I have to admit that ever since January, I’ve been carrying around a quiet sense of anxiety about my second PET scan. The first one definitely wasn’t encouraging, and nobody really knew what the next one would show.

I’m used to long stretches of stress and uncertainty. I’ve always been able to switch part of my brain off and keep functioning. Back then, though, life was busy. There was always something demanding my attention. I rarely found myself sitting alone with my own thoughts.

“Turn your mind into a palace,” they say. Brick by brick.

I actually quite enjoy my visits to the oncology clinic. The conversations are practical, constructive, and not overly personal. Sure, it often feels like a one-sided interrogation, but patience and humanity are always present in the room, so it works for me. This appointment felt important, so I arrived armed with a list of very specific questions.

“Good morning, have a seat,” the professor said.

I’m not even sure he registered that I’d entered the room. He was already absorbed in the report from my latest scans.

“My genetic test results came back,” I said, placing the report on his desk. “They confirmed the BRCA1 mutation.”

“Hm. I see. So the mutation has been confirmed.”

Silence.

“Well, not to keep you in suspense… it’s better,” he finally said before returning to the report.

Oddly enough, I felt nothing.

Back in China, we were taught that only victory counts. Better than what? Second place? Second-to-last? Better by a millimeter? By a millisecond? People remember first place. Everything else fades away. What I needed was information. So I waited.

“According to the scans, things look better. We’ll continue with chemotherapy because it’s working. When the time is right, we’ll schedule surgery.”

It sounded as though that was the end of the consultation.

This time, however, that wasn’t enough for me. So I started asking questions. After carefully reading my previous reports, I had realized that even after the scans and surgery, the doctors still weren’t entirely sure whether I was dealing with Stage III or Stage IV cancer. My lymph nodes could have been lighting up simply because they were working hard, or because they contained metastases. Nobody knew for certain, but officially they were treating it as Stage III. Now, because the new scans showed the cancer shrinking in those lymph nodes as well, it confirmed that metastases were actually present there.

That meant Stage IV.

There isn’t a huge distance between Stage III and Stage IV, but the information still hit me hard.

I’m glad I didn’t know sooner.

Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.

I also learned that no matter how much chemotherapy destroys the cancer, your staging doesn’t change. Once you’re Stage IV, you’re Stage IV. It’s stamped on your forehead in permanent marker. The thing I wanted to know most about was the suspicious spot behind my lungs and heart, near my spine, in the posterior mediastinum.

“It’s gone.”

“Gone as in… you can’t see it anymore?”

“We can’t see it.”

“So right now, there’s nothing there.”

I had to repeat it several times.

That particular spot had worried me a lot.

I intentionally added the words right now.

That’s my little reminder to myself. What isn’t there today could still be there tomorrow. With cancer, you never really know, and I’ve never been much of an optimist-by-default. Tears started creeping into my eyes, but I pushed them back.

It wasn’t time yet.

What surprised me was that the professor immediately prescribed another four rounds of chemotherapy, even though we’d previously been talking about a second surgery.

“I’m referring you to the multidisciplinary review board,” he explained. “You’re not ready for surgery yet, but they wanted to see you.”

“So I’ll go there, they’ll tell me I’m not ready for surgery yet, and then I’ll go home again?”

The professor chose not to comment.

“Is it mainly about how clean those lymph nodes become?” I asked. “They mentioned they’re located around major blood vessels and that there’s a risk of serious bleeding.”

At that point, he seemed to realize this was going to be a longer conversation. I’d actually read the reports. I genuinely wanted to understand what was happening inside my body. He leaned back from the desk slightly, turning more toward me. For the first time that day, it felt like he was fully present rather than operating on autopilot.

I understand why.

Every day he sees countless stories, countless fears, countless forms of suffering. Nobody is immune to that. Everyone has to find a way to keep functioning. In their profession, they also have to keep helping.

“More or less,” he said. “The chemotherapy is working, so we’ll continue. Afterwards you’ll have surgery, and we’ll clean up whatever remains.”

“Since the BRCA1 mutation was confirmed, will biological therapy be considered as well?”

“After surgery.”

“And what about a mastectomy? The genetic counselor said it should happen as soon as possible.”

“Not anytime soon. While you’re on targeted therapy, it’s unlikely that the cancer would return. The insurance company covers one to two years of treatment, so during that period the risk should be very low.”

I explained, somewhat apologetically, that I wasn’t trying to rush anything. I simply wanted to understand my timeline.

What should I prepare for?

What should I postpone?

One of my personal mottos has always been: Always prepared. 🙂

We arranged the next chemotherapy session, and as I stood up to leave, he looked at me and said one final thing:

“It’s good.”

This time, I believed him.