We went the “eenie-meeny-miney-mo” route. Seemed as good an option as any

Tomorrow will be three weeks since I had my first intravenous chemo infusion. As a reward, I get to start all over again.

My family has been incredible, wonderfully supportive. Each have displayed quiet, positive resolve. I have a sneaking suspicion that their private WhatsApp messages to each other might reveal another story.

Following the surgeries and after the initial meeting with the oncologist, we did what all good-standing members of the tribe do — we went for a second opinion. And because we’re very religious, we went for a third.

Hearing the different doctors and their differing opinions and attempting to wind our way through a maze of specialties and sub-specialties turned out to be a humbling exercise in insurance road-rage. Try asking a keypad for a human voice; I dare you.

Making the final decision regarding which opinion to follow meant gathering all the information we’d accrued and going with the most experienced and intelligent position possible. We went the “eenie-meeny-miney-mo” route. Seemed as good an option as any.

As a result of the course we’d chosen, we were treated to a three-hour “teach” session. The only thing missing was popcorn. Four different professionals winked, presumably smiled under the requisite masks, and cluck-clucked their way through the various aspects of the timeline, the treatment, the what-ifs and the maybes — plus 20 bonus minutes spent on discussing parking.

They then handed us two huge folders — one for him and one for me — that I couldn’t possibly carry home by myself, in case I wanted to know more.

I didn’t.