www.cancermonster.net

I haven’t written you since Monday morning. That afternoon, I had my CT scan. For two hours, starting at 1:30, I had to drink the cocktail - which I unaffectionately dubbed “Cack Juice.” The first few minutes I thought well, this is not so bad. But, ugg, after a bit it was a struggle to get it down. An hour in and I was rebelling! But I drank it all. The “cack” base came in two small brown bottles. Not the kind that you get on an airplane with the nice JimBeam label either. I was instructed to pour the contents of one bottle into this large plastic beaker they gave me and fill the rest up to the top with the clear liquid of my choice. I chose sugar free Lemon Tea. There might have been a better choice. This tea was tainted! By the time I emptied the second little brown bottle into the beaker, I could swear I was starting to glow. I was sure that within the next hour, no sophisticated scanning device would be needed to see what was going on inside me! Yuck.

So, this is the beginning of “Yuck” I thought to myself. And this is the mildest “Yuck” I will be taking in to fight the Monster. Cowboy up.

The scan itself took much less time than the “Cack Cocktail”. I was escorted into a small changing booth and given a gown to put on. (If I could come up with a hospital gown that a person, sick and in pain, could tie themselves without becoming a contortionist, I could pay for all of my treatment in advance, I tell you!) Ready or not here I come. The tech was very kind and explained everything he was doing in calm Grandmotherly way. He expertly inserted the IV and told me exactly how I would feel once the imaging liquid started flowing through me. He said that my face and chest would get flushed and it did. He said that I would feel the heat go all the way down to my pelvic region and it did. He said that I would feel like I had peed my pants and I did. I felt like it, that is. He said all this would take less than 30 seconds and it did. Then the table began to slide into the ring and as I looked up at the sign that said not to look directly into the laser, I thought to myself, “This is the beginning. This is real. I have Cancer. I really have Cancer.”

And then it was over. And I just wanted to get out of there. I stopped at the radiology desk to make sure that the results were faxed ASAP to Dr K and all the scans were to be copied onto a disk that I could carry with me to whatever appointments that are to come. If I sat back down and waited just 30 minutes, I could avoid another trip back to pick it up. However, by that time, I had collected my Monster Fighting Team (In the form of my husband and 3 youngest buds) and I just wanted to run out with them. I felt the claustrophobia I expected in the scanning room now hit me like a brick in the open hallway. I was also feeling the radioactive fluids that they had pumped me full of start to work their way towards whatever exit they could find.

I know it was irrational. I knew it then as much as I know it now. But I had to get out of there. And I had to act like I was fine in front of my Team. But inside, I was as scared as if I had seen the monster face to face. And I guess I had. Maybe for the first time.

I have Cancer.

As we neared the RV park we call Home, I made it clear that no one was to try to get to the bathroom before me. “What if we do?” quipped the eight year old smart-alec named Jaymi. “You ever see an old lady flatten a kid?” There was no reply. And no challenge for the potty either. Let’s call that part of the story “Cack Juice Revisited” and leave it there.

I was so exhausted, I went to bed early, forgetting to tell you all about it. I hope you can forgive me. If not, oh well. LOL

Tuesday morning I threatened the pharmacy that if they didn’t find the fax from my doctor I would have to change to some other drug pusher. Somehow, within 30 minutes they had the authorization they hadn’t had in the past four days to fill my antibiotics. Hmm. No pharmacy would want to loose a newly diagnosed cancer customer paying cash. (I will not name the pharmacy unless they do it again, but it is a nationwide company.) I was notified by the wonderful woman that handles all Dr K’s patients in Lincoln that the pharmacy now had their act together and I could go and get my meds anytime. She also told me that the doctor had received the report on the CT. He was going to call me, but if he wasn’t able to right away, he wanted me to know that “everything looks great.”

What does that mean, “everything looks great“? “I don’t want to read too much into that, but does that mean there is no cancer anywhere else?”

“That is what I read it to mean.”

I called my family to tell them what she said. They all had the same reaction as I did. There was a swift breeze all across the country as we shared a collective sigh of relief. That afternoon, I picked up the scan disc from the hospital and in the envelope was a copy of the report my doctor received.

Normal, Normal, Normal.

