Latest news on the cancer front:  my pathology report came back last week and the cancer is officially gone.      We are so relieved and thankful  here on the Prairie.   My stitches came out  as well.  I am now able to walk  minus the Granny Grunt Shuffle.   My range of motion has increased quite a bit as well.  Even though I have been discouraged by how quickly recovery has been,  according to those who are wiser in the ways of surgery,  I am healing very nicely.

      We were sideswiped, though,  with some unexpected news.   At the beginning of this whole situation,  the surgeon told me very emphatically that I would not need further treatment after the surgery.  He told me this a few times.   I relayed this  information on to my children.  The surgery became our goal as to getting back to life  as we once knew it.  This was our focus:  get through surgery then we can put this all behind us.

      It seems that they have moved the goal posts on us.   I am now being referred to the cancer clinic in Regina  to see if I do indeed need further treatment.  Before you start telling your computer screen  that this is all just routine (as many people have told me the past few days,)  let me assure you that I am aware of this.   I understand why they are doing this and I appreciate it.  Even though I do not relish seeing another doctor ( who will probably not have the same sparkling personality as my 'good doctor.')  I am relieved  that follow up will be done.

      I am not the one who is having a problem with all of this;  it is my children.    Right now,  when they need the game plan  to stay  exactly the way that it was relayed to them,  they feel a bit shellshocked  because  this whole thing is not over.   There are more drs,  maybe more tests,  more everything.  They don't want more.  They want over.   They need over.   They thirst for over.

      Rocky is especially having a hard time with all of this.  He overheard me talking to the surgeon's  receptionist about the referral.  When I told him that I would have to see another doctor,  his first question to me,  accompanied with  a look of dread  was,  "Is the cancer back?"    I assured him that it was not.  I told him that the doctor just wants to see if I will need medicine to make sure that the cancer does not come back.   Again,  the look of dread,  but this time  fear was mingled in with it.  "Will you lose your hair?"   I told him that I didn't think they would use that kind of medicine.  

      The floodgates  were opened then and the tears  flowed.   It broke my heart.  I cried along with him.  I held him tight  and prayed that God would give me the words to comfort his heart.   The words  didn't come.  I don;t think they exist.   

      The tears have been ongoing all weekend.  The clarifying questions  have been alternated with requests to play cards wtih me or just to cuddle.   He just needs to be with his Mama,  in case she disappears.  

      I keep hearing  people tell me that this is all routine.  How do you explain routine  to an 8 yr. old boy?  In his world  there is nothing routine about cancer.   Actually,  there is nothing routine about it in my world either. 

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