"So are you in remission?"
"Yeah, pretty much," I have always replied, despite never hearing the word uttered to me at all.
But I've never really believed my answer, either.
"Remission," according to the great Wikipedia, is the "state of absence of disease activity in patients known to have a chronic illness that cannot be cured. It is commonly used to refer to absence of active cancer... when expected to manifest again in the future."
The average time it takes for an anaplastic ologidendroglioma to creep its way back into one's mind (sorry, brain) is five to thirteen years. So I've been told.
On Wednesday night I had my six-months-post-treatement MRI. Being back in the tube was a surreal experience, forcing back memories I had shoved aside into the dark abyss of cancer memories. Yet it was also extremely hopeful; I knew it was gone. I lay there knowing that the past year or so has been an experience to never forget, yet not always remember. One to put in the past, yet inspire a bolder, more understanding future.
In a couple of weeks I'll likely hear my oncologist utter the R word, and I'll smile. It's just a safety word. A word that makes "we have no idea" sound medical. It's not coming back.
