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"Please hurry," I whisper, my voice barely rising above the hum of the city awakening around me. “I’m already late for an appointment with Mom’s doctor.”
“Right on it.”
I get to the clinic twenty minutes late. Thank God the doctor can still see me.
"I wanted to spend a little more time with you and maybe stop and see your mother, but now we must manage our time differently,” Dr. Schneider starts the meeting the minute I go in.
“I am very sorry, doctor. This is not like me at all.”
“Oh, not to worry. These things happen. Let’s get started. It is always so enjoyable giving a report to someone who doesn’t need a translation for every single word. Take a look at this.
“As you can see, the latest positron emission tomography shows no metabolic evidence of disease. This is exceptional; Abigail is in remission," Dr. Schneider announces, his voice steady, betraying neither excitement nor caution.
I nod, absorbing the weight of his words. My fingers trace the cold metal of the chair I'm sitting on in his office, a sterile space filled with the hum of medical machinery and the faint scent of antiseptics. The doctor’s eyes meet mine, expecting questions.
"Pancreatic adenocarcinoma, as you know, has a grim prognosis due to late presentation and aggressive biology," hebegins, adjusting his glasses. "Abigail's cancer presented with metastatic lesions which, under normal circumstances, would significantly diminish survival chances."
"Yet," he continues, pointing to a colorful graph on his tablet, "the experimental nanotherapeutic agent we've administered targets both primary tumor and metastatic cells by exploiting the abnormal vasculature of the neoplastic tissues. Enhanced permeability and retention effect allowed for higher drug concentrations at the tumor sites."
"Survival rates?" I ask, my voice betraying no emotion even as my heart races.
"Traditionally, less than five percent survive five years post-diagnosis at stage IV. But with this treatment, we are cautiously optimistic. The technology leverages programmed cell death, circumventing the usual resistance encountered with classical chemotherapeutics."
"Going forward," he says, scrolling through another chart, "we must maintain vigilance. Surveillance will involve bi-monthly CA 19-9 levels and MRIs every three months to monitor for any recurrence. Any elevation or new lesion warrants immediate investigation."
"Management-wise, we're looking at continued immuno-nutrition support, pancreatic enzyme supplements, and rigorous monitoring for cachexia. Additionally, genetic counseling could be insightful, considering the hereditary risk factors involved."
"Understood," I respond, mind racing with follow-up protocols and potential complications.
"Though she's stable, I recommend a prolonged stay, just to be safe—maybe three more months here in Zurich before returning to America. We need to ensure remission holds." He leans back, giving the impression of confidence and control, yet I sense an underlying caution that resonates with my own fears.
"Three months," I repeat, the plan forming in my head. There's a lot to consider—logistics, finances, emotional strain—but Mom's health is paramount. I'll make it work, whatever it takes.
"Thank you, Dr. Schneider. I appreciate the thoroughness," I say as I stand up, extending my hand firmly. He shakes it, the transaction of hope sealed with professionalism.
As I leave his office, the news reverberates within me, a mixture of relief and daunting responsibility. Remission is a gift, but it comes with strings attached, strings that are bound to create tensions with my siblings.Uuuuurrrgh. Fighting with them constantly about Liam is exhausting. I better tell them first, before I go see Mom.
My thumbs fly over the phone's keyboard with nervous energy, punching out a mass text to Dick, Jenny, and Lola on our WhatsApp group chat.
Mom's in remission, I type, my heart thudding against my ribs.But we need to talk. New developments.
I wait, watching three dots blink on the screen, before replies flood in, a chorus of digital relief and urgency. We arrange a Zoom call for three hours later, then go spend some time with Mom.
At a quarter to midnight, I start getting ready for the Zoom call. I prop my phone against the microwave on the kitchen counter and swipe to join the video conference. Faces pop into view—Dick's lined forehead, Jenny's wide smile, Lola's anxious eyes—all framed by their respective backgrounds.
"Hey, everyone," I start, voice shaking slightly. "It's good news about Mom."
"Thank God," Jenny exclaims, and Lola echoes her sentiment while Dick just nods, his mouth a tight line of controlled emotion.
"Can't believe it, T," Dick says. "You said there's more?"
"Right." I inhale deeply, bracing myself to relay the intricacies of Dr. Schneider's explanation. "The oncologists here used an adenoviral vector to deliver a novel gene therapy directly to the pancreatic tumor cells. It's groundbreaking stuff."
"English, Tony?" Dick squints at me through the screen, and I realize I've slipped into med-speak again.
"Sorry. They basically used a virus to get cancer-killing genes into Mom's tumor. Like a Trojan horse."
"Wild," Jenny murmurs and I see her processing this, trying to wrap her head around the concept.
