I was doing fine at my every-three-month oncologist appointment yesterday. I kept my composure while telling my doctor all about my friend Amy who passed away just one month ago, after a short 15-month battle with breast cancer, at the tender age of 35. As I detailed the story about how Amy's cancer spread to her brain and lungs, how she was given just two to 12 months to live, how she didn't even survive for two months, I saw in his eyes that he knew exactly why I had hand-picked this story just for him. He knew I was trying to determine my own risk for this same outcome -- and so he was understanding and compassionate and comforting in a medical sort of way. And he was convincing -- when he told me he predicts I will absolutely not follow Amy's same path.
I did just fine for our whole exchange. Until this same man shifted from medical speak and asked me the four simple words that never fail to trigger a trail of unstoppable tears.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
He caught me off guard. I'm not sure I was prepared to dive beyond the surface of my emotions, to reveal my true fear of death from the same disease Amy was sure would not kill her. So I cried. And cried. A medical student fetched me a tissue, my doctor stood and touched my shoulder, and my three-year-old Danny watched with concern. I told everyone I was fine -- mostly, I am -- and I dried my tears. Before departing, my doctor hugged me and told me he'd send in a nurse to give me a flu shot.
Danny thought I cried because I was scared of the flu shot. Had it not been for his own appointment later in the day for the same flu shot, I would have let him believe this was the cause of my tears. Instead, I told him I was sad for a friend who was sick. And he was happy -- until a sharp needle pierced the skin of his little leg hours later.
Danny is happy once again. And I am happy too. My appointment revealed nothing suspicious, nothing worrisome, nothing except the fact that my oncologist thinks of me not just as a case, a statistic, a body that once harbored a disease. He thinks of me as a whole person. And that -- more than anything -- is what makes me cry.
1. Once again you've hit the nail on the head. I understand exactly how you feel and am struggling with the same kinds of feelings. I will start to cry at the strangest things. Yesterday I brought my 13 year old daughter with me when I had to have blood taken at the hospital lab. Once again the technician had trouble finding a vein that was usable. This has happened before as I only have one usable arm for any and all proceedures and I've always just dealt with it without too much of an emotional response. Yesterday however, a second tech was called over to try, they switched to the tiny baby needle and she looked me in the eye and said to me "oh girl, how are you doing?" I just started to cry and my baby girl went rooting thru my purse for a kleenex as my blood finally filled the vial. When she asked me later what was wrong I told her that my arm was just sore. Although this is true, my tears really were about so much more. Today is my last chemo treatment and I am hoping to hold it together when the very caring and sweet nurses ask me "how are you doing?" and I really do know that they really do care and are never just going thru the motions.
Posted at 11:26AM on Nov 8th 2006 by Liane