Page 113 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
Same lean to the right. Same scuff on the left leg. There's a small tear in the armrest near the seam that I've been picking at since the second visit.
I know why I keep tracking things like this. The big thing in this room has always been too large to look at directly, so I look at everything else instead.
The water the assistant brought me is on the side table. I haven't touched it.
The diplomas on the wall are the same ones. Three frames, aligned. I read his credentials thoroughly, the same way I would with an opposing counsel in a case I care about.
When I got the diagnosis I didn't take the first referral. I researched, I evaluated, I chose the best available option and committed to it completely. Reeves has been with me since the beginning.
He remembers what he's told me each year, references prior results without checking notes. That mattered to me early on, when I needed to believe someone was paying attention.
He is at his desk with his back half-turned, going through my file on the screen. He clicks something. Scrolls.
I wait.
Sienna hasn't texted.
She said she needed time and that gave me something to hold on to.
I've been holding it carefully for a week now. I think her silence means she's letting me down gently.
I think the coffee shop was the end of it. Her hand in mine for a few seconds, and then she let go.
Reeves pushes his glasses down his nose and says, without turning: "Your scans look good. Bloodwork looks good." He clicks once more. "No evidence of recurrence."
I hear the words. I parse them one at a time.
I’m too nervous to fully understand what he is saying so I ask, "What does that mean going forward?"
The doctor takes his glasses off, massages the bridge of his neck, not seeming to understand my urgency here.
Then he looks at me. "Five years is an important marker," he says. "At this point the odds shift heavily in your favor. We'll still monitor you. But we can move to annual follow-ups now."
I’m not cured. Not safe forever. Nothing absolute.
But, then again it doesn’t make me that much different from everybody else. Nothing is guaranteed.
The doctor stands up and shakes my hand saying “I’ll see you next year.”
I see that he is trying to keep a professional distance, but he is emotional too.
"Till next year, Doc."
I close his office door behind me.
Then I stand there with my back against it and don't move.
The relief comes. It does. Something loosens in my chest and moves through my shoulders and I let it. Five years of walking into this building. Five years of sitting in that chair. Every scan. Every Tuesday that turned out to be a Tuesday I was still here for.
I wait for what comes after the relief.
There's nothing there.
I feel, very distinctly, like a man who's been in a fight that just ended and doesn't know what to do with his hands.
The door is solid behind my back. The assistant is at her desk ten feet away, typing. Two people in the waiting room waiting for their own versions of this.
I think I should feel different now..
