William Patrick Tandy was diagnosed with Stage II-B non-Hodgkin's lymphoma in March 2007. He contributed "What It's Really Like to Be Misdiagnosed," an instructive and poignant description of his misdiagnosis (cat-scratch fever!), to the Planet Cancer book. Patrick's Eight-Stone Press imprint has published the award-winning Smile, Hon, You're in Baltimore! series to popular and critical fanfare since 2001.

I was late for work this morning, having paid a visit to the Oncology Center of Central Baltimore for my regular checkup. Since undergoing chemotherapy there for non‐Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 2007, the frequency of such visits has diminished from weekly to once every other month.

Still, simply being there, no matter how seldom, keeps the scars fresh. The sounds. The smells. The slightest variations in test results that may mean one thing or another…or nothing at all. Other patients fighting their own battles, with mixed results. The nagging idea that uncertainty is, at the end of the day, the only sure thing.

Today was the first day for the temp nurse who drew my blood. She’s filling in for one of the regular nurses while she’s out on maternity leave. “I used to have great veins,” I noted, “before I started coming here.”

She spent a minute or two trying to spike the chemo‐scarred vein inside my left elbow without striking paydirt. “Try somewhere else?” she asked, noticing my obvious discomfort. “Please.” She had better luck with the back of my hand.

“That one just kept rolling out of the way,” she said, indicating the fruitless vein near my elbow. “If I were you, I’d tell everyone to just stay away from that one – it’s basically kaput.”

The subsequent checkup went off without a hitch. Blood counts were good – or good for me, anyway. No signs, no symptoms. My doctor, Stanley Walker, asked if I’d be participating in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure again this year. The annual event raises funds to combat breast cancer. It’s Dr. Walker’s main fundraising effort, and I’ve joined his team every year since I finished treatment.  

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I assured him.  

“Great,” he smiled. “We need your support – not to mention that picture of you jumping through the fire.” He grinned at the mention of the photo I always use on my fundraising homepage. From our conversations over the past few years, I gather few of his “alumni” have pictures of themselves leaping over bonfires.  

On my way out of the office, I stopped by the front desk to schedule an appointment for my quarterly CT scan. I didn’t even recognize John, a fellow patient, nearby; rather, it was he who noticed me.  

“There’s my friend!” he beamed. I turned and smiled.  

“John!” I exclaimed, and we shook hands. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, and he apologized for forgetting my name. By my guess, John is in his early 40s, and I’m ashamed to admit I can’t recall the exact type of cancer he receives treatment for. We first met – like this, in the waiting room – around the time I finished chemo; he was just beginning the latest in a series of treatments. When I’d last seen him, he was lean, and his hair had just started falling out.  

But this morning, John looked different. His head was topped with the fine, wispy hair of a cancer patient, but his face and body were extraordinarily bloated – likely the product of some steroid component of his treatment. He looked tired, though his expression suggested that our meeting had mustered within him genuine enthusiasm.  

But the most notable difference this morning was that John was in a wheelchair.  

The receptionist called his name, indicating his turn to head back to see the doctor. A young woman stood up from a nearby chair and walked over to help wheel him back. John introduced her as his wife, and I shook her hand.  

“Stay strong,” I said, “and I will see you soon again.”  

They both smiled, as she took the handles on the wheelchair. “You…you have kids, don’t you?” John asked.  

I nodded. “One,” I said. “He’s three.”  

“Oh,” his wife beamed. “We have a three‐year‐old, too.”  

I smiled. “They’re a handful.” We all laughed, and with that they both disappeared down the long, bright hallway that leads to the nurses’ station – and the infusion room.  

I was 31 at the time of my diagnosis, my son, just 13 months old. When the word “cancer” was first suggested to me, it drove everything else in the world from my mind – everything, that is, except for him. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think of that, and I only hope that he was too young at the time to have any memory of the ordeal.  

My next CT scan is scheduled for five weeks from now – just before the next oncology checkup. I picked up the appointment form from the receptionist, put on my sunglasses and walked out into the warm, autumn morning light.  

I was 90 minutes late for work.  

And when I got there, I cried.  

Learn about post-treatment transitioning, the new normal, going back to work, coping with the possibility of another diagnosis, and much more in the "What Now?" chapter of Planet Cancer: the Frequently Bizarre Yet Always Informative Experiences and Thoughts of Your Fellow Natives.