Limbo

I don’t mean the Trinidadian dance. Not with my poor old back. Nor have I died and become stranded in some other world. But I am waiting for the results of my cancer surveillance scan. I had the CT scan itself in the Cancer Centre two weeks ago and since then I’ve been dangling. Despite having been in this limbo plenty of times over the past eleven years, it doesn’t get any easier. Twice a year I also have a set of surveillance blood tests. I got the latest results from my GP three weeks ago. My kidney function score was significantly lower than usual. And soon I have to get a retest. But this has given me extra material to worry about. Because I know that the most likely place that my renal cancer would recur is in my remaining kidney.   

Limbo is a state of betwixt and between; traditionally between heaven and hell. This is very relevant to me. Because I’m in a strange place that is neither cancer-free nor cancerous. Both of these options remain possible. And I can’t cancel either of them out. It’s only when I have confirmation of the scan result that my status can become settled. Normally I get a hospital letter giving me the date of an appointment with my Oncologist. This would usually arrive a week or so before the appointment. But I have no letter. That means I won’t find out my result this week and probably not next week either. So my limbo continues.

Years ago I developed a simple strategy for living with the threat of cancer. Live just one day at a time. It is easier said than done. But I’ve become a little better at it as the years have gone on. During the day, I can immerse myself in writing or cycling. Or distract myself with television or a book. But the night is much more difficult. I often find myself awake at 4am, imagining the worst. Sleep doesn’t come easy to cancer patients. Perhaps I should get up and practice some Trinidadian dance moves.