Present Perfect(83)

When you’re diagnosed with a life altering illness, the first few days you walk around shell shocked, not quite believing what a doctor has told you.

After that, there’s a period of time in which you live in a state of limbo. You still feel like your old self, still look the same in the mirror, and you, occasionally, forget for brief periods of time that you are sick.

Once the doctor visits and tests start to become more frequent you turn into a patient with a life altering illness. You start to forget what you felt like before the diagnosis. Each time you look in the mirror, your pre-diagnosis persona starts to disappear and is replaced by a stranger who is sad, scared, tired, and at times wants to give up the fight.





The MRI was a giant colossal suck-tacular, mother sucking, suck fest. The machine looked like an enormous white penis and balls. Well, one ball actually. No doubt an inadequately endowed male invented this machine.

I laid down on the enormous white penis and the tech slid me up into the ball, where I had to lay perfectly still for one hour. When I felt the tech sliding me out, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had never been so happy to get off a penis in all my life.

After the MRI, we had time before my appointment with the oncologist, so we decided to go to lunch. During lunch, my parents, Noah, and I either sat in silence and ate or talked about everything except what was taking place. We were all in a state of limbo, not quite knowing what our roles were or how to act in this new world we found ourselves in.

Once we got to the doctor’s office, we sat in the waiting room for forty-five minutes before being ushered back into his office. I don’t understand why they say to be a half hour early to an appointment when you’re going to make me wait an additional forty-five minutes? I wasn’t going to be a very patient, patient.

Dr. Lang was a middle-aged man, which I liked. I didn’t want some young doctor holding his textbook over me while he figured out where my parts were or where to start cutting. He was a straight talking, no nonsense kind of guy. I wasn’t a patient person, so I liked that. Noah stood in the back of the room, while I sat in front of the doctor’s desk, flanked on either side by my parents.

“Well, I have some good news,” Dr. Lang said while he looked down at my records and results. “There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of cancer elsewhere. Your left leg appears to be the only area affected as of right now.” Four audible deep sighs filled the office. “But there does appear to be infiltration into the surrounding soft tissue. Because of this, I recommend a below knee amputation.”

He looked up right at me, I guess trying to gauge my reaction. I sat there staring back at him. It wasn’t a surprise that this was the recommendation. Before it was a possibility, but now it’s a reality. It took me a moment to adjust. The doctor glanced back down at my records, breaking eye contact with me.

In the short moment that we looked at each other, I could tell he was thinking of his own daughter. I saw a picture of his family on the table right as I walked into his office. He had a daughter, who looked to be almost my age.

“They have come a long way in prosthetic limbs. I’ve seen some that look so real, you wouldn’t even know they weren’t,” he said.

I guess this was the making lemonade out of lemons speech.

I heard my dad clear his throat and ask, “So if it’s just in her left leg, once the…” His voice cracked. He paused for a moment trying to compose himself before he continued. “Once the surgery is done, she’ll be cancer free, right?”

Dr. Lang kept his eyes focused on my file when he answered my dad. “Technically, yes. She’ll still have to go through chemo, though.”

“But if it’s just in her leg, why does she need to go through chemo?” Mom asked.

Dr. Lang looked up and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Kelly, Amanda, and young man.”

“That’s my best friend, Noah,” I said. The doctor nodded in Noah’s direction.

“Amanda has osteosarcoma. It’s a very aggressive form of bone cancer. From what I know about your case, I’d say aggressive is an understatement. Your symptoms came on very quickly. We need to make sure we kill any stray cells that could potentially metastasize to your lungs. The chemo will give us the best chance of stopping that from occurring. I know this is extremely overwhelming. Let’s take it a little at a time. My nurse will get with you about scheduling the surgery and information on amputations and give you a few names of prosthetists in the area.”

“A prosthetist?” I asked.

“They’re the ones who fit you for your new leg,” he explained. “It will be a few weeks before you’ll get fitted for the new leg and start chemo. We want you to heal from the surgery first. Do you have any questions?”

There was too much information coming at us and none of us could think clearly enough to ask anything. I was still trying to process that I was going to have my leg sawed off.

“I’m sure I’ll have a million questions as soon as I walk out the door.” I smiled weakly at him.

He looked at me with his warm brown eyes. “I have a daughter a couple of years younger than Amanda. I’d be beside myself if she got sick. We’re going to do everything we can for you, Amanda.”

“I know.”

He looked hesitant before he continued. “I don’t usually talk to patients about this. I’m saying this because of the type of cancer you have, the type of chemo that you’ll have, and your young age. Most young people don’t think about this type of thing, but Amanda, you may want to go ahead and talk to your parents about what type of arrangements you want, just in case.”