In anticipation of turning 80, my friend Chita advised me—nay, she insisted—that like her, I should undergo a colonoscopy. Just to be sure, she said, adding darkly, you never know what’s lurking in your body.
So, once in Sydney, I put in a request for a routine colonoscopy at the medical clinic. The GP at the clinic said, very well, but I first had to undergo a CT scan, which I had a few days before leaving for a month’s stay in Manila.
Upon my return to Sydney, my GP met me with a worried look. He had my CT scan on his computer, and it showed what looked like a nodule in one of the lobes of my lungs. It was, he said, too big to be dismissed, and was a sign that something serious could be afoot.
He directed me to a lung specialist who, upon examining my CT Scan, calmly told me it could be cancerous and ordered a full body PET scan, to take a closer look not only at the nodule but my entire body, in case whatever that nodule was about had manifested anywhere else.
The scan showed that while the rest of my organs were clear, the nodule was officially noted as a “persistent pulmonary nodule” that could be a number of things, such as a “low-grade neoplasm, including carcinoid.”
The C-word rang all sorts of alarm bells. The specialist, a charming Malaysian doctor young enough to be my grandson, in anticipation of bad news, asked me to bring my daughter to my next appointment, where, after a presentation on the possible meanings of the offending nodule—the worst of which was cancer—he ordered a biopsy.
To which I quickly and quite recklessly replied, NO WAY. Not at my age. I wasn’t about to undergo an invasive procedure. The report only said, it could be cancer. So, I protested, it could also not be anything concerning.
But it could also be something, my doctor replied, almost pleading: Isn’t it better to know?
I tried to bargain. Can’t we wait a few months to see if the nodule has grown? And if it hasn’t, wouldn’t it mean that it is not cancerous? I was adamant, protesting that I’ve lived this long, any more years is bonus, and that if it is cancer, I didn’t think I even want to do anything extraordinary about it.
I was adamant, protesting that I’ve lived this long, any more years is bonus, and that if it is cancer, I didn’t think I even want to do anything extraordinary about it
So there. So I thought.
But my doctor was so persuasive, so invested in my well-being that I relented. He made a request for the biopsy to the hospital and said I would get a call for the schedule of the procedure. At home, I waited and prayed, and did some research. I called a doctor friend in Manila who advised against a biopsy at this time. Maybe later, she said, if the nodule has grown.
So when the hospital called to schedule the biopsy, I said I would no longer go through with it.
My doctor was upset. He practically yelled at me. It could be cancer, he said, and if it is, it should be treated. Again, he was so persuasive, so invested in my well-being, that I again relented. He would schedule the biopsy himself, he said, and I would get a call from the hospital.
For the next three weeks, I didn’t hear from the hospital. l stopped thinking about the biopsy. Then one evening, as I was getting ready for bed, I saw two missed calls on my phone from an unknown number. Oh no, I thought. Here it comes.
Early the next morning, my phone rang. It was my doctor. Boom, boom, boom, went my heart. Now what?
“I have some news,” he said. And very quickly, he added, “I consulted with another specialist and we decided that it is not a nodule. You do not need a biopsy. It is not a cancer.”
Deep breath. Channeling my mother, I thought, I could have told him that. But I was so grateful for the call, the good news personally and wholeheartedly delivered. Overcome with joy, relief, and happy tears, I didn’t hear what the doctor said next. When I calmed down, he explained that what looked like a nodule is actually a pulmonary aneurism that is very small and is non-threatening, but it must be monitored, and so he ordered a new set of tests to rule out other possibilities.
My doctor met me at his clinic last week with a broad smile. My test results were all good. But he said I should have another CT scan in eight months. And my next appointment is already scheduled in February 2027.
Did I have a close call with the Big C? Not at all. But there was only one way to find out, and I had to go through test after test to rule it out. Although I was adamantly in denial, it was still an anxious four months burdened by what-ifs. The cost was not an issue. Medicare took care of it. And the doctors here are so thorough, they don’t stop checking until they are sure something is confirmed or ruled out.
It’s been a stressful four months, but I am grateful for the care. I imagine if this would have happened if I was home in the Philippines. I think not. The colonoscopy would have proceeded without much ado after perhaps a clearance from a heart doctor. But an ultrasound would probably not have been prescribed and I would be blissfully unaware of that non-nodule in my lung. And I would be none the worse not knowing it existed. But here in Aus, the doctors do not leave anything to chance. Every detail is considered and followed through until they are sure they have their diagnosis right.
Meanwhile, all but forgotten is my request for a routine colonoscopy. But what might they find again? Abangan.
