December 2016, two days after my surgery, my surgeon, whom I have come to call the Thinker, removed a mass and reconnected me in the oddest of ways. He walked into my room, tall, lanky, confident.
"How's my favorite patient today?" he asked.
"Upset. Doc, you forgot to sew me up!" I muttered.
"We don't sew people up anymore. We leave them open so that they can close from the inside out. It's supposed to decrease the chance of infections."
"And how am I supposed to go on with my life while I have this enormous gash in me?"
"One day at a time," he said. Then as an afterthought, he asked, "Why are you still in bed?"
"You just operated on me?" I quipped back.
"You've been lying here for almost a week. You need to get up and moving."
"What do I do if this hole you've left ajar splits open and my insides all fall out? My stomach? Intestines?"
"Lucky for you, your nurse knows how to contact me. All you have to say is, 'Contact my Doctor stat.' Can you remember that?"
Oh how I wanted to hit him just then. But instead I said, "And if I pass out? I'm all bones, I can barely stand."
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared.
"Promise me you'll walk down the hall. Not far, just till the nurse's station and back," he said.
I nodded.
He left.
I waited until my husband came for one of his numerous daily visits. He'd run from our house to my room at least four times a day torn between our kids and me. He visited more than he ate during those fourteen days. He helped me out of bed as one would their ailing elderly grandmother. Once standing, he handed me another hospital gown so that I could cover my rear. Then, leaning as much on him as the rack that carried my medicine, we set out.
We walked maybe twenty steps when I saw the word that forced reality to wrap itself around my throat and squeeze until I could no longer communicate. I gasped for air.
"Are you alright?"
"He knew I would see it," I stammered, trembling in my hospital gown.
"Knew what?" he asked.
"That I had cancer, that I was dying. He could have chosen to house me on any floor of this hospital, but he chose the oncology ward on purpose."
"How do you know that Oncology=Cancer?" He stammered.
I needed a minute before I could respond. I needed to gather my thoughts together so that I didn't just fall apart in the middle of the hallway.
Instead of the hospital hallway, my mind started to wander back to when I'd first heard the word "oncology." It wasn't a word I learned in school or found in the Webster dictionary.
I was nineteen at the time and in college. My best friend had just procured a job in the oncology ward. She was studying to be a pharmacist and was looking for experiences that would increase her technical skills. But the oncology ward is not a place for the young at heart, even though there are many kids there these days that have to rely on it for life.
My friend would go to work crying and come back in worse shape. "You have no idea," she'd say, "The depression and hopelessness is too much to stomach. These patients are all different. Cancer doesn't discriminate. It attacks everybody, all ethnicities, all ages. And they come into the oncology ward already having given up. You can feel it in the air, their depression, their pain. And when you look into their eyes, you see only a hollowness that can't be breached."
We were at USC having coffee. The birds were chirping. We were sitting across from our favorite fountain, staring at the water and Tommy Trojan's statue standing across from us. I heard her and yet I didn't. I didn't know what to do for her or the patients, she described at least not as a nineteen year old future educator. But I learned the word "Oncology" that day and now here it was, my crown of thorns.
After a moment of devastation, my husband placed his hand on my back, "I think we need to get you back to bed and take some of those happy meds your supposed to press and lose yourself in," he said.
I didn't argue. I let him lead me back to my room. I fell silent and remained so for the remainder of his visit. All I could think of was: Oncology + Cancer = Death.
Alright friends, thank you for following along. If you would like to subscribe and haven't yet done so, click the Subscribe button above and enter your e-mail address. Subscribers will receive the blog 24 hours before it is shared via social media. At that point, feel free to share it with whomever you choose.
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"How's my favorite patient today?" he asked.
"Upset. Doc, you forgot to sew me up!" I muttered.
"We don't sew people up anymore. We leave them open so that they can close from the inside out. It's supposed to decrease the chance of infections."
"And how am I supposed to go on with my life while I have this enormous gash in me?"
"One day at a time," he said. Then as an afterthought, he asked, "Why are you still in bed?"
"You just operated on me?" I quipped back.
"You've been lying here for almost a week. You need to get up and moving."
"What do I do if this hole you've left ajar splits open and my insides all fall out? My stomach? Intestines?"
"Lucky for you, your nurse knows how to contact me. All you have to say is, 'Contact my Doctor stat.' Can you remember that?"
Oh how I wanted to hit him just then. But instead I said, "And if I pass out? I'm all bones, I can barely stand."
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared.
"Promise me you'll walk down the hall. Not far, just till the nurse's station and back," he said.
I nodded.
He left.
I waited until my husband came for one of his numerous daily visits. He'd run from our house to my room at least four times a day torn between our kids and me. He visited more than he ate during those fourteen days. He helped me out of bed as one would their ailing elderly grandmother. Once standing, he handed me another hospital gown so that I could cover my rear. Then, leaning as much on him as the rack that carried my medicine, we set out.We walked maybe twenty steps when I saw the word that forced reality to wrap itself around my throat and squeeze until I could no longer communicate. I gasped for air.
"Are you alright?"
"He knew I would see it," I stammered, trembling in my hospital gown.
"Knew what?" he asked.
"That I had cancer, that I was dying. He could have chosen to house me on any floor of this hospital, but he chose the oncology ward on purpose."
"How do you know that Oncology=Cancer?" He stammered.
I needed a minute before I could respond. I needed to gather my thoughts together so that I didn't just fall apart in the middle of the hallway.
Instead of the hospital hallway, my mind started to wander back to when I'd first heard the word "oncology." It wasn't a word I learned in school or found in the Webster dictionary.
I was nineteen at the time and in college. My best friend had just procured a job in the oncology ward. She was studying to be a pharmacist and was looking for experiences that would increase her technical skills. But the oncology ward is not a place for the young at heart, even though there are many kids there these days that have to rely on it for life.My friend would go to work crying and come back in worse shape. "You have no idea," she'd say, "The depression and hopelessness is too much to stomach. These patients are all different. Cancer doesn't discriminate. It attacks everybody, all ethnicities, all ages. And they come into the oncology ward already having given up. You can feel it in the air, their depression, their pain. And when you look into their eyes, you see only a hollowness that can't be breached."
We were at USC having coffee. The birds were chirping. We were sitting across from our favorite fountain, staring at the water and Tommy Trojan's statue standing across from us. I heard her and yet I didn't. I didn't know what to do for her or the patients, she described at least not as a nineteen year old future educator. But I learned the word "Oncology" that day and now here it was, my crown of thorns.
After a moment of devastation, my husband placed his hand on my back, "I think we need to get you back to bed and take some of those happy meds your supposed to press and lose yourself in," he said.
I didn't argue. I let him lead me back to my room. I fell silent and remained so for the remainder of his visit. All I could think of was: Oncology + Cancer = Death.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Alright friends, thank you for following along. If you would like to subscribe and haven't yet done so, click the Subscribe button above and enter your e-mail address. Subscribers will receive the blog 24 hours before it is shared via social media. At that point, feel free to share it with whomever you choose.
Likewise, if you would like to support this project and hear updates regarding the progress of the book, please join the "Eight Faces of Cancer" Facebook Group:
https://www.facebook.com/groups/192340981278708/
You can also follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/myaniki
Till next week, go, live, thrive, have fun and do great things!
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