Micah took me to my sixth and final chemo, June 18, 2015. A celebratory air existed as I joked with the nurse about hopefully never seeing her again. We brought the crib board for entertainment and played and talked our way through the treatment. Afterwards we ate a hearty lunch to celebrate the end of this phase of treatment.

When I went for follow up labs a week later, I was feeling tired but upbeat. I knew my white blood count would be in the basement. What I didn't expect was that my other blood counts would also be quite low: WBC 0.3, red blood 8.5, and platelets 26,000. The doctor was worried. Platelets should be at 150,000 or higher to be normal. They had previously dropped to 40,000 and rebounded, but evidently this was dangerously low. He scheduled me for blood work on the following Monday, indicating that if the platelets did not start to go up, I would need medical intervention.

On Monday, the platelet count was up to 40,000, which satisfied my doctor, but the red blood count had continued to drop and was at 7.5. Because of the red count, he scheduled another blood transfusion for the next day. This time I did not have to get as much blood and so stayed less time. Micah once again accompanied me and played games with me while the blood dripped slowly into my body. Despite this setback, my mood did not change. I continued to celebrate, knowing that the worst was behind me.

On July 8, I had a PET can to determine what the chemo had accomplished. Dr. Hanson was going to be out of his office on vacation when the results were ready, but I had an appointment with the radiologist, Dr. Hinkleman, to discuss possible treatments. He would have the results of the scan and could go over it with us.

We arrived at the radiologists office feeling upbeat and confident. The power of the blood had restored me to normal levels, and I was feeling good. When Dr. Hinkleman entered, he proved to be a very soft spoken and caring man. He gave us the good news first; the scan showed no cancer in the breast or nodes. He cautioned, "That doesn't mean the cancer is necessarily gone, but that it is small enough to be undetectable on a scan." That caution was the reason we were there, to determine what else needed to be done to try to get rid of any residual cancer

His next words were more chilling. "Lesions remain in the lungs. They range in size from .25 to .40 centimeters."

The lung involvement had never been proven conclusively to be cancer. However, the fact that some shrank and others disappeared with chemo pointed to cancer.

"These could be scar tissue resulting from chemo," he said, "but cancer cannot be ruled out."

Because of the lung involvement, he did not recommend radiation. Radiation is a six week regime that is hard on the body. While it could eradicate any remaining cancer cells in the breast and nodes, it evidently would do nothing for any cancer in the lungs. He suggested a lumpectomy. When I told him that Dr. Legarde, my breast specialist, had said a lumpectomy was not a good fit because of the depth of the cancer and the amount of tissue that would need to be removed, Dr. Hinkleman suggested a "wait and see mode."

Wayne pressed him for a prognosis. Dr. Hinkleman replied that statistically, the cancer would return in two to five years, but he thought probably closer to two than five, based on the type of cancer and it's aggressiveness prior to chemo. Admittedly, he was guessing and basing his statements on how the cancer acted in others.

"There is no way of knowing for sure," he said. "Since you responded extremely well to chemo, there is hope for a longer time period before the cancer returns."

He gave no hope that the cancer would not return. Once again, we came face to face with mortality. This time, I was more prepared. Although my mind slowed and numbed, I focused on the five year end of his statement. I knew that a great deal was happening in cancer research and that treatments could change in that time span, giving other options. Thus, I received his statements with cautious optimism.

Wayne, on the other hand, focused on the two years or less content. He is usually the perennial optimist of the family. When tears started to slowly fall as he sat passively in his chair, I was surprised and shocked. Being the emotional person I am, my own eyes started to leak.

Wayne pressed the doctor, asking what course he would take if I were his wife. Dr. Hinkleman admittedly could not ethically answer the question. He simply said he would be comfortable if we chose a wait and see approach, doing nothing except getting periodic scans. He assured us that if we chose radiation, he would be glad to administer it.

When we got to the car, Wayne and I simply held each other for a few seconds while the tears dried up.

When he was better able to talk, I asked about his tears. "He said you probably have less than two years until the cancer returns. I have been planning on spending the next thirty years with you. To have that reduced to two..." he trailed off.

"But he also said, I could have five years or more. Your nature is one of optimism, why the pessimistic focus on the poorest prognosis?"

