Frankenstein

Today is the anniversary of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. It’s a scary story in many ways. In addition to the monster and the implications for medicine and science there is also the story of Mrs. Shelley herself. Wife of poet Percy Blythe Shelley she ran herself ragged, competed, depended and sacrificed herself in order to promote her husband's work. She left this majestic book behind. A best seller in 1816 and rarely out of print since, Frankenstein is probably the most beautifully written of all the scary books.

The messages of Shelley’s monster classic are very much a part of our lives now. The questions that she raised so eloquently: What is life? What does it mean to be human? Where will science lead us? are as perplexing now as they were at the dawn of the scientific era. The issue of scientific intrusion into life is at the heart of today’s science news. We proclaim new ways to overcome disability, disease and death, but at what cost and to what limit?

When we hear the name, Frankenstein, a common first response is the image of the lumbering, rivetheaded monster immortalized by Boris Karloff. We picture the creature assembled in the laboratory from body parts, a man so ugly that humans fainted at the sight of him. This common misidentification of Frankenstein tells us how easily we tend to blame the victim and how often we overlook the bad guy. What we so often forget is that in Mary Shelley’s story, the large, disfigured man is simply “The Creature”. Frankenstein is not this patient, the product of medicine and technology, but rather the scientist: Dr. Victor Frankenstein.

The Surgeon

She is cute. Dark-haired, tiny, smart and funny. I sense that she had to learn bed-side and knife-side manners. In Myers-Briggs I’m guessing that she is an ESTJ...you’d want that “S” and that “J” in a surgeon. You’d want a certain amount of confidence and being able to command and control.

The appointment was good. We both asked questions. Talked about the next steps. She will do his colonoscopy in May. The blood testing begins in March. They will test blood for the cancer “marker”. When and if it elevates then they look for more cancer. They don’t do regular CAT scans because, as she explained, you don’t want a lot of scans—after all excess radiation can cause cancer.

It was the first time we had left that office and felt normal. Only when we got to the car did I realize that no scary bomb had been dropped like there was each other time that we’d seen her: 1. I’m going to cut away your ascending colon. 2. You have Stage Three cancer and you need chemo—and a port. 3. The side effects are hard and they are yours. And now, a much friendlier visit, with laughter and smiles all around.

Surgeon Today

Another doctor’s appointment. We’ve had this lovely break from doctors but it’s time to see the surgeon again. I debate whether to go. It’s a check up, but I want to be there. Is it control? To hear what she says that he might not tell me? Because I want her to know that I am his? That he is mine? Maybe because I have been to every other one and I don’t one to break the chain? For six months of chemo I took the plastic wrapper off the newspaper each day and tied them together slowly making a long plastic chain that represented every day of chemotherapy. These doctor appointments are links in a chain too. But what does it keep in? Or out?