I'm done with those hateful meds

The waiting room was packed today.  By 10:45 a.m., my oncologist was already running about 45 minutes behind.

One woman in a turban slept on her husband's shoulder.  Another husband with an eastern European accent was speaking to the receptionist about the long wait for his wife.  Another ten minutes, she assures him, and she'll be back in an exam room.

The daughter of a patient was wearing a Culebra t-shirt, which intrigued me.  Culebra is a very small island off the coast of the main island of Puerto Rico, a sister island to Vieques, my family's favorite.  I managed to maneuver myself into a conversation with her about Culebra.  She asked if I spoke Spanish because she thought I pronounced the name of the island with a Hispanic flair.  No, I told her, I guess I just have an ear for accents.

Anything but talk about why we're all there.

At nearly an hour past my appointment time, the medical assistant calls me back.  Undress from the bottom down and sit on the exam table, she instructs me.  I put my feet in the stirrups and wonder if my gynecological oncologist will notice the polka dot nail polish that I just this morning added to my pedicure.

At last my doctor walks through the door.  After a thankfully quick pelvic exam with her thankfully small, gentle hands she asks me if I'd like to stop taking my cancer maintenance medications.  Excuse me...really?  You've been on them for over a year, she assures me, and you've got several clear scans behind you.  I think you can safely stop them.

Wow.  These are the drugs that are giving me drenching night sweats, boiling daytime hot flashes, Sahara-like dry skin, fatigue, irritability...and very likely could be causing my type II diabetes.  It didn't take me long to agree with her recommendation.  OK, see you in another three months, and she left the exam room.

So, no more Tamoxifen, Megace, or Coumadin.  This is almost as much of a watershed moment as getting the last clear PET scan results.

As we excitedly exited the building I saw the woman I'd been speaking to about Puerto Rico and wished her well.  Strangely, she was no longer wearing the Culebra t-shirt, replacing it with a simple white polo shirt.  A waiting room conversation for another day.