"Because it is something over which I have no control. I look on the bright side when I know I can influence the outcome. There is absolutely nothing I can do to affect the prognosis."

"True. There is nothing you can do physically. You can continue to pray. God is in control. I have a peace about this. God's prognosis and the doctor's prognosis are not necessarily the same."

What I did not voice, but felt deep inside and still continue to believe, is that God knows the big picture of my life. He can see the consequences if he heals the cancer on this earth. Perhaps there is something in my future that would be much worse if I beat cancer. God could be sparing Wayne years of living with a woman overtaken by dementia. I watched my Mom mourn my Dad for almost ten years as the man she knew disappeared as the disease progressed. He became a shell with no memories to give him an identity. That is something I prefer to avoid, even if it means a shorter lifespan.

We decided to take a wait and see approach. Wayne would retire. His Warden allowed him to burn four months of leave, so at the end of August he would be free to be with me daily. That would allow us to travel while my arthritic knees would still withstand hours in an airplane seat. His actual retirement date would be the end of January.

We saw Dr. Hanson on July 20th. He was much more upbeat than Dr. Hinkleman. His pleasure that there was no cancer detected in the breast or nodes was contagious. He understood that the return of the cancer was most likely a probability and indicated that I would need PET & CT scans every three months for a year to monitor my health. The cancer was currently too small to show up on a PET scan, but the lesions in the lungs could be monitored via CT scans. If things remained as they were for a year, the scans would be reduced to every six months and eventually to annually. Because cancer is so unpredictable and undetectable in microscopic amounts, I would never be considered cured, only in remission.

He also strongly suggested that I consult with Dr. Legarde before making a decision about surgery. On that front he disagreed with Dr. Hinkleman's recommendation. Dr. Hinlkeman had recommended that I do nothing, including surgery. Dr. Hanson said with my history, he thought a lumpectomy would be a good plan. There would be no statistical advantage to a mastectomy.

We told him about our travel plans, to fly to South Dakota and see my sister and mother followed by ten days in Canada visiting old friends. After that we planned to spend some time in Mexico with Caleb. He encouraged us go and enjoy ourselves, saying that delaying any surgery until afterwards would not change the prognosis.

When I asked if I could have the port removed, though, Dr. Hanson's response tempered his optimism a bit.

"Leave it in for now," he said, "just in case we need it in the future. If the cancer comes back and you need more chemo, you won't have to undergo additional surgery to make that possible."

After the appointment with Dr. Hanson, Wayne was encouraged. He still felt we made the right decision concerning retirement and travel. His pessimism lifted, and he was less depressed about the future.

On July 30, we saw Dr. Legarde. She did an ultrasound. The area of the tumor showed up as 1.2 centimeters.

"We know that is not all active cancer, because of the PET scan. I would suggest at least a lumpectomy so we can biopsy the tissue and know definitively what we're dealing with."

When I reminded that she had told me a lumpectomy was not a possibility because of the size and location of the lump, she said that statement was based on the information she had at the time. Now that the area had shrunk and the cancer was probably stage four, instead of stage three as we thought at the time, she felt a lumpectomy would be adequate. Subjecting my body to the rigors of the major surgery needed for a mastectomy and reconstruction seemed counterproductive.

She also noted that if any active cancer were to be found, the possibility of growing it in a petri dish and subjecting it to various chemical agents existed. If this were done, it could give some guidance if additional chemotherapy was needed. She agreed that waiting until after our travels would not be a problem, especially since my body needed time to recover completely from chemo.

Wayne seemed to think that Dr. Legarde made her recommendations because she was a surgeon, and a surgeon likes to cut. I wasn't as sure, but there was some logic to his statement. I knew I would feel better if the lumpectomy were done and no cancer found. We decided to delay a decision until we returned from Canada and talked further with Dr. Hansen.

Caleb was also present for the consultation. He had flown in for a ten day stay between summer school and the start of the fall term. He was glad that he could be present and listen to the doctor with us. He, too, agreed that we should wait to make a decision.

And so the wait and see game began. I was at peace. God was in control, and I rested in that belief. That doesn't mean I wore rose tinted glasses and denied reality. I still did weekly breast checks as recommended, just in case the cancer started to grow again. This was under my control. The cancer itself was not. I determined to live life to the fullest for whatever time God chose to give.