When a Doctor Gives Good News

     An oncologist, I see now, is a doctor who studies test results and then determines what treatment the patient should undergo – which chemo to put together in a package, how long chemo should last, whether immune therapy would work better. The oncologist's interaction with the patient can be minimal. The patient is just the physical representation of what's on the charts. It's what's on the charts that is important.

      A doctor who cares is special.

     Dr. Sander, Mike's oncologist, is that kind. The first time we met her, to learn how she wanted to treat the return of Mike's esophageal cancer (thought eradicated four years ago), she strode briskly into the room (on time) and shook hands with each of us (Mike, his daughter Allegra, and I). She is very pretty – slim and lithe, with long black hair and snappy black eyes – and she speaks with a delightful tinge of a European accent. (She is from Belgrade.) She told us she had come to Medford from Portland and that though she liked it here, she missed the more active night life in Portland. I imagined her at a bar with four or five other brilliant people, each a professional in a particular field. Among them, she  just happened to have chosen medicine as her field. No big deal.

      She took as much time as necessary to tell us what she knew, why she was prescribing a certain chemo package, and what the possible side effects would be, speaking directly, not sugar-coating the news, speaking fast but not hurriedly. She made sure to answer all our questions before she strode again from the room.

      Mike does chemo four hours a day twice a month. Side effects have been minimal (say I) – a sensitivity to cold that makes his fingers tingle, occasional mouth sores. I usually keep him company during those boring hours in a chair with chemicals dripping into his body. We work New York Times crossword puzzles. I read Moby Dick to him. We talk about wedding plans. We resolutely describe a future.

      Last Tuesday Mike, his daughter Zoey, and I met with Dr. Sander to find out if the chemo was working The three of us were in the examination room, tense, talking about anything except what was before us. Every time I had thought about this day, I had shoved the thought aside. It would be what it would be.

      The door opened briskly, and Dr. Sander strode in, smiling broadly and saying, even before she sat down, "It's good news. I am so happy."

     And she was happy. She smiled and smiled. She read all the statistics – how much each of the two tumors had shrunk, what the blood cell counts were – "All good," she kept saying; "it's all good." She smiled and smiled. She looked radiantly happy that Mike was getting better. We were smiling, too.

      Dr. Sander shook hands with each of us as she left, still beaming. She told Zoey to be sure to let her sister know the good news. (She remembered Allegra!) I told her she was leaving a room full of smiling people. She shot me a smile as she opened the door.

      The chemo is working. Onward! More shrinking, more pushing the cancer back to a pinprick. More wedding plans, more thoughts about a future. I look like Dr. Sander these days: radiant with relief and happiness.