Wednesday night. We know nothing further.

We had been told Dr. Gombos’ office would call. And so we waited “patiently” (?) part of the day Wednesday to hear from Anderson. Then at 12:20 I left a voicemail for my advocate. She called back, apologetically, at 4:31 p.m. and said Dr. Gombos’ PA (Megan) would call in three minutes.

Note: Power was out in the hotel again; they were changing generators.

I walked all over the hotel parking lot looking for a spot with a reasonable signal so that I wouldn’t drop the call. (Nancy followed me every step.) The call didn’t come in three minutes. Or thirty. I tried calling, but, but after 5 p.m. they answer only to emergencies.

By this time they had the new generator back online at the hotel, so we headed back up to the room. At 5:24 p.m. one of those calls with ID blocked (Anderson?) came in, but it dropped as I answered. No follow-up. So we know nothing more, and we remain a captive of ignorance in a city in the early stages of recovery from a devastating storm.

Next time bring hiking boots and shorts. If the woman comes along, you don’t need a compass or GPS; she can find any Ross store or Target within five miles unaided.

More seriously, MD Anderson will resume “regular operation” Wednesday. I heard from my patient advocate at MD Anderson Tuesday morning that my scans were read last week before Ike arrived, and that someone from Dr. Gombos’ office should be contacting me Wednesday. That gives me hope that we might get some resolution this week … unless the second reading concludes I need a liver biopsy. That would mean another round of tests and analyses, which we are hoping to be done with.

Even though the hotel is running on a standby generator, they opened the restaurant on a minimal basis this evening. Nancy and I had $10 cheeseburgers (that included chips and soft drinks) as a way of saying “thank you” to a staff and manager who have just been golden during the Ike ordeal.

Dr. Gombos confirmed Dr. Allison’s diagnosis: I have a melanoma in my right eye. And one of the take home lessons of this visit so far is that once you have melanoma, the risk of further melanoma (or melanoma in another place) never goes away – in this life. That means that whichever course of action we select, we will always have to be vigilant for melanoma.

Courses of action? Assuming that another reading of my CT scan gives my liver a clean bill of health, we can address two options with the eye: radiation or removal.

At the conclusion of several hours in the ophthalmology section of MD Anderson that included re-doing a fluorescein angiogram, we met with Dr. Dan Gombos, his nurse Suzanne, and his PA, Megan. Key points follow:

The current melanoma size-wise is at the upper end of “medium.” It is nearly 1 cm in height, and it has spread into the fringes of the center of my vision.

Radiation: Because of the tumor’s size and location, prognosis for radiation is that they might save the eye, but I would almost assuredly lose “substantial” vision in the eye – sooner rather than later. Also, because of the size and location, there is substantial risk of other damaging side effects (such as hemorrhaging and fluid leakage) both near- and long-term. There would be a long regimen of follow-up visits both in Houston and Lubbock. There may be some additional risk of spreading because of the time required to make the radiation patch and for the treatment itself. The primary reason for choosing this course in my circumstance would be cosmetic – to keep the eye.

Removal: This is a drastic course and like radiation, it is not reversible. It also has the side effect of reducing depth perception. Its primary benefits are that it is quick, clean, effectively removes the cancer and can be done on virtually an out-patient basis. At the time of the eye removal, a ball is inserted into the socket, muscles attached to the ball, and a shell placed over the ball. A few weeks after the initial operation, they create a new shell to match the other eye, and they place that over the ball.

Whereto for now?

We are waiting for a new reading on CT scans relative to my liver. There were a couple of abnormalities that Dr. Gombos wants a second opinion on. If the second opinion comes back negative (meaning no cancer in the liver), we believe we will start the process of moving toward eye removal. If the second reading suggests further testing, then I will submit to a liver biopsy for confirmation.

Either way, it appears we are at the beginning of a longer, not shorter, journey.

It looks big on the map – the Texas Medical Center – but it is HUGE. It runs for blocks. Just imagine a city core populated by nothing but high-rise hospitals and medical clinics. Almost every university in Texas has at least one tower here. Then there are several named clinics, such as MD Anderson.

Jim and Pam Pulliam met us at the airport, drove us into town, around the medical center, and then they gave us a tour of the immediate area, across Rice University as well as a trip into town – and an early dinner at Goode’s Barbecue on the edge of Rice Village. Thank you, Pulliams. And thank you, Sue, for connecting us.

Nancy and I are settled into an Holiday Inn about 3-4 blocks from MD Anderson. Just being here and knowing where our appointment is, is comforting. We look forward to the morning, hoping we will begin to get some answers.

This is overdue. Almost as soon as we started the process of informing those people who need to know about the diagnosis, we have been flooded with expressions of support, love and care. With all the follow-up tests and the subsequent paperwork, phone calls & such, we have not had much of a chance to even pause and reflect. 

But we have been moved. I will not name names for fear of embarrassing someone or forgetting someone.

Thursday morning Dean Hudson (last of the names) expressed support and advised me to let the faculty know soon. I announced the diagnosis first to the journalism faculty and was immediately overwhelmed with expressions of compassion, care and support. This from people who make a living at studied dispassionate observation.

Thursday evening we sent out an e-mail to the remainder of faculty and staff in the college. Friday I finished with the MRI and CT scan in time to make the college barbecue. Most people were upstairs eating and talking by the time I arrived. However, I met one colleague in the hall downstairs as I entered the building. She gave me a hug and shared that she had given my name to “all the girls” in her prayer circle. I was touched.

At the barbecue, more of the same. One woman with experience in these matters insisted that I pass along to Nancy her offer “to be there” at all times. One woman told of a grandparent who had the same condition and survived it just fine. Other colleagues have shared stories and expressed support in person and by e-mail.

We chose not to make a blanket announcement at church, but to tell our closest friends first and then widen the circle over time. Again, the response has been remarkable, with offers of help, prayers and support from every corner. One good sister telephoned her sister who lives in Houston. Within hours we had e-mail offers for transportation, a place to stay, all kinds of support. 

In the last few days I have seen more support, more positive, good, compassionate expressions from those around me than I ever expected to see. Praise God.

P.S. This has continued in ways I never dreamed or even considered. There was an envelope stuffed with folding green on my keyboard Friday morning (Sept. 5). There have been continued e-mails from friends and family, including e-mails containing gift certificates on Southwest Airlines. And the week of Sept. 1 I began to actually feel the prayers of others on our behalf. My cup runneth over.