I have really struggled with calling a 3.75mm, Stage 0 mass - that has been removed with clear margins - CANCER. That doesn't make sense. Radiation for a cancer that is not there does also not make sense. Nothing really made sense. I didn't know whether I was officially in the Pink Ribbon Society, or not. Was I just an honorary member or a full-fledged card holder? Did I have a RIGHT to say I had breast cancer when it was so minor? (But if it was so minor, why the radiation and Tamoxifen?)
With all this internal confusion, I just kept it to myself. I did talk to Mary S. - a full-fledged, card carrying member - who told me that cancer was like pregnancy, you either are or you aren't. That helped. Still, I was confused.
I was told I had an appointment on Thursday with the Oncology Radiologist. I figured I was going to her office and we would talk about the upcoming treatments. I would have a chance to get some answers to all my questions. They told me that in order to get to my appointment, I would take a right turn off of St. Vincent's Drive and there would be a parking lot and I would walk in. "It is really easy." For the life of me, as well as I know St. Vincent's, I could not remember a right turn where she said it would be. I thought that was just POB 2. Then, the day of the appointment, I had lunch with my friend, Tara, and realized that I was supposed to be at my appointment in 30 minutes and I had no idea where I was going.
When I drove up St. Vincent's Drive, I drove right past the right turn. There was a parking lot back there. Why had I never seen this before? Then, I drove up the street and turned around to make another pass. There were these signs that said "Cancer Center". I suddenly realized I was going to the Cancer Center. "Why am I going to the Cancer Center? I am just supposed to talk to the doctor!" I made the turn into the tiny parking lot and they had valet parking - right at the door. I freaked out. "I can park my own car. They have this valet parking because people who go in there get treatments that make them weak. Why am I going in here?" I accepted the directions of Mildred, the parking attendant, and stopped at the appropriate line, handed her my keys and told her what doctor I was seeing. I walked through the automatic doors and up to the window to register.
"Hi, Mrs. McCool. How are you? Go ahead and sign in and then Tara will talk with you." She was so sweet, and I could hear a number of other voices of staff who were helping various patients. They were all incredibly nurturing. I freaked out. I immediately sensed that that type of nurturing voice is appropriate for coming along side people who are hurting and suffering. "Why am I here?", I thought. "I don't have cancer. I don't belong here."
Then, there were all the informational questions, the insurance questions, the family history questions. When I sat with the woman who was informing me of how the billing would be handled, she asked me if we had any particular cancer insurance policy. I was overwhelmed. Why would we have a cancer policy? SHOULD I have a cancer policy? Is this going to wipe us out? What have I done? It suddenly dawned on me that I should have brought Jim with me. I just didn't know.
I tried to text him when I was finally back in the waiting room. No coverage. Then, I got his voicemail. I sat there trying to maintain my composure as I looked around the room. There were wigs and oxygen tanks and jigsaw puzzles and people knitting. All these things suggested lots of waiting. I really didn't need to be here by myself, but it was too late. I am so used to handling things on my own, but I felt over my head on this one.
I finally was called back to an exam room, was asked a bunch of questions, finally met the doctor and was told about possible treatment options. "If you qualify, we will do only five days of radiation, twice a day. After the CAT scan, we will determine if you are a candidate." I then went through the process of getting set up for radiation treatments. I am not going in to that, but it was another big challenge.
After viewing the scan and discussing treatment options - all of which was like talking in another language - I left. When I did, I realized that if I ever heard that someone else was diagnosed with cancer, I would tell them that this is not a "lone ranger" event. The very best level of care does not prepare anyone for the emotional threshold that must be crossed into this other realm. As in so many other areas of life, we need others to be with us in the process. My natural tendency is to pull back and take care of myself, but that is totally contrary to what is needed at times like this. It was time to "consider" asking for help.
No comments:
Post a Comment