I remember thinking was how nice it was that they gave us mimosas. They wanted to thank everyone for their hard work before the Christmas holidays began. I took a sip, looked at my phone and saw K was calling, the taste of champagne still on my tongue. Unusual to call instead of text but not unheard of. I picked up and walked away from everyone, settling myself on a step of the stairwell. The MRI K had gotten the week before -- he'd sneezed as he was walking down the stairs and threw his back out -- the results were back and they were concerning. The radiologist's report said he thought there were metastatic masses along his spine and he recommended his doctor's search for the primary site. It was a few days before I had worked out what this meant; that he thought K had late-stage metastatic cancer and that the doctor's had better figure out the source. That looks obvious to me now when I read the words, but they were nearly unintelligible at the time.
We spent Christmas worried K had only weeks or months to live. It was four full weeks before we got a proper diagnosis. It was good news considering that radiologist's report. But not good news, good news. The masses were not metastisized cancer but a rare blood cancer called multiple myeloma. An incurable cancer, but very treatable. And the treatments are getting better everyday, says the oncologist, a bright-eyed man whose staff are constantly teasing him about his bedside manner. (They're wrong about that -- I fucking love him and his bedside manner.) Everyone's different, Dr. B says, but the prognosis right now is seven years. Better than a few months but not enough. I want more.