There is fluid and gas in the cavity left by the removed tumor and a small mass in my gluteal muscle. I knew that. One of my ovaries is enlarged. I don’t need them, they can go. There are no enlarged lymph nodes. (pphwuu) But the best line of the report said that there is no evidence of metastatic disease in my chest, abdomen, or pelvic region. I read this last line on the steps outside the hospital and started to cry. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” “Nothing, baby. Nothing at all. I am crying because I am happy.”

That was Tuesday.

Wednesday. Well, nothing happened Wednesday. That was good. I spent the day getting the motorhome ready to move to our new spot. We have been perched here in lot 46 on the edge of the play lawn for two months. We hadn’t planned on being here this long, so our spot has been reserved by other party goers in July. We are moving to the last available monthly lot in the middle of the park where all the other permanent RVs have been herded for the summer. The new spot seems smaller and is surrounded on three sides by other full time people. However, it is hidden from the “tribal buds”. I am so looking forward to my time off from “camp mom/playground monitor” duty.

We haven’t moved the motorhome for two months; there is a lot to do. Things that have been just sitting out on the counters need to be secured in place or put away. The outside supplies and toys need to be collected and restored to their rightful places or carried to the new lot. It’s like spring cleaning in June. Of course, here on the coast of Oregon, June still feels like spring. When we get to Texas, we will all get a shock.

I guess I didn’t mention Texas yet. “The Plan” for our summer was to be here in Lincoln City for four or five weeks while Dan finishes his job, and then we take a couple of weeks vacation time getting to Texas. The rest of the summer we spend in the motorhome figuring out where we want to live. Then we rent a house, Dan flies back to get the remainder of our belongings in storage here and drives them down to Texas in a U-Haul truck. The kids start school in the fall in Austin, or Huston, or where ever we land.

That was “The Plan.”

Plans have a way of falling apart.

Even before we found out about my cancer, the plan got blown as the job stretched out longer than expected. We have already been here two months and have paid for the third. It’s a good thing that we like it here. Where we will be in August, I can’t tell you. And September hasn’t been written yet. But I AM GETTING TO TEXAS DARN IT! “God bless Texas” for giving me a goal.

Maybe tomorrow we will just pull out and head south anyway. Living in a motorhome gives you the hope and freedom and comfort of knowing that at any moment, you are perfectly able to run away. Far away.

Maybe tomorrow.

Good morning to you,

Good morning TOOoo you,

Good morning Good morning,

Good morning to you.

Hehe
I feel better today. Sorry about yesterday. Even before I knew I had cancer I hated laundry day. It’s hard not to wake up on the wrong side of the dirty clothes pile on laundry day. But today. . . I wake up early, I have clean clothes, they smell good, I feel better about the day. Haha. Yah, let’s run with that story.

Life, itself, is a gamble you know. Some bets are surer than others. Take the laundro-mat for instance. The only time I hear money falling out of a machine is at the laundro-mat when I put a twenty in the change machine. I always yell “Jackpot!” just to hear it come out of my own mouth. (And to see if any other laundro-nuts are awake) Come to think of it, the odds are the same at the laundro-mat as they are in the casino. You still come out broke, but at least you will smell good.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. I think I will go be a neighbor.

Later, I have to go be a patient and get a CT scan.

Both of those things are new to me. Wonder when they will get old.

**********

Seems like all the grown-ups are busy this morning. That must be why all their children are following me around. I feel like the pied-piper. I had to go and wake up my own children to take over the entertaining of the tribal kids at this week’s “early-week party.” There is usually one “Tribe” at all times, especially now that school is out. This week there are two of them.

My Observations On “Tribal Campers”:

Every week there is always at least one “tribe”. Representatives of each branch of their tribal tree arrive with all their own offshoots and baby buds attached to their limbs. The moment they get to their assigned plot of land, they follow God’s command to be fruitful and multiply to the letter. Shaken free of their trunk, the buds scatter with the wind. You will find yourself wondering where they all came from and remembering fondly the time in college when you shoved 46 co-eds into a VW bug. The Tribe has arrived!

The Tribe brings with them fun and excitement. The fun begins with the break of dawn and continues until well after midnight. When they run out of fun at their campsite the buds will migrate to yours. The smell of your S’Mores will bring them in waves. Don’t be tempted to feed them! They are like Gremlins that multiply with water. Give one tribal bud a marshmallow and the rest of the offshoots will teleport in and take root around your fire pit - each with a pointy stick waving in your general direction.

