doctors
once again this morning, the nyt gives me something that hits a little too close to home. the funny thing is, as a patient who had to be put under and have surgery in order to have my cancer diagnosed, i missed out on being told "you have cancer" the first time around.
i was in a fog, being tended to by kind nurses, trying to figure out what just happened to me.
my family, on the other hand, had waited with me all morning as the surgery before mine took too long and i suffered hours of fear and near-panic in the waiting room.
i snapped at them, i scolded them for looking at me the wrong way, for looking at other patients the wrong way, for breathing too loud, for talking to me, for not talking to me, you name it. it was a miserable way to spend a morning, and i am sure they were all probably hoping my surgeon would maybe give me a nasty incision to heal into an ugly scar because i had been so nasty to them as a result of my complete terror of what was about to happen to me.
finally a nurse came to get me, i dragged mom along with me to get ready for the surgery, while jimnerd and dad waited in the cramped waiting room. i was freezing, i was shaking, i was terrified. mom probably was too, but she was strong for me. i was lucky. they gave me something to settle me down, but mom didn't get anything. she watched as i was wheeled away, and she returned to jim and dad.
my surgeon talked to them before he talked to me. in fact, i don't think i remember seeing him the rest of that day. he had been the first one who looked me straight in the eyes, a week earlier, and told me, "i think this is cancer". if the others had thought it, they hadn't had the balls to say it. he bellied right up to the bar and called it like it was. he'd seen a lot of cancer, and quite frankly, in his world, what was showing on my scans looked like it. but that is different, he said "i think" and then proceeded to offer support and even the outside shot that this moght be something else. i didn't have to hear those words. my family did. and i don't know how it went.
i can imagine, based upon my knowledge of my surgeon's personality and the way he spoke with me throughout my months interacting with him, that he was downtrodden - i can picture that face of his - on some level, maybe he must have hoped it would have turned out to be something else, or maybe he had hoped it would turn out not to have been so widespread. he told them what it was, using the big words that made no sense, "adenocarcinoma, stage IIIA" and maybe he went into explaining that and maybe he didn't. maybe he gave them an idea of what would come next, the meeting with him, the meeting with my oncologist, the chemo, the surgery, all maybes. he probably shook their hands. maybe not. maybe he looked tired. maybe he said that he was sorry. i don't think he gave them any false hope. we were into something pretty bad. but, they had to hear it, and i did not. it must have been awful. and then, they had to come tell me. it was surreal. i barely remember it, and that is probably a good thing.
the second time, it was a phone call, and from my radiation oncologist, someone who had given me such hope throughout the previous ten months or so. i hated that it was him who had to call, who had to tell me. i could hear the distress in his voice. "your cancer is back. it is the same cancer. i'm so sorry." he had a plan, had already booked me for scans and tests, and i felt reassured by the fact he had already been in action. we were moving already. none of this recovering from surgery before we start. hearing it myself, completely sober and unexpectedly, was a shock. i can still hear his voice, as though it is recorded on a voicemail in my head. he had the advantage of already knowing me, of knowing my family, and of knowing what i could handle being told and what i would want to hear. but it couldn't have made it any easier for him, and it didn't make it any easier for me. i'm glad he told me on the phone. i would have been angry if he had waited to tell me in person, knowing what he knew and withholding it from me. it was a shock.
and so, i don't know which was better, having my family do the dirty work or doing it all by myself from thousands of miles away. both suck, quite frankly. but in both cases i think i have been fortunate to have doctors who can talk to me and my family. when you hang around them as long as i have, you get to know them a bit and realize they are human. i like that every once in a while, i get a hug from a couple of them, or from nurses. we're all in it together, working our asses off to make a life better. that is heavy stuff. even for them. but the fact they've let me know them a bit has made it easier for me to go to the hospital and face things every three weeks or however often i need to go. i wouldn't be so ready and willing to do it if i didn't feel like my doctors cared.
going into next week's scan i cannot help but imagine waiting in the waiting room to see my oncologist. i try not to think about it, but it sneaks in. there is a door that swings open and closed, it leads to the exam rooms where i meet with my doctor to get results and have a little checkup each time prior to chemo. as people go in and out of the door, sometimes i catch a glimpse of someone walking down the hallway. sometimes it is my nurse, or my doctor, and if i meet their eyes and i am waiting for a scan result, it terrifies me. i can tell as soon as one of them walks in the door to my exam room what the quality of the news is. i hate those split seconds. i hate when there is bad news. so far there has always been a plan, always something good to take away from those meetings, be it a plan for chemo or a change in attack. i fear the day when there is nothing else to do. that news will be a heartbreaker. but i know i am lucky to have yet another doctor who will be honest, caring, and professional - both to me and my family - when news has to be given. i can't imagine any other way.
