Today is the anniversary of my lobectomy. At this time one year ago, I was still waiting to be taken into surgery. It was a long day, especially for Bob and Chris who spent the entire time at the hospital with me.
My last CT scan was in February, just before we left for Florida. There was no evidence of either metastasis or recurrence, and I seem to be just fine, with no apparent residual effects of the surgery. Mostly, I don't even think about it, unless I'm asked.
This week, I've been reflecting on all the doctors, nurses, physician assistants and others who have treated me over the last 19 months. I've had the best, most compassionate care anyone could ever receive and I feel profoundly grateful. A few days ago, I sent updates and thank-yous to some of my doctors and nurse practioners and was surprised to receive almost immediate responses from two of them. Maybe we all need to hear about good outcomes from time to time.
Several of my doctors are either immigrants or the children of immigrants, and many of the wonderful hospital staff who cared for me so lovingly during my hospital stay last year were from Africa and countries around the world. The irony of a political and cultural climate that fosters anti-immigrant sentiment is not lost on me.
