So begins the second year of knowingly living with cancer.  I say knowingly, since the symptoms first manifested themselves six months before the cancer diagnosis.  A friend asked whether I was angry about the six months of misdiagnosis, whether it seemed like six months lost in the battle.  Since the kidney cancer had by October 2010 already metastasized into the left scapula, I'm not sure what an earlier diagnosis might have changed.  Maybe an extra six months of blissful ignorance wasn't entirely a bad thing.  I am angry that my primary care physician, someone I thought was my friend as well as my physician, has never talked to me directly since that October when I went in for an x-ray, which found nothing.  Yesterday, I received a form letter from his office saying that it was time for me to come in for some regular, but unspecified bloodwork.  Doesn't he know that I get blood tests every month?  I've continued to put him down as the primary physician, simply because all forms demand a name.  Is he uninformed about what's going on?  Or do the results of all the tests simply get stuck in my file without anyone reading them?  I threw the form letter in the trash.

Another friend, who doesn't read the blog, asked how my health was compared to a year ago.  On April 12, 2011, I thought I was healthy except for the irritating pain in my left shoulder, which I thought was a torn rotator cuff or maybe bursitis.  Everyone who had had similar pains said that pains like those took what seemed like forever to heal, so, although I was impatient, I wasn't seriously worried.  On April 13, 2012, however, I'd spent a year knowing better.  I begin every morning by taking 10 or 11 pills, some of which are simply to counter the side effects of others.  In the evening, there are two more to take.  And then there are the "as needed" Imodium pills, which I need all too often.  Mohamed begins every morning by giving me an anti-coagulant shot in my stomach.  Since the whole point is thinning the blood, the area around the shot bruises, so I have an unattractive ring of greenish bruises around my stomach.  (Despite having lost some weight and two notches in my belt, I still seem to have sufficient belly for there to be room for the shots. That hardly seems fair.)  Medicare has paid for almost every penny of medical and hospital care, but the medications are incredibly expensive.  It doesn't take long for me to move into the "catastrophic" phase of Medicare Part D, where I pay only 5% of the cost, but for the first couple of months, until I get to that stage, the bills aren't pleasant.  I know that I'm lucky to have good insurance.  I keep thinking of what this would be like for someone who was 64 and didn't have Medicare and for the millions who don't have insurance at all.  So I feel somewhat selfish grousing during the two months when all the credit card bills are for meds rather than for something "fun," but still...

A year ago, my hair was salt and pepper; now it's white.  A year ago, my right femur was bone, not titanium.  I didn't limp when I walked or groan every time I stood up or carry a cane every time I left the house.  I could cut my own toenails, put my socks on without further groaning, and slide into a car seat without having to lift my right leg with my hands into the car.  A year ago, I could go a restaurant without scoping out the location of the bathrooms and didn't buy twelve-packs of toilet paper.  I could think about travel (and even moving to Florida).  A year ago, if I took a nap (I was retired after all), it was because I wanted to, not because my mind and body had shut down. 

A year ago, I didn't sufficiently appreciate what great and generous friends I have and had turned the page on too many friendships.  I didn't know that our medical system works as well as it does or that in a complex as, well, complex as KU Med, there were so many caring, friendly, and skilled doctors and nurses.  I didn't know just how many talents Mohamed has and how much care he could give without ever, not once, complaining. 

I've started the second year by complaining after saying I wouldn't.  I hope I've gotten it out of my system--for a while at least.