Diagnosis: paranoid hypochondria

I laugh at cancer.  I've got this morbid sense of humor that can just kill a room full of happy people.  I mean to be funny, but it's not funny, and my friends get this strange look when we're all cracking up and I add something like, "It's a good thing I'll miss that!"  Then there's this uncomfortable moment when everyone has to either laugh it off or remember I probably will miss whatever funny thing will happen in some distant future without me.  I want the laughing to continue, but the filter hardly ever works between my brain and my mouth and I can't take back the stupid words.

Yesterday the words led to a big talk with Ken, and I cried as he described our days as empty nesters and how life will be then.  I interrupted to remind him it won't be us, it will be him.  Then we got into that uncomfortable silence for a minute.  He really believes we'll have those days, and we'll celebrate a 30th anniversary someday.  Or does he?  How does he cope?  Apparently he calls Dr. Fox.  Ken admitted yesterday he's had numerous phone conversations with him about my future, which is "precarious," and my treatments.  Ken doesn't listen too much to the word precarious, which of course is the one that gets stuck in my head.  He hears the positive.  He hears "remission" and "could live 10-20 years" and "new treatments and advances all the time."  Ken hangs onto that. 

I don't feel like I'm dying.  I feel good these days.  I have this little feeling at the back of my throat.  It's like a lump but not, it's the nausea, just staying there.  It's not bad, it doesn't interfere with my day or my appetite.  It's just there. 

I went to the doctor on Tuesday.  The bulk of my appointment was with Lorelei, the NP, who doesn't say much.  She asks me a million questions and takes notes.  Dr. Fox came in for a minute, felt around my liver and said he did not feel the tumor.  He said it is amazing, the difference between now and June, when he could feel the tumor over most of my liver.  I asked him about the blood tests, and he expected positive results.  He hasn't called, so I'm going with the no news is good news approach.  He said I don't need a CT scan at this point.  Okay.

So why am I so worried?  On the way to the appointment, I advised my mother not to expect good news.  I thought it would be a bad visit, based on some symptoms.  I'm still losing too much hair, for example.  I've been itchy.  I was certain I looked jaundiced on Tuesday morning.  Are the blood tests really not showing that?  Is the tumor that dramatically reduced in my liver, really?  Fox was busy, he only spent a minute.  How did he get so much out of that minute?  Ken was thrilled, while I was skeptical.  I wish I could be like Ken and accept every positive piece of information instead of dissecting and analyzing it.  Optimism doesn't seem to be part of my DNA.  Not pessimism, either.  I'm such a strict realist, that could be what kills me in the end.  Well, no, ha ha, the cancer will kill me in the end!  Ha ha ... hum.