In the morning, the buds will be back early and most likely in their pajamas, having either escaped their clan Tee-Pee undetected or having been shoo-ed out for asking too early for Cocoa Puffs.

“No, I don’t have any Cocoa Puffs for you. No, you can’t have any of my toast. Where is your momma? And does she know you are sucking on the salt shaker?”

The most common answer is “My mom is asleep. If I wake her up again I will be in big trouble.” Fancy that. My kids are still asleep when all of this is going on. They are not on vacation. They are not in a tent. They are snuggled up in their cocoon-like bunk rooms where it is still dark and dreamy. Wonder if I can slide in next to them?

You can tell the sophisticated city tribes from the rural country tribes pretty quickly. The country clans have less bottled water and a little more bottled beer. And their dogs are bigger. They tend to bring along an older trailer and a big tent. All the kids sleep in the tent and the grown-ups sleep in the trailer. This works well for them at Cocoa Puff time. The City people, however, not having room to store an RV, have fancy tents or rent cabins or both and are louder at night, believe it or not. They haven’t figured out that the fish bite better at dawn. (And the country people are keeping that a secret.) Their dogs are small and have names like “Jake” and “Bob” instead of “CuJoe” and “Killer”. But their children still hunt for Cocoa Puffs in the mornings just like their rural counterparts.

Without the excitement of Tribes, camping would be dull and boring. . . You know, peaceful and quiet. . . Who wants to hear the birds chirp and the fish jump anyway!!

Truth be told, I was a “Tribal Bud” myself as a child! And I turned out just fine.

And I was as happy to be there as I am to be here.

Maybe tomorrow, I will get a tent for the kids . . . I am out of Cocoa Puffs myself.

((Calm down. I know some pretty sophisticated people that live out in the country and some real wieners that live in the city. You know you laughed . . . Just a little bit!))

I woke up today already doing battle with the monster.

I guess I over did it yesterday. I played Frisbee with the kids and walked around a lot. And last night Dan and I … Well anyway, there really is no such thing as a free lunch, because everything has a price. I woke up late and the monster had already been at work. I am very sore and I hope the wound site is just swollen. But the moment I opened my eyes I knew it was bigger again. There is a rounded bulge where yesterday it was flat. Damn.

When Dr K saw me on Thursday, he said that there was some fluid but that it was healing well. The first open appointment with the Oncologist isn’t until July 10th. By that time . . .

I have the CT scan tomorrow and Dr K will get the results faxed to him right away. If there is a problem, he might be able to get me in sooner. Today, I am mad. I want this thing out of me! I want to say, “This isn’t working for me. I decided not to have cancer after all.” But I reminded myself in time that I have barely just started this fight. And I better cowboy-up.

Sometimes you have to kick YOURSELF in the rear. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and move on. I am always telling my kids to build a bridge and get over it. This one is gonna take another Golden Gate.

It’s a good thing I have been dumb all my life. My Daddy always said, “If your gonna be dumb, you better be tough!” I am about the toughest person I know as a result. That is gonna come in handy now.

It’s Sunday at checkout time here in the park. The best time of the week. The party is over for this weekend. There will be a few quiet hours before the next party starts pulling in. I guess I will go take a shower, put on some makeup and get ready for the rest of my life.

Oh, and take daddy to his first laundro-mat lesson.

******************

PS. Turns out that daddy can do the laundry after all. He gets a B++!

Talk to you tomorrow.

Today is a slow news day. Honestly, I have been a bit lazy. I walked around the park awhile this morning. When ever someone asked how I was doing, I smiled and said, “Happy to be here!”. And I am. I parked myself on the camp store’s wide porch with my coffee to watch the comings and goings and soon I was surrounded by campers and staff. It was nice to have a grown up conversation about nothing. Funny thing is, for the first six weeks we were here, I kept to myself. I have never been a people person. Six years ago I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia and as it progressed I found I had less and less energy to waste on casual relationships. I became more and more a recluse. There were long stretches when I didn’t see anyone outside of my own family. If I didn’t have to show up at the kids school once and a while, no one would have know I was alive. After a month and a half living in this RV park, I have learned to be around people more. And now that I carry this monster inside me, I have actually found myself seeking out the company of others. I try to stay friendly and positive. I don’t dwell on the cancer, talking about it only if it comes up. I always try to pepper it with jokes to put people at ease. And to keep myself at ease as well.

