the deep and peripheral tissue edges.

Yikes! I don't like the sound of that. What does it mean that it's in the "deep and peripheral tissue edges"? How deep is deep? and if it's in the peripheral edges, does that mean there is more and that it might be hard to remove it all? I am sending myself into a tizzy, just considering what it all means. And of course, until the Mohs surgery is accomplished, nobody really knows the answers to these questions. I will be so happy to have a date to look forward to, hopefully sometime very soon. But I also realize this is not an optimal time for getting such surgeries scheduled, with so many people on vacation during the summer months. At least I will eventually have the surgery and my insurance should cover most of the costs. Even if I had to pay up front, it would be worth it just to get this taken care of.

In the meantime, I am not going to worry about the Canadian MacuMira eye treatment until this is cleared up. Both are going to be expensive, and I am willing to take care of it all myself, if necessary. I don't trust the insurance companies to be there when I need them. These days everything is complicated.

I guess this is what it means to be an elderly person in her (almost) mid-eighties. Her health not likely to become miraculously better in the future, as our bodies do wear down and out as we use them. I notice in the obituaries there are many people who die of "normal" causes and they are my age or even younger. As for my parents, neither of them lived as long as I already have, and genetics plays a role in our ability to live long and healthy lives. I wonder how long they might have lived if statins and better treatment for high blood pressure had been available to them when they were my age. Oh wait, they never made it into their eighties, or even their seventies! Daddy was 62, and Mama was 69 when they died, fourteen years apart.

Mama had a sibling, my Uncle Joe, who developed melanoma and died from it. He was a veteran and lived with my grandmother until he passed away. I remember that he had a mole on his earlobe; he didn't realize it was cancer, and it spread to his brain. He went into a coma for several weeks, but he did eventually come out of it. Interestingly, after he recovered, he then spoke with a thick German accent, and nobody even knew whether he had ever learned the language! He wasn't very old when he died, and he never married. I remember him still, and I even spent several months staying with Grandma and sleeping in his bed, long after he was gone. I remember Mama telling me he was exceptionally bright and accomplished many things during his life, but all of that is gone now. Nobody alive remembers. These days, I feel a kinship with him, as I try not to succumb to this skin cancer. My thoughts gravitate often to that spot on my neck and each time, I pray for guidance.

 No actual events in most people's lives that will be remembered for long after we die. There are a few in history, such as the ancient Greek philosophers, whose works are still read and revered, and other notable people who still give today's world much to think about. I still read and cherish the poetry of Emily Dickinson, who was in her fifties when she died, but she had written some of the most incredible poems by that time.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And reverie. The reverie alone will do, If bees are few.

So much of the feeling of her her poems lingers long after I have forgotten the words. Years ago I went on a five-day solo backpacking trip, and I spent many hours committing several of her poems to memory. They are still there to be accessed when I need them. I am so glad that I can still read well enough, using my low vision setting on my Kindle, to read and appreciate other great poets today.

Longevity of one's life is not a given, or even something to be desired. There are many who have managed to fulfill their mission here on Earth in a short time, and lay down with a sense of accomplishment, ready to move on to the next adventure. I hope to be one of them, but I won't know if I made it until I, too, am at the end of my life and look back on everything I went through. I also believe that this life is not the end of my consciousness, but it is only a belief. I do believe that love is timeless, and that as I surround myself in love and charity, I will end up having been glad to have been here.

My post is pretty much finished, and yes, John will be here before I know it, ready to whisk me off to breakfast. My dear virtual family are often in my thoughts these days, and you know that means you, too. I am incredibly grateful for you, and for your own long (or short) life. Be well until we meet again, dear friends.