Dr. Pollack and his nurse, Kathy, stopped outside the door on the eighth floor of the Gondo Building at Mayo Clinic. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.
The conversation was of course about Thanksgiving dinner.
“I’m going to wash the turkey, brine it and ….,” Dr. Pollack said.
“Oh, no, don’t wash your turkey,” said Kathy. “You will get bacteria all over your sink and everywhere.”
The conversation continued for about a minute as the paperwork was shuffled and then dropped back into its slot next to the door. A quick rundown of cooking methods, drying your turkey in the refrigerator and bringing it to room temperature before cooking followed.
The door opened and I said, “Don’t wash that turkey,” I said in agreement with the nurse.
We laughed. That’s always a good sign when sitting alone in a cubicle without windows and a vintage exam table with metal stirrups like you used to see in horror movies. I forgot to ask about it.
Dr. Pollack is tall. Kathy is an attractive blonde that smiles a lot but doesn’t say too much.
“Kathy, you are going to want to see this,” Dr. Pollack said as he passworded his way into my electronic medical file. She moved in, he directed the monitor toward where I was sitting. JC was out of the room.
We were comparing brains. My brains.
“We are looking up at you from your feet, so this is your left and this is your right,” he said.
Have you ever seen your brain? The images are crazy. My eyeballs are huge, my neck is scrawny, and there it is in all its glory — a black-and-white three-dimensional image of my brain.
There were two screens. One was from January and one was from 9 a.m. that morning. Using a mouse the doctor was able to roll from the base of my neck to the top of my my head.
Three of the five tumors that took up residence in January were reduced to minute white dots. Two of them were imperceptible.
“A textbook case,” he said. “You made it 11 months.”
Everyone was pleased with the good news. The visit was 15 minutes or less and ended with a plan to image my brain in six months. And, I can do it in Bismarck and send the files to Mayo.
“I don’t want to lose touch with you,” I said.
“Are you dizzy?”
“No, not more than usual. I have low blood pressure so I am always dizzy.”
“Were you dizzy?” He asked.
I remember my first visit to Mayo. I was walking down the halls like a drunken sailor holding onto JC’s arm for support.
Without saying it, I knew what he meant.
“You can call me anytime if something changes.”
“I am a miracle,” I said. “If this continues, I might be up for sainthood with my friends at church who pray for me.”
No comment.
“Are you heading home now,” asked Kathy.
“Not yet,” I said. “We have dinner reservations tonight with my brother and nephew and their families. They are cooking Thanksgiving dinner for us tomorrow.
And, a fine Thanksgiving dinner it was, from the turkey to the mashed potatoes to the Panera knock-off salad to the apple pie. It was a deviation from our normal Thanksgiving routine, and we had lots to be thankful for.
My brother made the apple pie, his first attempt. I provided the recipe and a video on how to make a pie crust. It was excellent.
We headed home thinking we should stay somewhere after we passed through the Twin Cities area to avoid Black Friday traffic.
Once we hit the highway, I knew. JC knew.
“We aren’t stopping, are we?”
The week that seemed like a lifetime was over. The stress was lifted and we were exhausted. Our house was still there. Our cat was at the door to greet us.
The past few days I think, but I don’t know what to think. I am in disbelief that the news could be this good. I almost don’t trust it. But those images don’t lie.
God has allowed me an opportunity to work on a project I have been putting off for years. I can spend the holidays with my children. I can welcome in a new year, a more peaceful year we hope — for all of us.
Winter has set in. It’s cold and snowy and dark and quiet. I can breathe, and I don’t know what else to say.
INDYchildrendotme 
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