It’s Saturday and the camp is pretty full. Living full time in an RV park has its perks. It’s like living in the middle of a constantly changing party - one that you don’t have to prepare for. You sit back and watch as the park staff cleans the grounds, mows the lawns, and sets out the guest-paper-towels in the bath house. As the guests arrive, the office tells them all where to sleep and sets the rules that will all get broken. You watch them come with a smile on your face. You see, the guests come with their own sheets and towels, their own food and the pots to cook it in. They bring their own beds and toys, set their own fires, and make their own S’Mores. You welcome them all with the secret thanksgiving thoughts of them leaving again at the end of their visit with all their dirty sheets and towels, grimy smelly clothes, and their greasy pots and pans. In this way, you can enjoy them tremendously. You are not responsible for their fun nor their mischievous children. You don’t have to give them a tour or make reservations for their sight seeing cruise. You don’t have to apologize if there isn’t enough eggs for every one. It’s wonderful.

My part here is to keep my 15′ by 40′ parcel decluttered, my 33′ home tidy, and to keep my three little ones from doing anything worse than any other kids. I came up with the idea (yes, it was my idea) of selling off everything (well almost everything. Dan reminds me that we still have a full storage unit… Blah blah) and moving from our rented 3400sq ft house into a motorhome. Little did I know then that it was part of a bigger plan. Thanks to that move, we have the smallest overhead to pay for and the smallest house to care for. This will be a blessing in the months to come. One, I don’t have to keep a big house clean. And two, we have to pay for my treatment somehow out of pocket. Dan will have to miss days of work to take me to my appointments at a time when my medical bills will be astronomical.

Monthly lot rent in this park is $530 (in-season rates for full hookups in middle level spots). That includes rent, water, sewer, electric, cable, internet, garbage, and lawn care. The house we moved out of cost us over $2000 for the same services each month. The difference will come in handy.

Still, I have to convince our family that living in this RV is a good thing right now. We did this by choice and we are comfortable with our decision. We each have our own beds. Dan and I opted for twins instead of one full size. We had a king before. We would never be comfortable in a smaller bed. For the girls, we converted the hall closets into two bunks. For Robbie, we built a bunk over the front driver and passenger seats. This way each has their own space and we don’t have to open out the couch bed or make up the bed-in-the-table anymore. The kids call their bunks their “rooms”. We may have the world’s only four bedroom motor home! The office/PC is set in the front passenger seat area while we are parked. It all works remarkably well. It would work better in a bigger, newer motorhome, but it works for us just fine as is. It’s home.

And “home” moves if we need to be somewhere else for a while. That may come in handy soon too.

Tomorrow the kids and I are taking dad to the laundro-mat to teach him how to do five people’s laundry as quick and cheap as possible. He claims he knows how to do laundry, but the girls and I are just not sure. . .

I had a strange dream. I dreamt there was a monster inside me and if I didn’t feed it something different every few hours, it would start to eat me from the inside out. Hmm. Wonder where that came from?

I have news for the Monster: I may have IT, but IT doesn’t have me!

Today I went to the Hospital to schedule my CT scan for Monday. They gave me a couple of bottles of some stuff to drink before the test. I’m sure it will be yummy. Right. Let’s go with that. Then they drew blood to make sure my kidneys could handle flushing the nasty out. I had the kids with me. I designated them my “Monster Fighter Team”. They seemed to like that title.

Yesterday, after leaving Dr K’s office, we picked up Dan’s Brother Denny and his wife Leenie and went to Starbucks. We talked awhile about what we knew and longer about what we didn’t. And we rehearsed what we were going to tell the kids and how. We all felt that the least amount of emotion we showed the better. Steeled for the task, we headed back to their house. The kids were playing outside. Just as we were about to call them in, we found a small snake in the house! The men wrestled the little guy into a cooler and shut the lid. “I have cancer and We have a snake in the cooler!” Which do you think they will get more exited about? Lol.

