When Doctors Grieve

I have heard more than one story about oncologists who treated a patient for years and then when the patient died the family never heard from the doctor. Or the doctor didn't call or write or come to the funeral. And you wonder, "How can they do that?" The patient and their family believed this person was a partner, in fact, they may have used that language themselves, "We'll do this", or  "We'll work together." But then a death and "we" feels like, "next."

And you wonder, does anyone talk about this in the back room at the oncology center?

This article from May 27th New York Times may help to explain some of it--and also the high cost of doctor's denial and grief. It's a shame really. If death is framed as failure for an oncologist, how much of that shame gets projected onto the patient and their family.

And here too you'll read about how a doctor's grief over a past patient may be affecting your treatment. Oh, we so think that cancer treatment and oncology is a science but really it's more of an art and a blend of psychology and chemistry and grief. Read on. The link is below:


http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/27/opinion/sunday/when-doctors-grieve.html

A Promotion

Feels like a promotion. Maybe a graduation—like going from kindergarten to first grade?

John’s “passed” his oncology tests yesterday and is now promoted to six month intervals. Which, yes good for him, but this is also means that I can now move out six whole months in my fear and worries.

Nutty thinking? Yes, I know it is, but if you’ve lived in Cancer Land you know how this crazy fear clock ticks.

Super Bowl Sunday

Today is Super Bowl Sunday. The table is black and gold. My clothes are black and gold. It’s bringing back so many good memories of growing up in Pittsburgh when the Steelers were always winning. It’s a funny thing about growing up in that era—all the sports teams were winners: Steelers, Pirates even the Penguins. I just thought that’s how it is when you live in a city—your teams win. Then I moved to other cities and realized how very spoiled I was by Pittsburgh.

Guests for dinner—pierogies, Chinese take-out, wings, Mexican, all football fan food. We’ll watch the game and the commercials and I will hope and hope for a Steeler win.

But in the background—a slight hum, a slight wafting of low grade fear. Tomorrow is oncologist again. Blood work and “Can you open your pants?” Our little joke that she wants to peek below his belt.

Flip a coin. Steelers kick off? Chemo again? Love—and football—in the time of cancer.

His Check Up-- My Check Out

It hit me hard today. The date was on the calendar a long time. But I had made one deal with God four months ago, so did I dare another? I did. But then it was today. John’s appointment was at 4 o’clock and at 9am I was mad at him, talking to myself, talking to him—though he wasn’t in the car with me. I was mad about his work, my job, money, family, yeah even sex. Of course it took me a good 30 minutes to get it: I was mad about cancer.

Mad that every four months this big crevasse opens and I drop in. He doesn’t—or says he doesn’t. But I wonder. These are the times I wish to be male—to have that ability to compartmentalize.

But the good news is that I caught myself. I talked myself down—or up as the case may be. I remembered that I loved him with or without cancer and that maybe cancer makes it all more precious. Lesson of second marriage and of cancer: dust doesn’t matter, check books don’t matter, laundry doesn’t matter but good sex and watching movies together does.

But what I still hate is that I live so far out. I live in four month increments. I live now—the exam at 4pm was fine and most of the blood work was fine-- But we wait four business days till the results are back for the “cancer marker” that crucial blood test that tells whether cancer has returned.

Flashback

Today I drove to Hudson, New York for a business meeting. I followed the directions and pulled into the parking lot where the meeting was being held. It was an oncology center!

I signed in at the lobby desk and was directed to the conference center on the second floor. I passed through the clinic area and saw the patients and families waiting. Patients were being called in for blood work and to have their ports checked. It came flooding back.

The waiting rooms. Waiting to be called. Patients tired and anxious. Families with their reading bags and knitting and cell phones. The stress on their faces. Greeting each other with careful nods in that small community that a chemo waiting room becomes.

Oncology Day

I have been grumpy for the last week. Grumpy to the point where I knew it was me and not him. Fussing at every little thing. Making any little thing into a big thing. Then I turned the page of the calendar: February. And there it was. The four month check up with John’s oncologist. Blood work and the tests.

It’s fear. It gets better each time but does not go away. I imagine the worst. Imagine what they will say, what he will say and what I will do. I imagine the hospital again and chemo again, and I think about the stats. The terrible statistics for colon cancer.

I remind myself feelings are not facts. I remind myself he is in God’s hands. I remind myself that I am in God’s hands too. And then I start to outline a very specific course of action for God.

Oh well, this is the day. We’ll go to the doctor. The good news is that this day puts work, hair, jobs, people and all other issues in perfect perspective.

OnCologist: We Begin Again

Today John returns to the oncologist. The long break seemed to fly by and now we return this afternoon to the cancer center. I just remembered to grab the blue cancer notebook and put it in my purse for today’s appointment. I open it to see what I had written last and it was December 22 when the chemo port was removed. Today’s appointment is for blood work and a consultation with the oncologist. It is the start of looking for the cancer marker in John’s blood, a sign that any cancer may be present. We have had a nice break from this cancer world and we have moved ahead as a couple. Now a new phase. We begin again.

Dressing for All of It

Ok, here is my sartorial challenge for tomorrow:

I begin by delivering food for volunteers, then go to the public radio station to record a holiday essay, then to a ladies holiday lunch at a country club, then I meet John at the oncologist’s office for his post-chemo check-up, from there it’s back to the office to meet with more volunteers. I have to create one outfit that can last all day, fit all these circumstances, and that is comfortable!

I have laid out several outfits: Brown skirt and sweater with “good” scarf and low heels. That’s pretty me but underdressed for the luncheon. So I try brown sweater dress, pearls and boots. Again comfy and easy and nice looking but more like church. I have lots of black—but do I want to wear black to the oncologist’s office? Bad omen? Bad sport? Black and red will work for the holiday lunch and I could wear flats most of the day and switch in to the pointy high heels for the lunch. But then do I look like a party girl at the volunteer event and like a Republican wife at the NPR station? And what if the news is bad at the doctor’s office? Will I be Tammy Faye with streaming mascara, low cut top and sparkly gold earrings?

Does it matter? I know, you think the answer is no, but it’s not. It matters a lot. It matters that I feel like me all day long and that I look and feel good so I can stay in my skin until and when listening to the oncologist. If the news is good I’ll be glad my earrings are dangly and if the news is bad I’ll be glad that all of me was there.

I am Sick of Him

I sit on the floor in the restroom at the oncology center and cry silently. I feel my life slipping away. I write this in my journal:


I am sick of him.

I am sick of the New York Yankees.

I am sick of his music.

I am sick of the apples he likes.

I am sick of his schedule.

I am sick of the movies he wants to see.

I am sick of him being sick.

I am sick of him.