i was in a fog, being tended to by kind nurses, trying to figure out what just happened to me.
my family, on the other hand, had waited with me all morning as the surgery before mine took too long and i suffered hours of fear and near-panic in the waiting room.
i snapped at them, i scolded them for looking at me the wrong way, for looking at other patients the wrong way, for breathing too loud, for talking to me, for not talking to me, you name it. it was a miserable way to spend a morning, and i am sure they were all probably hoping my surgeon would maybe give me a nasty incision to heal into an ugly scar because i had been so nasty to them as a result of my complete terror of what was about to happen to me.
finally a nurse came to get me, i dragged mom along with me to get ready for the surgery, while jimnerd and dad waited in the cramped waiting room. i was freezing, i was shaking, i was terrified. mom probably was too, but she was strong for me. i was lucky. they gave me something to settle me down, but mom didn't get anything. she watched as i was wheeled away, and she returned to jim and dad.
my surgeon talked to them before he talked to me. in fact, i don't think i remember seeing him the rest of that day. he had been the first one who looked me straight in the eyes, a week earlier, and told me, "i think this is cancer". if the others had thought it, they hadn't had the balls to say it. he bellied right up to the bar and called it like it was. he'd seen a lot of cancer, and quite frankly, in his world, what was showing on my scans looked like it. but that is different, he said "i think" and then proceeded to offer support and even the outside shot that this moght be something else. i didn't have to hear those words. my family did. and i don't know how it went.
i can imagine, based upon my knowledge of my surgeon's personality and the way he spoke with me throughout my months interacting with him, that he was downtrodden - i can picture that face of his - on some level, maybe he must have hoped it would have turned out to be something else, or maybe he had hoped it would turn out not to have been so widespread. he told them what it was, using the big words that made no sense, "adenocarcinoma, stage IIIA" and maybe he went into explaining that and maybe he didn't. maybe he gave them an idea of what would come next, the meeting with him, the meeting with my oncologist, the chemo, the surgery, all maybes. he probably shook their hands. maybe not. maybe he looked tired. maybe he said that he was sorry. i don't think he gave them any false hope. we were into something pretty bad. but, they had to hear it, and i did not. it must have been awful. and then, they had to come tell me. it was surreal. i barely remember it, and that is probably a good thing.
the second time, it was a phone call, and from my radiation oncologist, someone who had given me such hope throughout the previous ten months or so. i hated that it was him who had to call, who had to tell me. i could hear the distress in his voice. "your cancer is back. it is the same cancer. i'm so sorry." he had a plan, had already booked me for scans and tests, and i felt reassured by the fact he had already been in action. we were moving already. none of this recovering from surgery before we start. hearing it myself, completely sober and unexpectedly, was a shock. i can still hear his voice, as though it is recorded on a voicemail in my head. he had the advantage of already knowing me, of knowing my family, and of knowing what i could handle being told and what i would want to hear. but it couldn't have made it any easier for him, and it didn't make it any easier for me. i'm glad he told me on the phone. i would have been angry if he had waited to tell me in person, knowing what he knew and withholding it from me. it was a shock.
and so, i don't know which was better, having my family do the dirty work or doing it all by myself from thousands of miles away. both suck, quite frankly. but in both cases i think i have been fortunate to have doctors who can talk to me and my family. when you hang around them as long as i have, you get to know them a bit and realize they are human. i like that every once in a while, i get a hug from a couple of them, or from nurses. we're all in it together, working our asses off to make a life better. that is heavy stuff. even for them. but the fact they've let me know them a bit has made it easier for me to go to the hospital and face things every three weeks or however often i need to go. i wouldn't be so ready and willing to do it if i didn't feel like my doctors cared.
going into next week's scan i cannot help but imagine waiting in the waiting room to see my oncologist. i try not to think about it, but it sneaks in. there is a door that swings open and closed, it leads to the exam rooms where i meet with my doctor to get results and have a little checkup each time prior to chemo. as people go in and out of the door, sometimes i catch a glimpse of someone walking down the hallway. sometimes it is my nurse, or my doctor, and if i meet their eyes and i am waiting for a scan result, it terrifies me. i can tell as soon as one of them walks in the door to my exam room what the quality of the news is. i hate those split seconds. i hate when there is bad news. so far there has always been a plan, always something good to take away from those meetings, be it a plan for chemo or a change in attack. i fear the day when there is nothing else to do. that news will be a heartbreaker. but i know i am lucky to have yet another doctor who will be honest, caring, and professional - both to me and my family - when news has to be given. i can't imagine any other way.
Comments
Hugs,
PL
I hate cancer.