I will visit my oncologist on Monday for my every-three-month check-up. It's the recurring appointment that will appear on my calendar until I hit the five-year-survival milestone. I am three years away.

It's the appointment that consumes at least half of my day due to endless waiting -- waiting for a parking spot, waiting in the lobby, waiting in the exam room, waiting to pay. It's the appointment that officially begins with the drawing of my blood for lab work, continues with a check of my vitals, proceeds with a history review and physical exam with a medical student. It's the appointment that brings me face to face with the man who prescribed my treatment, the man who offers me strategies for living beyond treatment, the man who helps keep me alive. My oncologist.

And so I am preparing for this visit in the same exact way as I always do. I set aside a large chunk of time for this time-consuming extravaganza. I think a lot about the lab work and wonder if something suspicious will surface. I think a lot about the physical exam and wonder if an enlarged lymph node or mass in my breast will be discovered. And I think a lot about what I want to ask -- because this is my only very own allotted time for unraveling the mysteries of cancer with the man who knows the topic like no one else I know.

On Monday, I will ask a few questions. I will ask about tumor markers, about why I am not tested for these indicators of tumor growth, a standard option for my co-writer and co-cancer survivor Kristina Collins. I will ask about Zoloft, about how long I should continue taking this anti-depressant and how to best wean myself from this drug when the time comes. I will ask about the flu shot, about whether or not I can get one during this same appointment.

And that's all. For now. Until three more months pass and my calendar tells me it's time to return for this recurring appointment that takes me closer to the five-year mark.