We called the children inside and told them that as it turned out the lump was not from a splinter after all. The doctors still don’t know what to call it. Except to say it is Cancer. Brandi, who is nine, jumped a bit. “Cancer means that there is something growing in me that isn’t supposed to be there and has to be stopped and cut out.” And we reminded them that both their grandmothers had had cancer before and they were just fine now. We were just gonna have to fight it. “I will have to take some nasty medicine to make sure that the bump doesn’t come back.” Jaymi, 8, didn’t say anything.

Robert, 6, said, “But can we get something to eat first?” Ha

“Oh, by the way, Uncle Denny caught a snake in the house!”

“Ooo where is it?!”

And that was that for the time being. Children are stronger than they look in the face of a Monster. They, after all, have been fighting Monsters in their closets all their little lives. Who better to help fight the monster inside of their mom?

There is nothing scarier than a secret. Once we found out it was cancer for sure, my husband and I knew we had to tell them. Some thought we shouldn’t. But we knew it would be worse if they heard “cancer” whispered than if it were shouted out loud. In our grandparents day, you couldn’t even whisper it in front of a “lady” for fear they might faint. And often, the one with the cancer wasn’t told at all. I told my family and friends right off that nothing would be hidden from me. Don’t baby me or coddle me. And for the love of Pete (whomever Pete really is), don’t be afraid to say Cancer in front of me. Now that is not saying that I won’t want some TLC from time to time and a back rub about now would be great. But don’t talk down to me or stop being my friend - You can’t catch it from me. Only that may not be true for my kids.

I was equally honest with my siblings and mother. I told them what the Doctor said and I told them how I was feeling about it. And I told them that I was scared, but I didn’t have time to die because I had a Monster to fight. I gave myself one minute to cry with them. But I won’t cry in front of my kids. Not yet.

Not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

5:00a

Today is the tomorrow I talked about yesterday.

I gave up trying to sleep at 4:30a. I jump started the coffee and got dressed. I was surprised how light it already was outside. My book and coffee in hand, I settled on a picnic table in an empty lot to read. It sure is quiet at 5:00am. I feel like the only person alive.

We have to leave here by 7:00. It takes two and a half hours to get to the city. We will drop the children off at Dan’s brother’s in Lake Osweego by 9:30. (This is not a conversation that we want to have in front of the kids.) That will give us an hour to get across town to St. Vincent’s Hospital in Portland where Dr K’s office is.

What will he say?

What will I say?

I guess I should go in and fix my hair and put on makeup. I need to look good for the executionist.

If it is Rhabdomyosarcoma, I will be one of a handful of adults to get this rare childhood cancer. At 41, I guess I haven’t grown up yet. I imagine the more rare my case is the better for me. With no insurance, I want more people interested in my case than ever. Because I sure can’t pay for it. Any of it.

Crazy.

It’s time to wake the family.
***********************************
7:00pm

I’m back. Home at the RV park that is. What a day. It was a long bumpy ride from Lincoln to Lake Osweego. Then the ride from there to Portland was too short. Before I knew it, I was introducing myself to the receptionist. She said she heard I was coming. Like “there is a poor sap with cancer coming up from the beach. You will know her by the Frankenstein gash on her back side.” Yah, that’s me, Franken-Butt. But she didn’t give me any paperwork to fill out. No chart to start. That was weird.
Although we were there before the prescribed 10:30, my name wasn’t called until close to 11. It was a long thirty minutes and at the end of the wait we didn’t learn much more than we already knew. Except that I really do have cancer. But “they” still have not been able to identify it conclusively. The lab in Corvalis could not label the tumor passed “sarcoma” which is cancer of soft tissue. Dr K said they sent the case on to Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) in Portland. He added “Bone” and “Skin” to “Muscle” and “Fat” as possible origins. I still don’t get what is taking so long. This my life here people!

It seems I am a Medical Oddity!
I have been rather odd all my life. I have been called an Ass many times over the years. So I guess, getting Butt Cheek Cancer is fitting! Ok guys, just call it Butt Cheek Cancer and let’s get on with it!

As kind as the Doctor is, it still seemed like he said the word “cancer” much too easily. Although it was clear that he was frustrated that he had no clearer answers for us. He gave us the name of the oncologist he likes but said no treatment could be started until the wound healed. What is going to keep the part that he couldn’t cut out from growing in the meantime? That was a good question, but not good enough to get a great answer. The radiation will shrink it. Until then? I mean, the rest of it doubled in size in two weeks. Shrug.

