106 Unremarkable Ct Scan Results

The report from the radiology department lists the components of the torso. And next to each part, the word “unremarkable”. Lungs, unremarkable. Liver, unremarkable. Colon, unremarkable. Never has it been so pleasing to be unremarkable.

Dr. Wilfong called with the unremarkable Ct Scan results.  It must be a glorious type of call to make.  I know that some people receive the opposite, and I feel so much compassion for that, for the deliverer and receivers of such news.

My situation is the ideal.  From “the scientific standpoint”, the Ideal has occurred.  The surgery removed the main mass.  It was an unplanned surgery, emergent.  It was not supposed to happen.  But because the chemotherapy worked so well, the mass pulled at the surface of the colon and perforated it.  Dr. Haque removed the mass, some of the lymph system, and a few other “unnecessary” components of my body to boot. I could have died.  But I did not.

And the chemotherapy also worked in the liver.  Three rounds.  I had barely received the third dose, and had it coursing through my veins as the surgery team pulled the parts out of my abdomen.

In the liver, there were two spots, two marbles of cancer.  The CT Scan shows that they are not there, not visible. “Highly reactive to the chemotherapy.”  

The chemotherapy could have killed me.  I could have died.  I did not.

The report from the radiology department lists the components of the torso.  And next to each part, the word “unremarkable”.  Lungs, unremarkable.  Liver, unremarkable.  Colon, unremarkable.  Never has it been so pleasing to be unremarkable.

The feeling is shock.  Like a mind trying to grasp that the terrain entirely changed with the shift of a chicain.  Logic spins and weaves, working to comprehend, working to create a new story.  Footing lost, ground shifting.  Falling like Alice through the hole.  A different dimension, a new world with alternative colors, a new watch.  A new pocket watch hanging from a shiny chain and ticking a different rhythm. 

I could have died, but I did not.

Author: Michele Plumb Stowell

Michele Stowell was a teacher, a hand holder, and encouraging voice. Born an early Gen Xer, she has lived in Western Washington for the duration. Her children, two spectacular genetic daughters and an uncountable number of marvelous scout and school sons and daughters, shine as her biggest impact and her greatest blessing. Just before her 54th birthday, Michele was diagnosed with stage four cancer. Her writing and art work are expressions of the drama and the joy of living earth bound. On October 24, 2021, Michele was released from her physical body, transported to continue her work on other realms.

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