“I hate the thought that it’s still in there.”

“I know you do.”

I had about a thousand other questions that I forgot to ask. But I did ask him whether a growth hormone deficiency as a result of Fibromyalgia could have caused this?  I had a chance to get into a study on growth hormone shots at OHSU. No I didn’t take the shots. “Good. The last thing we need is an abundance of growth hormone working in your body. If you have a GH deficiency all the better”. Hmm. All these years with FMS might actually save me. Who would have thought.

The next step is labs and a CT scan. Dr K wanted the CT done tomorrow in Lincoln, but their machine was down for 2 days and they are backed up. Monday at 3:30 was the first open appointment. They told me to come in in the morning for lab tests. This will be the first time anyone has drawn my blood since this started.

The first phone call was to Kelli. I hated to do it. And the next was to my sister Anita and my Mom in Indiana. They were together and put me on speaker.
I am too tired to tell you about the rest of the day right now. I’m going to sleep.

Tomorrow I will explain it better anyway.

Tomorrow I find out if I have cancer.

Or I should say, what kind of cancer I have. The surgery four days ago was supposed to be a simple one -an hour and another for recovery and I go home. The surgeon told me that there was little chance that the mass was malignant - a splinter from something I sat on. “More common than you might think” he said. “You would never have known it was there, but your body attacked it and didn’t know when to stop.” The antibiotics he prescribed were meant to shrink the lump, hopefully down to pea size that could be removed in the office. Instead during the two weeks I waited, the mass doubled in size. I woke up in a hospital room instead of in recovery. Six hours later. The plastic band on my wrist said “observation” under my name. The pain said “oh crap”. I just wanted to go home.

Home, by the way is a 33 foot motorhome in an RV park on the Siletz River in Lincoln City, Oregon where my three youngest kids (6, 8, and 9 years old) and I wait daily for their daddy to come home from work. Six weeks ago we bought this twenty year old class A beast and moved it to be closer to where my husband Dan has been working. He is a tile contractor working on a hotel near by. Now, it is our home full time.

But I digress…

Where was I? Oh yes, waking up in a room. I was confused. The nurse told me that my husband had gone home to relieve whomever was watching the children. That was Kelli, my 18yr old daughter and her boyfriend Tim. They came down from the Portland area for Father’s Day weekend and to watch the kids while I had my little operation. Dan went home? And I’m still here. “Why am I here?” I had pieces of drugged conversations in my head. Did Dan say “cancer” or was that my imagination? “Couldn’t get it all…” Oh no, no no. I was supposed to go home. It was just a splinter.

Dr K came in around 7:00 that night to check on me. OK, I asked them to call him because I wanted to go home. I had eaten, peed, and walked around. The IV was out and I was once again lucid. And I didn’t have insurance for this. I wanted to go home. The nurses were very nice and they tried to explain to me that whether I went home then or in the morning, the room charge would be the same. But I knew that every time they looked at me the cost would still go up. Anyway, I couldn’t stand it. So they called the doctor and he came in. (Heck of a nice guy by the way)

What I heard from the doctor would change my life forever. “Sometimes you look at a tumor and you know it is cancer and sometimes you look at a tumor and you know it’s not cancer. When I saw your tumor I was baffled. It was strange. In my experience I have to say it’s bad. 80 to 90% I say it is cancer. I may be wrong and 10 to 20% it’s not. But I don’t think I am wrong. The problem is what kind. That I cannot tell for sure. The tumor had fingers entwined in the muscle that I couldn’t cut out. If I did it would have been devastating for you. You would have been crippled for life. So I had to leave it. Radiation will shrink it so that I can take only a small part of the muscle instead of the whole muscle. You will walk with a limp but you will walk.”

Holy Crap! Radiation. Crippled. What happened to SPLINTER?

He gave my husband and I three terms to look up: Foreign Body Granuloma (the splinter theory- my favorite), Rhabdomyosarcoma (involving the Muscle), and Liposarcoma (involving fat cells). It would take five days to get the results of the pathology test. That I would need to get in his office in Portland. He said I could go home and he would see me in the morning (Sunday) at the clinic to remove the drain.

Now it’s Wednesday Night. Tomorrow I find out if I have cancer.